Go someplace special to you. Go someplace tethered to your history. Breathe in the laden air there and listen to your heart beat in new syllables: I’m home, I’m home, I’m home.
re: Saturday 22 May 2010: Galway City
We began Saturday right, with a massive Irish breakfast at Brogan’s. This began with a ridiculous quantity of toast, both standard white loaf and soda bread, and coffee or tea. Next came an absolute platter of food: black and white pudding, rashers (or Irish bacon, which is quite similar to country ham), pork sausages, buttery friend mushrooms, a baked tomato and a fried egg.
Thus fortified, we set off for Galway City. I’ve heard raves about Galway and expected something different than we found, which was largely touristy and commercial. We walked a long ways but only along a few parallel streets; I suspect the flaw lay in our failure to digress far from that area. We did see the Spanish Arch, though I confess I don’t understand its significance without something to put it into context; I will need to look for information on that when time allows. The Galway City Museum was great, complete with a full-size Galway Hooker (a certain style of fishing boat as well as a locally produced beer, though the beer we have not had yet) on display in the staircase, and plenty of information on local history. At the top of the building is a glass-walled corner providing a great view of the bay and the arch below.
Galway is the birthplace of the Claddagh ring, the inspiration for the lovely ballad “Galway Bay,” and apparently a richly historical city. We did find some treasures even in the commercial area we visited: particularly a street market selling handicrafts, food, produce, and various ephemera, and the impressive St. Nicholas’ Irish Anglican-Episcopal church. We wandered into the church to have a look around and found that their choir was in full rehearsal. It was one of the loveliest sounds I have ever heard.
It’s a city rife with buskers and street performers, young alternative types – tattoos, piercings, brightly coloured hair, hippie styles abound – and urban shoppers. There is also a surprisingly large population of active young people with physical disabilities, which was wonderful to see.. Or maybe they are just an unusually visible population, because the city seems to have gone to great lengths to make the city a friendly and accessible one. In fact all of Ireland seems to employ some extra accessibility features, such as crosswalks with audible signal alerts.
Following a light dinner in Galway (seafood chowder for me – I was still running on the morning’s breakfast) we returned to Ennis and spend our last evening out and about there. Of course we began at Brogan’s, and lingered there a good while, only moving on when we couldn’t find any other way to shake a particularly persistent man who had talked to us the night before. His name is Tom and he’s perfectly sweet but doesn’t seem to pick up so well on social cues and will carry a conversation on for ages with no point, often just repeating himself. He was clearly lonely and drunk both nights, and had the same conversation with us both nights, full of recommendations of places to visit – which we appreciated to an extent, but we were unfortunately unable to alter our itinerary, so the information wasn’t particularly useful. It was interesting until he began repeating the same points over and over. Anthony came over from the bar once or twice to check on us and was on the verge of rescuing us when we decided to take a wander for a while.
No other pub really grabbed us, but we were feeling peckish, so we popped into Supermac’s, Ireland’s answer to McDonald’s (though there are plenty of those here too) and one of a few fast food chains with late night hours. The place was crowded and we chatted a bit with some men at the counter while waiting for our fries. (Some places call them chips, some call them fries, but it’s just semantics; there is no discernable difference between the two at all,) Afterward – probably around 1am – we went back to Brogan’s to say goodbye to our friends there. When we told Anthony that we were leaving, he gave us a round of shots called Baby Guinness, consisting of Tia Maria (a coffee-based liqueur) with a float of Bailey’s on top. The shots really do look like a tiny glass of Guinness, but they taste like candy.
Somehow, instead of leaving, we managed to stick around long enough to get locked in to the pub – it was after 3am when we left. We spent the time trading cultural enquiries and answers with our new friends; for example, I tried in vain to describe grits – but in the end, as Anthony said, “You keep saying what they’re like but you’re not saying what they are.” So I promised to try to bring some through when I return to Ennis and put in an order with my sister to bring grits when she arrives here to join me.
Finally we bowed out and made our way onto the streets, only to find them flooded with people – more young people than we had thought there were in all of Ennis. They were mostly drunk, frequently carrying bottles or fast food with them, and they wandered the streets shouting to one another and laughing. The police were there – but rather than sending the drunken people home, they were barricading the streets to traffic so that they would be safe. It was one of the strangest things I had ever seen, and I tried to get photos but was unable to do so inconspicuously. I fully intend to keep my sister out till 3am next weekend so that we can experience this phenomenon again.
Some wonderful things: St. Ursula’s skull in its ornate reliquary. Galway Hookers (the boats, as we have yet to sample the beer). Irish Anglican-Episcopal choirs. Reflections. Absolutely everyone who works at Brogan’s in Ennis.
Tuesday 1 June 2010
I am waiting at the gate to board my flight to Glasgow. The last two weeks in Ireland have been a whirlwind of activity and I’m ready for a day of rest; I expect to begin my proper exploration there tomorrow.
