The World is Too Much with Us

When I was in graduate school, I took a lot of shit for my love of the Romantic poets.  "Reactionary."  "Bourgeois."  Etc.  There are some things that could not be shamed out of me though, and the way Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats touch me is among them.  Yes, I love other, more hip or even more PC poets, but these guys still ring deep in my heart.

I remember when Ernst Bernhardt, who taught my class on Romanticism in my last year as an undergrad at Indiana University, began our study of Faust by saying as a boy in Switzerland he would roam the countryside with a copy of Goethe's epic in his pocket.  He showed us a slide show from his visit to the Lake country when we started the English Romantics, and he was giddy when discussing Wordsworth's Prelude.  Prof. Bernhardt, as I recall, did most of his scholarly work on Robert Southey, but we didn't read a single thing by Southey in that class.  Bernhardt's love was Wordsworth, but making a mark on Wordsworth scholarship and earning tenure, etc. would have been too difficult, so he, like so many scholars, chose a subject smaller, with less abundant scholarship already in place, upon which to focus his writing.

Let me pause here in my memory and allow a moment to reflect how completely fucked up my profession is.

When I began to put this trip together, the image of that boy Ernst was with me constantly as I imagined myself in Wordsworth's England, rereading The Prelude, and reciting Keats to myself.  Sitting here at the edge of this fjord with my guitar or my fountain pen is all part of that same spirit of giving myself up to this incredible natural world and a romantic yearning to get back a deeper, earlier connection to life, to poetry, to a more creative self.  But the giving over to it is not easy; worries about money, about things not getting done, about being a crappy writer and an even crappier guitar player intrude constantly.  Some asthma hit me in the middle of the night--my inhaler took care of the issue and I'm clear this am--but I lay in bed imagining what if I get sick like last year?  Where would I find a doctor?  How would I pay?  Would Ann or Cheryl be able to sleep with me coughing in the room?  Would I have to fly home?  How many puffs do I have left on my inhaler?  Why didn't I bring a backup Advair inhaler?  Is it too late to ask Ann to bring one with her?  Wordsworth had me nailed.

Shutting my thinking off and opening my mind--as in Wordsworth's "our minds shall drink at every pore," where the "mind" is suffused throughout the body and absorbs nature unfettered by thought or language or duty--is incredibly difficult.

So I was up early thinking about these things, and out the window the sun was rising on the other side of the mountain. Though I could not see the sun, I could experience the subtle changes it exerted on the sky and that sky reflected in the water in front of me.  I went up on the top deck and watched the morphing sky and water until time for the day among people to begin.

Mysteries

It's Monday morning here, and I am watching two men in a small boat check on some nets they laid last night.  I haven't seen any fish come up, or any netting for that matter, but last night I watched as they put out netting halfway across the fjord about 50 yards from my cottage.  They are creeping along, so I assume they are checking on other nets or traps they have laid.  I had planned to take my little boat out this morning, but I don't know how far down the nets are, and getting tangled in one would be ugly.  They were able to get around the net I watched them lay by starting on the other side of it; if it is all where I think it is, it's cutting me off from the rest of the fjord.

Yesterday's big adventure was a trip to a smorgasbord.  A cruise ship landed again, The Albatros, so the town was teeming with tourists for a few hours.  Flåm has only 300 inhabitants, but in high season there can be 20,000 visitors in a day.  That seems hard to comprehend, as there are only a few souvenir shops and a handful of restaurants here, but I have seen photos of swarms of people.  In any event, the restaurant was hopping in this otherwise sleepy place, so I gave it a try.

I like salmon, but I'm done with it.  Pickled, smoked, sliced, chunked, grilled.  Herring (no thanks).  Some kind of fish thing that was kinda spongy; I wonder if it was stockfish that had been reconstituted.  A common Norwegian export is whitefish, usually cod, that is air dried (in some places, still on rocks or on racks on cliffsides) for weeks, then soaked or boiled later for use.  It can be the main ingredient in Italian baccala, and sometimes baccala is (mis) used as a generic term for this dried fish.  Clipfish is another form of dried fish, more often used in baccala actually, but clipfish is salt-cured, and stockfish is not (cold adapted parasites are involved but I prefer not to think about that).  I learned this, by the way, from Andreas Viestad on New Scandinavian Cooking.  Love him.
Whatever it was, it was nasty.   There were some other meats on offer that looked like rather ordinary meat patties, but when I launched into one, there was another spongey texture thing that did not appeal.  I may just go right off of meat and fish here. 

On the other table were various pasta based salads that generally had some surprise seafood element hidden within.  Beets, and of course, a couple varieties of potatoes were part of the action too.  On the dessert side were hunks of jello, flan, and some Sara Lee-ish little squares of pastry.  No cloudberries.  The desserts were uninteresting, save for some creamlike substance in pitchers to be poured over them.  This wasn't cream, wasn't whipped cream, wasn't creme freche.  It was thick but still pourable--about the consistency of runny pancake batter--, slightly yellow, and really delicious.  I had several nasty cakes just to be able to pour this stuff over them.  Coffee was fair.  At least it was strong, but strong also seems to mean bitter here.  All for 239NOK, or about 50 bucks.

I came home from lunch and found my little duck friend waiting for me.  She came up within about 4 feet of me, and seemed quite unafraid when I moved closer to her.  Later in the evening she brought a friend, so I threw out some bread to them.  A good sized branch washed up to the shore, and I thought it about the right size for a walking stick.  As I whittled off some of the bark, my feathered friend seemed hopeful that what I was dropping was more bread.  I felt guilty and got her another slice.

I think I miss my pets.

I played a little guitar, messed around with the recorder Pammy got me in Ireland, wrote a couple of postcards, then watched The Graham Norton Show on the BBC.  I did some checking around on the web to see if audience tickets would be available when I am in London, but the TV show doesn't seem to be in production at the moment (this was an old show I watched).  I've never had much interest in that kind of audience experience before, but he's crazy funny  (and did a great interview with Fiona Shaw on the radio this weekend that was excerpted in his podcast--so sorry I couldn't hear the whole thing.  They were fun together). It seems I have settled into something like a normal life here.

