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Autumn Falls

Here's a tip for those travelling thru Ireland in Autumn/Fall: fall is not a season but a verb. (Evidence of this gorgeous season in the Mourne Mountains below)

A Night at The Empire

Last night I was treated to a delish birthday treat: Thai dinner at Bo Tree and then a fantastic Duke Special show at The Empire. (Duke Special is a local band fronted by a guy named Peter) This week the band is playing a 5 night residency at The Empire where each night's show is a centered around a unique theme. Last night's theme was Symphony of Songs. Not really sure what that means but I was THRILLED when I sat in my seat (earned after an hour's wait before the doors opened) just as the lights dimmed and learned that Aqualung would be opening for the Duke and that Aqualung would be joining the Duke throughout the evening.

DUDE! Double-header! The colorful Duke Special AND the charming tunes of Aqualung who I have wanted to see live since 2002.

This is the way to kick of a birthday week for sure!

A Wee Photo Album

Ireland's oldest mill, Avoca. May I also add that this is Ireland's best mill.


The lovely buildings of Edinburgh.


St. Andrews. Better known as the world's first golf course.


Balmoral Castle. Sadly the Queen wasn't expected for a few weeks. Oh well. There's always next year.


A house in the Highlands of Scotland.

Dewey Decimal and a Cup of Coffee

Ah books. Tonight I went to my first book club. The club has been meeting for a while in a local coffee shop near Queens University called Common Grounds. This month's book was The Book Thief.


I thought the book was quite good and written in a very unusual style - refreshing after reading so many Jodi Picoult books where someone always sees the inside of a jail and someone else always finds a reason to spout off medical jargon. Right. Back to The Book Thief.

I won't give away any of the plot or even the general idea of the book in case you want to read it, and I hope that you do. There are many layers to the book and a few grand themes. I tried very hard to only contribute new angles and ideas to the discussion and refrained from saying things like, "I just didn't like this character." Or "I didn't like the book. OK, I only read a bit of the beginning, but I didn't like it so much I won't finish it. Now let me dominate the conversation with reasons that the book was bad." Both of these things happened but neither of them were my doing.

I hope I was a good ambassador for the public school system in South Carolina, as my comments seemed to attract several "Good point" remarks. Or maybe I just read into things too much.

Now that's a story for another time.

Slumber Party with N.H.S.

Here's a photo of the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast, located just a few blocks from the volunteer house. I had the unfortunate fortune of blacking out at 1am on the Sunday morning before July 4th and banging my face on my flatmate's bedroom door. 10 minutes later I was off the floor and headed out the door with a paramedic.

I spent a few days at the hospital so that tests could be run and the decisions could be made that
1) I can still drive in the U.K.
2) This was most likely a one-time thing
3) My brain seems to be pretty normal!

OK, now to the good stuff. My stay in the hospital was at times boring, at times really, really depressing and at times absolutely hilarious. I met the most random women who were also staying in my ward. (There were 6 beds in my ward that were almost always taken). The bed to my left seemed to be a revolving door of disruptive women. First, there was the woman who said the doctors tried to drug her, changed all of the clocks to read 7am at all times and that a nurse was keeping her mom locked out of the hospital. This was the same mom this lady said she hated. Anyway, I was glad to see her finally be reunited with her mom and for the clocks to be allowed to move past 7am. Next up was a much older woman who had fallen and broken her arm. She was only there a short while to boss the nurses around and complain about the soup (not enough salt) before she was granted her own room upstairs. Next was another young lady who, sadly, had taken a bunch of tablets. She was pretty quiet and told the doctors and nurses to leave her alone and shut up a lot. Next was a nice looking older lady who received a visit from her son and his wife. Turns out their wedding had been featured in a local magazine so they brought her a copy. Later that day, another son of hers arrived for a visit. The mom was furious that her other son had brought a magazine and not her favorite mystery novel. The nerve!

There were two women across from me who had actually grown up in the neighborhood I live in currently. They both had one son and talked a lot about that and about people from the neighborhood. They were planning on staying at the hospital for a while longer so they had collected chocolates and crisps from the canteen and were stocked up on TV credits. (You have to pay for credit to watch the little TV that hangs by your bed). Both women love Gordon Ramsey's current show on television, Wifeswap and CSI.

It seemed that every hour a nurse would come by to take blood pressure or jab you with something. Each of these trips included a battery of questions. The nurses asked me a lot about why I was in Belfast, how long I'd be here and what I thought of their National Healthcare System. It was lovely, I replied. And a lot lovelier when I was discharged on July 4th. Perhaps my favorite independence day ever.

The food was a little odd (I disagree with the lady about her soup - that stuff was loaded with salt), but what do you expect at a hospital? They serve huge meals and never any Jell-o. How sad.

This was the first time I really missed home. And I really missed Neosporin. Random but true.