Thus begins a new journey, in many ways: my classmates and professors are boarding their own plane for home right now, and I’ll be travelling alone for a few days until my sister Amy arrives in Edinburgh on the 5th. I am looking forward to seeing a few friends in Scotland — Ross in Glasgow and Amy (a different one, of course) in Edinburgh — but from here on out everything is of my own choosing, my path is one of my own making. I’ve learned a great deal over the last two weeks that will inform my decisions, particularly about spending money: the class trip turned out to be vastly more expensive than projected, for several reasons, and I am working on a shoestring from here on out, but I don’t think it will be too difficult.
Interestingly enough, my classmates had been growing homesick recently, and though they were sad to leave, they also seemed to be happy to be headed home. I felt a bit guilty when I realised that I am not really homesick at all just yet. I feel that I should be. I miss my cats, and I miss the comfort of my own bed. I miss cheap coffee, and having people to go out with, and being able to call and text friends and family at any time without spending a fortune to do it. But I have loved being disconnected most of the time — turns out I don’t need to be constantly tethered to communication after all — and I have loved most everything about Ireland, about being in a new place, surrounded by new faces and sights and foods. (The foods are particularly interesting and deserve several posts of their own; Tesco alone is well worth a writeup on down the line).
So yes, there are a few things I’ve missed about home, but I am not homesick just yet. Not at all, really. Instead, I have been thinking of all the things I’ll miss about this place when I leave. I suspect, more and more, that I am meant to be something of a vagabond. I can’t quite tether down my itinerant heart.
re: Friday 21 May: Coole Park and Dunguaire Castle
(written on the road from Wicklow to Dublin)
After our long day of island walking, we took things a bit easier on Friday, sleeping in and then shopping around town in the morning. Breakfast for the students – myself, Katie, John, Erin, and Caitlin – was pastries from Carrie’s cakes, a bakery we’d spotted the day before and felt compelled to return to. Chocolate Danish, strawberry tart, scones, cakes – we all chose differently and everything was wonderful. Our errands took us back to Tesco for things we’d forgotten the first time around as well as some British treats, then to a charity resale store we’d spotted on our first day, where I bought the strikingly unique dress we’d all admired in the window. We found the Ennis tourist office and shop as well and picked up maps, postcards and stamps along with a few souvenirs.
In the afternoon we set out for Coole Park, where W.B. Yeats often visited his close friend Lady Gregory. A number of other important writers, including George Bernard Shaw, were also linked to Lady Gregory and Coole Parkk. We walked the paths Yeats trod through the walled garden, forested paths, down to the lakeside where he wrote about the wild swans at Coole. This is a hallowed place for me: Yeats is my very favourite poet, and visiting this place he loved so much and shared with us in his writing is second only to setting foot on Inisfree. I am only sorry that we didn’t have time to visit his former home at Thoor Ballylee as well.
That evening our dinner was prescheduled: a medieval banquet at Dunguaire Castle. It looks like the sort of thing I’d usually approach skeptically, as it caters absolutely to tourists, but it was actually brilliant. We wandered around the outside wall and the courtyard of the castle taking photos until we were allowed into the entrance hall, where we were served cups of mead and entertained by a harpist. When it was time to proceed upstairs we were led by our host and hostess, a pair of performers who sang and recited an engaging introduction, interludes between courses (as well as explanations of the courses themselves) and gave a lengthier performance while we polished off dessert. The meal consisted of smoked salmon and salad, rich brown soda bread, potato-leek soup, and chicken with a mushroom gravy, steamed vegetables and fried potatoes. There were jugs of red and white wine on the table. The dessert portion of the show included traditional selections as well as more contemporary authors such as Yeats. All in all it was a thoroughly enjoyable evening.
Back in Ennis later that night, we attempted a drink at the Library Bar near our hostel – an irresistibly tempting name that proved sadly disappointing. They had a band playing, but it was a cover band, and the crowd wasn’t much to our taste – think Chrome, for those in Johnson City – so after a pint there we moved on to Brogan’s, a pub our professors had mentioned earlier. This was much more our speed: a traditional band playing (unplugged) in the corner while a mix of ages, personalities, and nationalities drank and chatted together. We seated ourselves at the bar and were served by a playful bartender who teased us from the start, hiding our drinks from us and joking with us comfortably. We found a pile of change on the bar and handed it to him, and he said with surprise “You’re honest. That’s unusual.” Likely as a result of that honesty, he brought us a platter of snacks later on the house, and that’s when we discovered that deep-fried black pudding is wonderfully delicious. We planned then and there to return for a full Irish breakfast next morning.
We closed out the night at Knox’s, which was more nightclub than pub and didn’t really appeal to any of us, but it was a good sampling of the nightlife Ennis has to offer. Though nothing, as it turns out, to compare to what was to come on Saturday.