The snow that was on the mountains a few days ago has melted, and the tops are just being kissed with light, though the sky is mostly filled with dark and dramatic clouds.  Dramatic.  That's the word that best describes this landscape for me.

Kayaking

After my breakfast of Muesli and coffee (instant--ugh), I walked to Njord kayaking on the other side of the harbor for my tour of the fjord.  Turns out, I was the only participant, so I pretty much got to do whatever I wanted.  My guide was Ervin, who has lived and kayaked all over the world and knows about 7 languages. 

Getting my big body in the gear and the cockpit were a challenge (my recreational kayak at home has a huge cockpit--not so these sea kayaks), and I was glad there weren't others around.  Ervin was nonplussed, and did nothing to make me feel more awkward, which I very much appreciated.  This was a two person kayak, which gave me the liberty of paddling if I wished, or just taking photos and enjoying the view. 

I paddled most of the way out, and before long we were as far as Aurland (8 km), a trip that took me about 3 times as long with my little 5 hp motor the other day.  I couldn't believe how swiftly we were moving.   At one point, we headed into a waterfall, which I loved so much I asked Ervin to go again.  I was, of course, drenched at the end of the tour.  We paddled around to an area known as the Old King's Path, where we got out for a hike.  Now, this was not really a path, but it wasn't hilly or anything.  Still, we were walking over mossy stones and mud and everything was soft and wet--about five minutes in we came to stream and I told Ervin I wanted to turn back.  I knew there were waterfalls and other splendors ahead, but with my gear and my wetboots and my fatigue, I was really concerned about falling or twisting an ankle. I was disappointed in this, but I was slipping on rocks and just knew I was one slight misstep from ruining the rest of my trip.

We had a seal trailing us for awhile, but I only saw his back as he dove down.  Ervin said seals and porpoises are fairly common in the fjord, even here at the south end, and I should watch for them primarily at dawn and dusk.

The mist in the mountains was absolutely beautiful, especially from the viewpoint of the top of the water, and as Ervin related some of the legends of trolls and stuff, I realized how easy it would be to imagine singing coming from that mist or magical creatures existing within it.  I wish I had been able to take some notes as he spoke because he gave me the names of each peak and waterfall in this area, but I need to see a thing written to have any shot at remembering it. 

I didn't paddle much on the way back, I'm afraid, just enjoyed the rocking of the kayak, the view and the pleasure of being that close to the water.  The only downside was that a cruise ship came into the harbor while we were out.  That was cool to see, but the ship then sat in the harbor for a few hours, and the running of its engines created a low throb in the air that replaced the great calm that comes from gliding in a kayak with a constant agitation until the ship left about 7. 

I have to admit, though, it was pretty fascinating watching it turn around in the fjord. 

On a tech note, I debated for about a month before this trip about whether or not to buy a Kodak Playsport for the trip.  It's a waterproof video camera that will also take 5 MP still photos.  I have way too many such gadgets, but I kinda thought a waterproof camera might be handy, and, well, I like any excuse to get a gadget.  It was worth the purchase just to have the camera with me on the kayaking trip.  I didn't get the great shots I would have gotten with my DSLR, but the little camera did fine for some web shots, and I was happy not to have to worry about it or fumble with a camera through a dry bag.  And it's purple.

The water

It is about 7 am, and the fjord is perfectly still.  The water is so glassy and so clear that the mountains are perfectly reflected in it.  I've attempted some photos, but I do not have a wide angle lens, and the mountains are so high that I can't get the full scope of them and their reflection.  My ducks seem to have abandoned me, but there is a white gull that is the only movement in the place right now.

Today I will go on a kayaking adventure.  It has been awhile since I've gotten this big body in the cockpit of a kayak, and I am apprehensive about  those fat woman things--life jacket and wetsuits that don't fit, needing help in the kayak, the look on the face of the guide when s/he sees me and immediately assumes I'm not up for the trip.  I know I am strong, but I can't claim flexibility, and if these are two person kayaks, weight balancing will be a problem.  So I am fearing the ultimate humiliation of being turned away with my 695NOK in hand.

I have another, odder apprehension.  I have to keep myself from thinking about where I am.  I have never really had a fear of water--respect, yes, but never fear.  Somehow, though, knowing how deep this water is, seeing the mountains and knowing the water is in places as deep as they are high, gives me a little vertigo.  I know it is not rational; on top of the water it doesn't matter how deep it is.   One is as likely to drown in 20 feet of water as 200, a bathtub is more dangerous, I can swim, etc etc, but there is something about not knowing where the bottom is that gives me a little wash of fear every now and then in the boat, and I imagine it will be the same in the kayak.

I can't stop looking out the windows at the water and the mountains.  But, to be honest, it was the same at Bruce Lake.  Water is endlessly fascinating, calming, compelling.  This view is spectacular, but at this point it is my view--it greets me every morning like the view between the two perfectly spaced trees in front of Mom and Dad's cabin at the lake.  I stand here with my coffee as I stood there, I feel myself quiet here as I did there.  OF course, there is no sound of dice on the table or cards being shuffled behind me! 

The distance across this water baffles me too.  It looks like a lake, maybe not bigger than Bruce, which was only about a 250 acre lake.  But the end I look toward is actually about 12 kilometers away (about  miles), and when I am on the lake in the boat I travel and travel and it never seems  to get closer.  The mountains create the illusion, I guess, and I assume the mountains ahead of me are higher than the ones immediately around me, as there is snow on the far mountains but not in the mountains directly over Flåm.

Carrying weight

My friend Kim, who has traveled much more of the world than I, has been following my adventures in this blog and on Facebook, and she recently gave me a way to forgive myself for the things I haven't done on this trip that I had hoped to do.  She wrote, "I like Raymond Carver on this: regret for the past is a waste of the spirit."  I keep returning to that notion that Kim shared with me, but it is difficult not to feel the weight of regret pushing up against the pleasure of discovery on this trip.

Let's take language for instance.  I studied German for many years, but I never really mastered it, though I could read it quite well.   On this trip I have met German speakers almost as much as English speakers, and I understand very little.  When speaking with Helga, I couldn't remember the simplest words, like "boat" or "river."  When she spoke slowly and directly to me, I understood her fairly well, but responding was incredibly difficult, and I realized that I picked up a tic, too:  I kept touching my finger to my lips or covering my mouth with my hand.  It was as if I had unconsciously wanted to silence myself.