Snapshots

Powerscourt Gardens, Co. Wicklow


The beaches of Co. Donegal


A lovely bridge somewhere in Co. Donegal

The House That Mr. Darcy Built

Joni Mitchell definitely knew what she was talking about when she said, "they paved paradise and put up a parking lot." It seems the people in the town of Longford have done just this to the glorious Carrig Glas Manor.

I was told about a house in the middle of Ireland (more north than south) that was built by Thomas Lefroy in 1837. Mr Lefroy, it seems, was once an aquaintance of the one-and-only Jane Austen. Some speculate that it was Mr. Lefroy who inspired the character Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice. Could such a man as Mr. Darcy really have existed? My curiousity was too much to ignore so I decided to head down to Longford last Saturday. My guide book promised that tours were given from 11am to 5pm and that there would indeed be a gift shop. The book also said that the house was still owned by the Lefroy family and that the house was a gothic revival style manor. I set off with visions of one grand grey house in mind.

After driving for three hours on badly marked roads through blink-and-you'll-miss-'em towns like Butler's Bridge and Bellananagh, I arrived at a massive stone wall just outside of Longford.

(Exhibit A: the stone wall)


There were numerous construction signs and estate agency photos promising luxurious condos posted along the crumbling stone wall. This wall went on forever. Mr. Lefroy was definitely a man of impressive wealth...much like a certain literary character, but moving on...

I drove around this wall twice (still raining). To give you an idea of how big this wall is, I spent 20 minutes driving around the property...once. There was no way to enter. What was with all of this construction? Surely this is the right place. Giant old stone wall. Road signs a few miles back with "Carrigglas Manor." New condos called Carrig Glas Dreams or whatever. Where was my house?

Folks, I am sad to say this impressive, gorgeous house is being turned into a 19 room hotel. Here's a website with more details (if you can stomach anymore details about the changes this place is undergoing) http://www.carrigglas.ie/carrig-glas-manor-house.php

And just to be sure that I was in fact at the right giant old stone wall I called the info number on the website. The estate agent confirmed that the grounds would one day include a large hotel, a golf course, gulp - shops and pubs - and just to put the dagger in my heart, the manor would be a small hotel. Then he asked if I would like to book an event there.

Oh Mr. Darcy. What a depressing ending to such a promising beginning.

(Exhibit B: the closed gates)

For Peat's Sake

This post is a thank you of sorts to Karen who put up with my fascination with peat during our drive thru Donegal. What's peat, you ask?

Long story short, it is dirt that people burn. Once upon a time peat lived in a bog. After many, many years of sitting in the marshy bog, the peat became a member of the fossil family. At some point in peat's quiet existence an Irish man or woman in search of heat decided it would be a good idea to dig up peat, stack him in tee-pee shaped piles to dry and then lovingly place him in the fireplace. Peat turned out to be a good fire starter as there wasn't much wood around and he didn't smoke up the house. Plus he let off this distinct smell that all of the villagers could enjoy each time he was burned. As one would imagine, peat smells very earthy, woodsy and subtle all at the same time.

Some folks don't think about peat so much. I, on the other hand, think the concept is fantastic. Whoever thought of burning dirt? And how sad that people still burn this irreplaceable stuff in the day of central heating? The bogs are torn up in search of peat and left cracked and gouged for all to see the dark earth below the bland bog. In a way peat is a direct link to days gone by. Now, now, I'm getting romantic about burning dirt. Something's definitely amiss.

Here lies peat:

Neighborhood Watch

Oh I have been so slack about blogging these past few weeks and I do promise to make it up to this lil' column with pictures and interesting facts about B'fast. For now, though, I have a hilarious short tale of life in West Belfast. My tale needs a little background info first.

During the times of the Troubles many residents in West Belfast (around the Falls Road area, in particular) formed a sort of neighborhood watch or self-policing groups. Because many of the Catholics in this area did not trust (or some say could not trust) the police in Northern Ireland, these groups were called in to settle disputes between neighbors and such. OK. Fast forward to last month. At the volunteer house, we received a letter from an address on the Falls Road. The seal for the group was in Gaelic so I hadn't a clue what it was all about. The letter said there had been an "incident" concerning our house that needed to be dealt with straight away. The letter looked like a joke, honestly, and just sat in the house until it was thrown in the bin. Two days ago, another letter arrived about this same "incident." Good heavens. Had one of the housemates gotten into a row with a neighbor? Did someone complain about our uncut grass? I brought the letter to work and someone phoned about this "incident."

Turns out one of my housemates (who will remain nameless in this space) has been showering and then drying themselves in front of their open bedroom window. I can't even begin to express how utterly hilarious this scene of events is. I wish I could have heard the call go into this neighborhood organization about the "incident." I can hardly keep a straight face when I think about it now. Especially when I thought about the tone of the letter and the constant reference to the "incident."

Kind of gives new meaning to the idea of a neighborhood watch.