Learning languages was once one of the primary goals of my education, but somewhere all of that got lost and I fell into the ease of English.  I have at many times felt like the arrogant American, expecting everyone around me to know my language.  I did attempt to learn some Norwegian phrases, like "excuse me" and "thank you," but I find myself saying "hello" instead of "god dag," and feeling too shy to try to say anything in Norwegian.

One of my favorite book titles is The Things They Carried, and I have been reflecting quite a bit on what I have brought with me in my way-too-heavy luggage.  Two shirts, one sweatshirt, a long sleeve black mock turtleneck, a vest, two pairs of pants, some lightweight sweats, underwear, two pairs of support socks and three pair of regular socks, and a fleece vest.  Maybe I could have cut out one shirt and one pair of support socks, but I'm pretty sure I will want both when I am walking around London and going to the Theatre.

Then there are the electronics.  Laptop.  iPad.  iPhone.  Cameras, chargers, battery backups, cables.  About 10 pounds, I imagine, but what is this weight, really?  A frenzy to stay connected, entertained, ensconced in my virtual nest?  I have taken a thousand photos.  I'll never show them to anyone (you can breathe a sigh of relief now)--but there I was snapping away, and I have spent several hours in this PARADISE editing them on my computer (though, admittedly, it rained all day yesterday in Paradise).

With all this documenting power, what will I carry back to Illinois?

Location:Flåm, Norway

Landscapes

It isn't just the grandeur of place that makes this little spot in Norway so overwhelming--our Rockies and Tetons are pretty magnificent--it's the knowledge that people have lived in this incredible terrain for centuries; that they have build farms on the side of mountains, and ships that crossed the oceans from the timber, and that they still travel BY SKIS in the winter, not for fun, but because it is the only way to get from one place to another...and in Ireland, the sense of the people's connection to the landscape is even stronger. The land is hard there; tiny squares of aerable land filled with rocks. They hauled seaweed up the hillsides to fertilize the land to grow the simplest crops...and you feel it in the place walking around. Even with your cellphone in your hand and your bottled water and your $120 shoes, you feel that work and that hardship and that will to survive. It is incredible. It is more than I can take in, really. My ancestors in the Midwest worked hard clearing land for crops and caring for livestock, but our fields are vast, and our earth rich and loamy.  Perhaps it is the relative ease of it that has allowed the US to be so negligent with its natural resources and its farms.

Flåm

The trip to Flåm was extraordinary, with its views of the glacier (yeah people live here),

the incredible Kjosfossen waterfall

The Rallarvargen bike trail

 And some houses with grass roofs

Just to name a few of the sites.  But Flåm is where I will be for the next week, and I am delighted.  It is now Friday, and I arrived on Tuesday.  Every day has been different so far.

Anders, the owner of the cottage, picked me up at the train, which, actually, is only about a 10 minute walk away and is in the midst of the "town," which seems to consist of a tiny grocery and some souvenir shops.  

I have been back and forth several times since then, buying groceries, mailing cards, and picking up junk, including a much-needed fleece jacket for myself.  Anders showed me how to run the boat, where I could chop kindling for the fireplace, and the general layout of the place.

You know how photos of accommodations never live up to the reality?  Not so with the Fretheimjordhytter.  This place is perfect, and even better than the photos.  The whole decor is wood, a light knotty pine, and there is a great attention to details, from the wood for the fireplace to the stereo system.

The front of the cottage is all windows, with an absolutely breathtaking view of the fjord, facing north.

Because the fjord runs north-south, there is not much direct sun in the fjord.  It is still light here until about 8 pm or later, but that midnight sun thing is long gone.  Yesterday I woke up to a skiff of snow on the mountain tops to the north and northeast; this morning the snow has touched the very top of the mountain to the southwest.  It is about 50 degrees here next to the water, though it was about 68 when I arrived.  Crazy.

I have already made some new friends, no doubt because of the bread tossed out my window:

At first there were two, but by last night word had spread, and I had five visitors.  It's nice to be welcomed by the locals.

My kayaking trip for Wednesday was cancelled, but I managed to reschedule for tomorrow, though I have already explored much of the south end of the fjord by boat.  I rode as far as the next town up, Aurland, but the little 5hp motor is not a speedy thing, and I had to fill the tank twice.  Between the fear of running out of gas and my aching butt, I didn't try for the mouth of the fjord.

This fjord, the Aurlandsfjord, is a branch of the great fjord, the Sognefjord and is adjacent to another branch the Nærøyfjorden, a UNESCO world heritage site.  Supposedly my little spare gas tank will get me out to the big guy, but I'm nervous about it.  It's a long row back.  Anders says nearer to the mouth of the Aurlandsfjord you can see dolphins (or porpoises, I don't remember which he said) and seals.  I would just like to make the trip to say I had done it, and to feel more like I am owning this experience.

Speaking of seals, the souvenir shop has, in addition to a thousand overpriced crap covered with trolls and vikings, animal skins for sale.  Okay, I eat meat.  I wear leather shoes.  But it absolutely creeped me out to see a pile of seal skins for sale.  Sooner or later my revulsion for the use of animals for profit will catch up to my personal practices, and I feel that day approaching quickly.

I think today I will try the walk to Aurland, which should take about an hour and a half each way.  Bikes can be rented here, and the way to Aurland is pretty level, but there appear to be several blind turns in the road, and I feel more confident I can get out of the way of a car if I am walking. 

First 24 hours in Norway

So the day began with a bad feeling about my hotel in Oslo. I got on the web and looked for other accommodations before leaving Dublin, and could
find nothing for less than 260. that, plus the forfeiture of my reservation would have made my single night in Oslo a $400 stay, which was more than I could bear. On the train ride to the city, my apprehension continued to grow, so when I saw the Thon Opera right next to the train station, I decided no price was too dear and asked for a room. No rooms available. I then trudged back to the taxi stand and proceeded to get taken for a pricey ride to my hotel.

The hotel was on a busy street that got unbusy the closer one got to the hotel. I'm sure it was a perfectly safe area, but this ninny from the middle of the land got wigged out by the graffiti and the shift from a commerce to industry as I walked along the street. The real challenge, though, was in the hotel itself. I couldn't figure out the elevator. Turns out, one had to close an actual physical door with a doorknob before the elevator's sliding doors would close. D'oh. When I got to my room, I discovered an open wide window and a great 11th floor view. The room was neat and comfortable, but there were not nearly enough electrical outlets for all my devices. The bathroom was...well, the shower was a hose in the corner of the tiny room with a drain in the floor. Clean and functional, so all was good.

I ventured out for some exploration and some supper after an hour or so getting myself together. I made it to a pizza joint, where a pizza and a small Pepsi cost me about $35. No one was kidding when they said Norway was incredibly expensive. I ATMed some Kroner on the way back, then settled into my room for some writing and a fitful sleep.

About the view out my window--I counted six church steeples within view lever a largely tin box landscape. I could see mountains to my right. The air was incredibly fresh. I don't recall any other major city I have visited that smelled like the mountains. When I woke up this morning, there was a rainbow.

This morning I headed for the train, and arrived quite early. I really hate not speaking any Norwegian; I just feel rude and ignorant. not reading any also has it's drawbacks, as I did not realize I had an assigned seat on the train. Fortunately, the car I randomly clamored aboard was the right one, so I only had to move a few seats when I discovered my error.

Now I am sitting next to a German woman, Helge, who is being very patient with my labored German. I am enjoying her company, but am appalled at how much German I have forgotten. I used to be pretty good at the damned language. I understand her quite well when she speaks to me, but producing the language is very difficult, and when she talks to her traveling companions I can only catch the gist of what they are saying. She is from Hamburg and is on her way to a Hurtigruten tour up the Western coast from Bergen.



We are about an hour into the trainride, and the landscape is lovely. Rivers anthills and trees trees trees. I am struck by the difference between these clearly prosperous Norwegian farms,with their wide fields,well kept outbuildings,and rich timber. A marked contrast to the more difficult circumstances of the Irish.

My new friend Helga has been all over the world by ship, and she says Norway is the most beautiful country she has visited.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:On the train to Myrdal

Leaving Ireland

The top two sports in Ireland are not Rugby and Soccer, but two Gaelic sports: Football and Hurling. Hurling is played with a funky stick and probably most closely resembles and mixture of field hockey and lacross. Gaelic football is a big running, kicking a goal sport, but a player carries the ball instead of moving it with his/her feet, and must dribble it every three paces. Both are amateur sports and wildly popular.

The national championship game was in Dublin on Sunday, with Dublin (who hasn't won in 16 years) facing the favorite Kerry for the cup. Dublin won by a point, and the Dubliners were celebrating until late in the night. One couldn't go anywhere on Sunday without hearing about the game. Pam and I watched a little in our hotel room, and I must admit I liked watching the game.

The football frenzy was enough to keep us from being very adventurous on our last night, so we had a picnic in our room, watched the game, and played pinochle. I was dead tired, and went to bed pretty early. This morning we left the hotel about 9, said goodbye in the elevator at the airport, and Pam was off to her flight to Atlanta, and I was off to Oslo.

It was really fun traveling with my sister, who made me coffee every morning and set up the fan for me the last two nights in our hotel. I hate being hot, and our hotel was too warm for me.

It's hard to say what will be the most lasting memories I will have from this trip; we saw so many beautiful things in such a short time that it will take some time to sort them in my mind. Certainly the Cliffs of Moher were astounding, but that little visit to that cave on the beach was pretty remarkable. The hillsides of heather, and the rocky terrain dotted with sheep will probably be the first thing I will think of when I think of Ireland, along with my beautiful sister and her cups of tea.

Pam and Molly Malone

Last day of the tour

There was lots of driving yesterday, and not much walking or other activity, which was fine with me because I have HAD it with all this beauty and history and magnificence. 

Apparently we just missed Ireland's greatest fiddle player in Clifden, who performed about an hour after we left dinner Friday night, so I felt a grousing session at the edge of my spirit as people talked about it in the jeep on Saturday morning.  Truth was, I was just too damned tired to stay out longer, and probably would have headed for the Henry Sisters who were playing just down the street from our hotel anyway.  I really feel I have missed an important part of the experience by not being able to stay out later.

Our first stop of the day was in Connemara at some old damned castle that is now owned by nuns and was going to be a school and Madonna was going to send her kid there and the nuns told her she wasn't Madonna and now the nuns still own it but can't afford to run it and it would be 12 bucks to tour it no thank you.  Nice lake and great shop there, though.  I bought a tin whistle to amuse Gary Rogers, one of our fellow travelers.

We drove on then and came to the first really cheesy stop on our tour, a recreation of the set of The Quiet Man.  I wanted to point out to them that none of the furniture looked like Mary Kate's, and that the bedroom door needed to be kicked in and the bed broken.  But then I turned and looked at these guys

and just wanted to scream and run out.

We then moved on to a 14th  century castle and grounds (maybe older; all of these dates are so crazy old that I can't keep track and got a fabulous tour from the local archeologist.

When she told us there were bats in the upper area where we were heading, though, I decided to further explore the outer wall of the castle grounds.

An hour and 40 minute walk up a hill in the rain was offered to us, but we declined in favor of a quick detour into Galway, which was my kind of town, but we were only there for an hour and half and a quick lunch.   Street singers, outdoor cafes, a public park by the harbor---it was cool.  We seemed to be in a sports bar for lunch.

But it was the coolest damned sports bar I have ever seen.  Three floors, wood, mirrors, stone, Guiness and Paulaner on tap, and the first big screen TV we have seen.  There is some super duper final match between Kerry and Dublin Sunday in Gaelic football that everyone is all crazy over.

Then back to Dublin.  Long drive.  Nice goodbyes.  Pam and I had a picnic in our room.

Then Pam discovered Wurdle on the iPad.....

Back in Dublin

It is Saturday night in Dublin, and we are in our hotel at 8:30, exhausted.  What livewires.


Too tired to write tonight.  Great week.

Woman of Aran

Today was the first day that was somewhat disappointing, in spite of seeing one of the greatest sites on earth.

We began with the Cliffs of Moher, as spectacular as promised, and we caught them on a beautiful day and early enough that they weren't covered with tourists.  More time there would have been great.  Again, we have time to see, but not sufficient (for me) time to contemplate.

But I did have time at the gift shop to buy a tinwhistle, which prompted a buying frenzy in our group.  They were buying for grandchildren, but, me, well, I set up playing outside the land rover and earned 3 cents.

Then we were off to our ferry for the Aran Islands.  The water was rough, but I sat up top and got wet as we rocked and rolled with the waves.  That was glorious!  I supposed I should have been frightened, but it was invigorating instead.  One member of our party got quite ill, but dramamine and adrenaline kept me from feeding the fish.

The Aran Islands themselves were disappointing, however.  We were on the smallest Island, Inis Mor, and I was expecting a barren, rough landscape full of hardy folks looking like they belong in the Flaherty film.  Instead, we found many neat, rather newish cottages, and a host of men with buggies cajoling us to take a ride around the island for 10 Euro.  Pam and I bit, and we got a snotty young man who told us nothing, seemed irritated by questions, and was generally unpleasant.  The horsie was nice, though.

We were on the Island for 4 hours, and one and a half would have been plenty.

We were picked up by our guide and taken through Connamara to Clifden for the night.  There is a festival going on here, so music was everywhere.  We listened to a duo who switched around from banjo to guitar to fiddle.  Lots of fun.

I started the morning with a quick trip to the PO in Dingle, where I spent 50 Euro to send 35 Euro worth of stuff back to the US. Oh well.  Don't have to carry it....then we dropped off a couple of people for the horseback riding.  I skipped it, as I didn't feel like riding english.  That was a good call on my part, as the drive offered an unexpected and quite spectacular adventure.
We drove up to a little area where there was a pottery shop (lovely stuff), and as we drove there I spotted a beach with some caves along it and asked if we could go down there. So while others shopped, Mark took Corkey, Gary Rich and myself down to the beach, where we found fossils, caves, birds and generally cool rock formations.

Getting in the cave required a walk through some water, but I was not deterred.  Off came the shoes and socks, and man was it cool to walk in the sandy cave and here the waves outside.  Cool wet sand, beautiful rock inside.  For obvious reasons I didn't carry my camera inside, but I did try for a couple of iPhone pix.  The light was not accommodating.

We saw fossils and crawled around on the rock.  If I had not been loaded down with junk in my pockets and my camera and stuff I would have tried some more difficult areas on the rocks, but there was plenty to be seen just a few feet off the ground.  Mark is an excellent guide, and I am so lucky he was game for this unplanned excursion, because it was a real find.

After a lunch at a pub that was once owned by a member of the antartic expedition on the Endurance with Shackelton, we visited an oratory from the 7th or 8th century.  What is especially shocking about these sorts of things is how small they are.  This was a perfect little structure like an overturned ship with the front and back shaved square, with a door to the east and a window to the west.  A small graveyard stood beside it.

In the car I got a chance to talk to one of our fellow travelers, Gary, who is an opthomalogist doing research that I found really interesting.  My interest of the last couple of years in brain science was firing as he spoke.  Sometimes I really wish I could do my education over, not to give up the one I have, but to be able to understand neurology (for instance) better.  I think I will dig back in to the books on the brain I have on my iPad when I get to Norway.

Mark was loaded with information, song and poetry today.  He was impressed that I had read Finnegan's Wake and that I knew some other lit stuff, but, really, that's just a fact of my education, not my person.  I felt rather embarrassed about it, since I am so ignorant of basic history and geography and politics, as every day on this trip makes evident.

Later we were off toward the cliffs of Moher, though we went to some other cliffs called the Kilkee cliffs.  Fantastic.  Man, if these are not the most spectacular cliffs along the ocean, I cannot imagine the impact Moher will have tomorrow.

Had a wonderful dinner with Pam, where we talked about many things.  I realized today that being with Pam makes this trip very much easier for me, not only for the sharing of the experiences, but because she is so funny and charming I have been able to enjoy the benefit of her breaking the ice for us both.

Stendahl for the hillside

Stendahl syndrome, or Florence Syndrome is condition in which a person swoons or feels nausea after seeing too much art.  People have experienced it, scientists are studying it.  I think I had a version of it today from the excess of beauty and history and expansion of my spirit today.

Today was the most perfect day.  It started with a sunny and soft morning in Portmagee, where I played my guitar in the harbor and watched the sea birds.  Then we drove over the bridge to Valencia Island for a walk up to the abandoned settlement at the top and a look at the Skellig Islands in the distance.  Pam and I elected not to make the long walk to the top, but stopped about half an hour in to sit on a rock and enjoy the views from there.  That is more my speed.  Walk, then sit and look and enjoy.  We could see the Skelligs as a kind of dark mystery in the distance, and we watched a small boat from Portmagee come out and lower some nets.  The heather and gorse was blooming in fits here and there around us.

After the others rejoined us, Mark drove us to another part of the Island where we scrambled across a field to see an early Christian burial site with a marked stone called an Ogham.  Mark talked to us excitedly about these 5000 year old structures, and I was delighted we have such an informed and enthusiastic guide with us.  The real hit of the hill, though was the dolman, a stone structure found throughout Ireland in different forms, thought to be a burial entrance.   They are generally made of three to five stones with a flat stone across the top.  Imagine hauling that big top stone up or down a steep hill to place it.  Most of what we understand about the dolmans is speculation; nothing is certain about their mythic or ritualistic intent.  Some are built into hillsides, but ours was more or less exposed.  According to Mark, the tops of them are always set at precise angles, and they face the same direction wherever they are built.

Cool as that 5000 year old structure was, the hit of the day was when we went offroading to the top of a hill that was covered, COVERED in heather and gorse.  The view was incredible, and the remains of an equally ancient settlement were around us, but the tumble of purple and yellow blanketing the hillside was pure joy.  I wanted to roll in it.  Fortunately I did not, as gorse is thorny and rough.  We have seen more spectacular things on this trip, but nothing has thrilled me like that little mountainside.  I was giddy after the walk up there, and full of energy and compassion for the world, but also slightly woozy.  I took a zillion photos, but none of them capture the feeling of being in all that color at the peak of the world and the edge of the sea.

Just a bit of an incline

Where to begin to tell you about the trail walk that about did me in?  We were in Killarney, in the national forest.  I can't remember anything else about what we did on Tuesday, this walk was so tough on me.  Our guide Steve drove us to the start of the walk, said it was about an hour and 15 mins with just a bit of a hill at the beginning (I have learned to ask about the incline before starting down a trail).  Well, it took nearly 45 minutes to do that bit of an incline, and the whole walk took about 2.5 hours.  Plenty of mud and brooks to cross too.  The distance did not bother me, really, but that incline was BAD.  The hotel from the night before had some mold; my lungs caught on to it right away.  Then I started going up that hill and I was heaving.  Walking, stopping, heaving, walking some more.  Pam trudged on ahead, intent on making it to the end.  Ellen and Gary stayed behind with me--I'm sure my breathing scared them a bit.

Yes Michelle, I had my rescue inhaler, and I did pretreat.  I did not push myself to the point of real danger, but I was dead tired by the end, and it did occur to me "what if?"

The guide Steve, by the way, did not accompany us on this hike or any of the others.  We had no radio, our cellphones don't pick up signals....In truth, others in the group are more fit than Pam and I, but all except myself are over 60.  Pammy and I were not the only tired ones at the end of this adventure.

But, we made it, and it was gorgeous.  We were high up, crossing through the mountain, with brooks and old, old stone fences all around.  Heather and gorse grew up in many places, and there were sheep dotting the hills around us.  We could see great valleys before us and behind us--it really was the most spectacular view so far.  I took loads of photos, but they don't seem to really capture the grandeur of it, or the tiny delicacy of the lichens and heather.

Here's the thing, though.  I look at stuff as I go along.  Poor Pam was so intent on not falling, she didn't really get to enjoy the fabulous views.  But the other folks on the tour don't necessarily spend as much looking time as I do.  For instance, only a couple of others on our tour saw this ruin just 30 feet from our path:

It was way cool.  The main house had a smaller room behind it, and another building to the side.  There was a wall in front, and incredible rocks, trees, and plant life around it.  Most of the walls and windows were more or less intact, and there was a beautiful view from the little farm as well.  Across the way was a wonderful stone fence that was mostly grown over, but still an excellent example of this typical, old mortarless structure.  I walked all around and mark this as one of the highlights of the tour so far.

And most--not all, but most--of the good walkers didn't even see it.

At the end of the trail we loaded up in the land rover with our new guide, Mark, and headed for a sheep farm.  I really didn't care to see the farm, but, okay, it's what was planned, so I went along.  Well, watching those little border collies (and they were little--maybe 30 lb animals) run those sheep was fantastic.  They ran far and fast and over stone fences and it was like watching an incredible dance across the hills watching those dogs move those sheep home.  I was surprised that the dogs generally did not need to get close than 10 feet from the sheep and also did no barking to get them to move.  We also saw a three month old puppy.  He was cute as all puppies are, but what made this cool was seeing how, already, this pup was absolutely intent on the sheep nearby, and would not be distracted.  He was trembling looking at them, ready to get after them if they made a wrong move in the next pen.

Made me miss Callie, actually, and wonder what her gray and white and black mottled self would look like following her instincts and chasing those sheep.

Sheep farming, even on a vast 3000 acre, 2000 sheep farm, is barely subsistence living, if that.  The work hours are long and hard until winter, and wool sells for pennies.  EU subsidies are what are keeping the industry alive, and those expire in 2013.  These third generation sheep farmers would not be making it if it were not for tours stopping by for demonstrations.

We were headed for the Skellig Islands, but weather would not permit a landing.  Our new guide seems very keen on archeology, so I'm looking forward to what he will share with us over the next couple of days.

Where even the sheep don't shit

Internet access has been sketchy, so I am behind in my posts. Sadly, that is going to mean brevity, as I have only about 10 memory pathways still working properly in my head.

We started Monday by leaving the really fabulous b&b in GouganBarra, after a very windy and rough night. Disappointing, that, because the place was on a little lake, with rowboats available and wonderful looking places to walk. Because the weather prevented exploration of the area the night before, we hiked up the mountain in the morning. It was up. I don't do up very well, and the inhaler had to be grabbed when I got down again. It was beautiful, however, and we had to cross a little stream via not-well-spaced stepping stones, which my romantic self just loved. Of course, yrs truly was the first to the top, and when I reached the top, we turned and started down again.



Which is turning out to be a theme. I want to hike to get somewhere and enjoy the places hiking gets me to; but we seem to be hiking just to hike...a lot. I wanted an active trip, but not active just for its own sake.

Anyway. Pammy's thighs were hurting, and I was well established as the lagger in the group. One of the guides was sent after me, which I guess was kind, but embarrassed me, and gave the impression that I was in distress, and I really was not. I was just going the pace I could go.

We then went on the Glengarriff in Western Cork, where Maureen O'Hara apparently still lives, for a visit to the gardens at Garinish. OMG. That was a beautiful place, with a winding walk through the gardens and woods. I was really thrilled with it, especially with the greek-styled temple at the edge of the water. I wanted to sit there the rest of the day, and emotionally I didn't really leave that spot until I woke up this morning.



After a good deal of driving and lunch we stopped to discuss another walk of "about an hour and fifteen." "A bit of a hill at the start, but then it is flat after that." I said I could do another hike, but no straight up stuff. Our guide then offered to start us on the other side so the hill would be a down hill at the end instead of an uphill at the beginning.

Well, let me tell you, this was not an easy hike. We weren't rock climbing, but there were plenty of muddy marshy areas that even the experienced folks were approaching with care, and the downhill part was quite steep, which was tough on these old legs. Pam and I kept up the rear, but we made it. It was well over an hour and a half. Worth it, though, because it was beautiful, though a bit drizzly in parts. Again, however, there was more time spent watching our footing than looking at the big chunks of gorgeous around us. Basically, we crossed a mountain, and I wish I could tell you which one it was. I'm sure it was some barra or other. At one point, Ellen, one of our fellow travelers who stayed behind with her husband to walk with Pam and me to make sure we were okay, said we were so far up even the sheep didn't come here. You see my modification of that quote in the title.

Then we got to Kenmare, an absolutely charming town on the Beara Peninsula. Yes, it is a town catering to tourists, but it wasn't crass and cheap, there were nice coffeeshops and silversmiths, or they looked nice at least. Because we didn't get there until dinner time at 7:30, we got a slim hour in the morning to explore the place. At this point, Pam was getting antsy about finding some nice things for her family, and I was really needing some time to write and absorb what I had experienced in the last couple of days. Beauty requires time to take it in, to let it get from your blood supply to your bones.

I was a bit late for dinner, because there was a guitar shop right next door, and I had to have a look. The long haired fellow working there was born in Wales, but he called himself a Scot. He visited Kenmare on holiday with his grandfather a few years ago, and fell in love with the place, and has now lived there about 4 years. It was striking to me to hear of a young man (clearly a hippy dude) moving TO a small town and staying.

We had some great music after dinner, accordion and guitar and great singing, then folks drifted off to bed. I came back to the bar in hopes of talking to some locals and because a kind of melancholy was coming over me--I didn't want to just go to sleep and get up again and go off to the next thing. But there were only two folks at the bar, and they left shortly after I ordered a pint. I ended up doing FaceTime with Phil (like Skype for you sad non Mac or iPhone/iPad users) to ease my touch of loneliness.

Our hotel is owned by Siobhan and her brother Padraig, and Siobhan, who appeared to be in her early 30s, but may have been a bit older, interested me. She was all movement and efficiency all night, and was clearly one of those folks who sizes people up quickly, is friendly, but holds herself at bay from them. I did manage a conversation with her the next day, and learned that she grew up in the business, and she and her brother inherited the hotel. Would have liked to have talked to her more. I mentioned to her my visit to the bar the night before, and she said you won't find Irish people in the bars during the week anymore, and hardly on the weekend. "So the notion of every Irish person heading to their local for a pint at night is just a myth?" Siobhan said it was once true, but not anymore. DUI laws, the emigration of young people, and the economy have combined to kill off that way of life in small towns like hers.




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Location:Glengariff, Western Cork, and onward

Blowin' in the Wind

We are in a great bed and breakfast on a small lake at the edge of the Gougan Barra national park. Problem: it is rainy and incredibly windy. Today was to be a kayaking day, but I think that will be a no-go because of the wind.

The inn is very charming. We have a huge room with a lovely view of the lake and hills, and there is a neat lounge and library downstairs, to which I will retire to read a bit of Yeats before breakfast after I finish this entry. I wish we could stay here more of the day, but we are off to the Ring of Kerry and the Ring of something else.

Yesterday was a long day, and at the end of it I had a complete meltdown. I was exhausted, my feet hurt, and I was hot--the impossible combination for me. Pam was great, even though I was flipping out. It really is a comfort having her here and having a partner in this adventure.

We started the day by scrambling for breakfast, as our hotel in Dublin didn't start serving until we had to be on our way to meet our tour. Found some sandwiches and fruit at a local shop, and we were fine, but I really wanted to see Pam's face when I told her she was eating blood pudding for breakfast. Maybe later this week.

There was quite a bit of driving yesterday to reach the southwest, but Vagabond paced it well, with stops every hour or so, lots of casually delivered history, and visits to a couple of spectacular places. First stop was the Rock of Cashel, which is really not to be missed. There were lots of folks there, so it is touristy, but it is old and on a magnificent hillside. I would have liked to have had more time to sit on the hillside in that old place and do some writing. As it was, I had a decent look around, and then spent some time looking through the holes in the remaining walls and imagined what it would have been like to have been a monk there.



Next stop was a real tourist destination: Blarney castle. First, I was very happy that a free app I had on my iPhone gave us a half off price to get in, because the fricking fee was 10Euro each. The castle grounds are extraordinary, and there was lots of verbena bonariasis growing near the creek, which made me smile. A few varieties of lavender for good measure too.



Then there was the damned castle. Well, I was too fat and loaded down with cameras and stuff to get very far into the dungeon, but it was pretty cool to get as far into the rock as I did. One is always shocked by how small these spaces are. Pam wanted to see the stone, which is at the top of the castle in the open air. Well, shit, if she was going to climb all of those narrow steps to get there, so was I, but the windy steps were steep and smooth and narrow. I had a bit of claustrophobia as well as a fear of falling, so that was a scary damned climb for me. The view on top was great, but I ai'n't recommending that stop to anybody. Coming down was not much better, as there were lots of folks on the stairs, and the down staircase required even more careful stepping, due to the smoothness of the stone.

Once we reached the hotel, it was too rainy to explore the area, unfortunately. This is disappointing, as I think this is the coolest place in terms of environment in which we will be staying. I did manage to get into the bar where Pammy bought me my first pint of Guiness.

More to say, of course, but I am anxious to get out in the wind a bit before breakfast.

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Location:Gougan Barra, Ireland

Where the Streets Have No Name

Okay, the streets have names, but it takes awhile to find them, and if you walk far enough on one of these winding streets, it turns into something else, so getting street based directions is pretty useless. Fortunately, I followed my sense off direction for the most part today, and it didn't fail. But then, we meandered more than setting a goal of getting from one specific place to another.

I got up rather late in the morning, had a full Irish breakfast (still don't know what those round flat things were that I ate, but I liked them), then I headed out for a short walk before coming back to the hotel to wait for my sister. I happened across a woman selling flowers who was quite happy to sell me some yellow miniature carnations and some purple statis for 5 Euro. As I walked back to the hotel, I saw Pam getting out of the cab. It was a little surreal seeing her here, standing in front of this old hotel on this tiny street. She was full of energy and happy, and I was thrilled to hug her.

I thought she would like the Queen of Tarts, so we headed back there for lunch, and we found ourselves sitting next to a very nice woman who happily made suggestions for what we might do and see and who explained a bit about tipping wait staff here, which still has me a bit uneasy. It's nice, it seems, but it is not expected in the way it is in the US, where servers earn little if anything more than their tips. I feel bad if I don't tip, and I feel foolish if I tip as I do in the US, so I'm sticking with my usual motto: just pay and don't think about it.

Pam though the area around the Liffey was pretty cool (me too) so we hung out there for awhile, and I made her take my photo with the giant statue of Daniel O'Connell. Very touristy, but, shit, I'm a tourist. The Liffey really is nice; I expected a stinky river flowing through town, as the Chicago is in many places it, but the Liffey is really nice, and I like saying "Liffy."



After a nap, we met Al for dinner, and he was with an ISU alum, John Whipple, whom I remembered from about 10-12 years ago. Very nice guy. He took us by the Irish FIlm Institute and I wish I could have stayed in the cafe or looked at some DVDs in the shop. The latest Almodovar film is playing, as is a restored version of Days of Heaven. I'm realizing now I made a mistake in not planning more time in Dublin. It takes a couple of days to deal with the jet lag and just being able to find your hotel. There are sites to be seen (still haven't walked across Trinity's campus, though I've been all around it), but the real pleasure is in finding a place like the IFI cafe, and just hanging out in it for an afternoon--no rush, no gotta get to, just coffee and people watching, and listening to the voices around you.


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Location:Dame Ct,Dublin,Ireland

The Abbey Theatre, and Chicago is the Center of the Universe

After a great dinner with Al Goldfarb, who is responsible, after all, for getting me to NYC and beginning this theatre madness about a dozen years ago, I visited the Abbey Theatre for Sam Shepherd's Curse of the Starving Class. I was not keen on this kind of play my first night, since I was dead tired from the trip and the time change, but I wanted to make sure I did not miss a visit to the historic Abbey.

In some ways, the Abbey was disappointing. I knew it had been renovated, but I was not expecting an interior that had no real hint of history or age, and the house was quite small.

Seated next to me was a young man who is studying acting, and who spent about 6 months last year in Chicago. So I spend one day in this country, have extended conversations with four strangers, and they all have close ties to Chicago?? Anyway, it was great talking to this guy, who is also a musician, and I would have invited him for a drink had I not been so beat.

About 20 minutes in to the performance, I realized I was more or less the only person laughing in the theatre. Now, I'm not a laugh out louder at the theatre by nature, but I have learned over the years at ISU to make more noise when I am enjoying a show, as the actors really like it/need it. At first I thought perhaps Shepherd's references were too specifically American for the audience, then it dawned on me that every Brit actor whom I have heard interviewed about performing on Broadway talks about how much more vocal American audiences are. I'm anxious to see more theatre here to see if I have similar experiences with audiences at other shows/venues.

And then it struck me like fresh water: I've just experienced something new, I've just learned something. It was glorious. At other times I thought how odd it was to be in Dublin watching a play about American masculinity, and the specifically American poor in the changing landscape of the west/the family farm. And no, I'm not buying that "good theatre or writing is universal" crap.

The Abbey is across the Liffey river from my hotel, which the music and noise outside at 2:30 am as I write this reminds me is right in Temple Bar. As I walked back (found my hotel without asking directions or needing to retrace my steps), there were people everywhere, and the river was lovely. It is a warm clear night. I realized I tense a bit whenever I pass groups of men, which I also do in the States, especially if they've clearly been drinking. I'd best quickly get used to this, as the street is full of groups of people. That probably seems obvious, but what I mean is actual groups of 4 or 5 or 6 seem to be more the norm than couples or folks walking around alone. I noted that this afternoon too, so I don't think it is just a Friday night phenom. More on this later, I imagine, as I've just started to mull this in relation to the work done in American Sociology about 15 years ago regarding the decline in public space for teens, especially males, in the US.







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Location:Exchequer St,Dublin,Ireland

Flying to far away places

I am exhausted. Everything went smoothly with my travels, but of course I was too damned excited to sleep on the plane. My backpack was too heavy for my shoulders--yes, I know, I should have worn it around the block a few times, but I really didn't have that much in it it. Turns out, the pack itself hits my shoulders in weird ways and feels heavy even empty. I bought an extremely lightweight folding truck for it in the Atlanta airport, but those things are never very stable. I was all set to send some stuff home by post, but, honestly, I could only eliminate about 3 lbs, unless I want to send away my cpap and my DSLR and telephoto lens.

And my checked bag showed up in Dublin torn. Still usable.

So that's the funky travel news. Here's the good stuff.

My hotel could not be better located. It is just a few blocks from Trinity, from Temple Bar, and from Hannah's Queen of Tarts cafe. There is a guitar store right across the street with a big ole Rickenbacker in the window. I counted 10 guitar stores on my very very short walk this afternoon, and I passed by one place where a woman was singing "I Shall Be Released" in a storefront.

The room is a little worn, but really comfortable and much larger than I expected.

But here's the cool stuff. At the Queen of Tarts, which is very tiny, the folks sitting next to me introduced themselves. Two sisters--about my age--were traveling with one woman's college age daughter. One woman was from Illinois, the mother and daughter live in San Francisco. The young woman, Amy, is interested in stage management, and they all were quite keen to hear about ISU's Theatre program. Then they asked about my sabbatical and what I was working on. I told them. I mean told them I was writing a book about growing up gay in small town middle America. The woman from San Fran said "I'm from San Francisco. I spotted you right away" and we laughed. It was really great, and I felt my professional self in a really okay way. I loved telling them about ISU.

Then I got back to my hotel--just had to take a shower and a nap--and found an email from Al Goldfarb: he's in Dublin this weekend!! We tried to work out seeing a show together tonight, but that isn't going to work, so we are having dinner in a few hours. Perfect.

And then there was the cab driver, who flirted with me shamelessly, talked to me about history and politics and how to get around Dublin. And I handled the flirting okay. When he stopped at my hotel he said he wanted to give me directions to Trinity, but he'd have to get in the backseat with me to do it, and I firmly but kindly said "no you don't" and he laughed and told me how to get to Trinity and then to the Abbey theatre tonight. It was actually kinda fun instead of creepy, only because I felt completely in control of the situation.

For no real reason, I suppose, except that I feel a confidence emerging in me already that is new and exciting.







- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad. Haven't figured out how to add photos with this app yet. Give me some time.

Location:Dame Ct,Dublin,Ireland