Thursday 20 May: Inish Meáin
(written on the road to Dublin)
Early Thursday morning we piled into our rented van and headed north past Galway to the ferry port for the Aran Isles. There are three of them, and we were headed for Inishmaan or Inish Méain, the middle of the three in both size and location. This island is tied to two of our readings for the literature class, J. M. Synge’s one-act Riders to the Sea and Martin McDonagh’s affecting play The Cripple of Inishmaan.
The ferry was crowded, but only the seven of us and one other pair disembarked on Inish Meáin. The other visiting pair disappeared quickly and we seemed to have the island to ourselves: from the coast we had a long hike up gravel roads before we saw many signs of current human habitation. The fields to either side are divided into a warren of cattle pens by those stacked stone walls: countless small, interconnected pens, each one probably less than 50 feet to a side. Most of the pens are empty and many are gateless, or appear to be: on close inspection one can identify moveable gates, portions of the stone wall where the rocks can be lifted out in order to allow passage from one pen to the next. It appears that the cattle are moved periodically in small groups from pen to pen, a traditional and sustainable practice that is healthy for both the cows and the land itself.
Though we passed several buildings on the way, and were passed by a few cars on the road, we saw very few people until we reached the post office well up the road. There we got maps of the island and directions to a little pub nearby. It was an unexpectedly hot and sunny day – the fog we’d set out in that morning having burned off long since – and we were hungry and thirsty and ready for a rest. The Teac Ósta doesn’t have a menu; when we asked after food, we were offered toasted sandwiches with ham, cheese and tomato. When the sandwiches came, with butter and English mustard alongside, they were toasted golden, wrapped in cellophane, and absolutely delicious.
After lunch we passed by the cottage where J.M Synge spent his summers, but the woman who runs it was not there so we couldn’t go inside. Instead we continued on to the ancient Ring Fort (Dún Chonchúir?) that crowns the island. To get inside one must climb stone steps set into the walls that surround it, and we passed them up more than once before making it inside. The fort itself is also constructed entirely of unmortared stone, stacked carefully and securely – though the stones often move slightly underfoot, the construction is stable and we climbed and walked all over the structure. From the top of the walls there is a spectacular 360° view of the island and the water around it. I could have happily spent an entire day in the fort, which is far more structurally complex than it appears at first glance, exploring its intricacies and enjoying the view.
The men in our party chose to carry on to Synge’s Chair, reputedly the author’s favourite spot on the island, where he would look out over the sea and write. The women proceeded to the Aran Sweater Factory. This is where all the pricey Aran knits (sold in places like Bergdorf’s in New York) are made. After browsing the wares, we returned to the pier to wait (and wait) for the ferry. On the way home we stopped for dinner i8n the town of Spiddal, at a superb little seafood restaurant called Boluisce that serves both the best bread and the best seafood chowder I’ve ever tasted. The strawberry and custard tart that finished the meal was lovely as well.
Back in Ennis that night, my classmates John and Katie and I decided to go out for a late pint. We had some trouble finding a place that was open though it was all of 11;30pm, so we took a night walk around the peaceful town. Eventually we ended up at the Brewery Bar, where the tree of us sat together at the bar. We were there for an hour maybe, and watched the locals interact around us, but we weren’t approached for conversation, which was a disappointment. Then again we didn’t approach anyone else, either. Most of the patrons sat together in groups of two to six, mostly separated by gender, and didn’t interact a great deal with anyone else. When we got up to leave, I was the last out the door, and in that brief moment alone before I reached it a handsome Irish boy stood to face me, took my hand and shook it, saying “Thanks for coming, we’ll see you on the green, happy holidays,” then he kissed me on the cheek and turned back to his friends. So to make friends we need to be caught alone, then, is that it?
A few lovely things: a roadside shrine to the Virgin Mary. An orange-and-white cat sunbathing on a staircase cut into the hillside. True thatched roofs, anchored by rope tied to stakes thrust into the stone walls. The startling blue of the Irish Atlantic. The Tetris pier. Tiny stones balanced atop a moveable stone gate by the last visitor to pass by. A ferry named Banrionn Na Farraige (sic). Ennis at night. A sweet and surprising greeting from a stranger.
One sad thing: litter, litter everywhere, even inside the Ring Fort, despite the presence of recycling bins only a few yards down the road. I can’t reconcile the thought that the kind of person who would travel to Inish Meáin would also be the kind of person to disrespect it (and fellow travellers) in that way.
Thursday 27 May 2010
(written on the road to Dublin)
Blogging while travelling is, as it turns out, much more difficult than anticipated. I find that the very last thing I want to do with my time here is to sit in a hostel lounge tethered to the internet. I love this feeling, that the experience itself is so much more important than maintaining a record of every little thing that happens. I take photos – thousands of them, photos of absolutely everything – and I collect scraps, flyers, postcards, ads for places we visit; beyond that I have deferred all recordkeeping till I have nothing better to do. That hasn’t happened yet.
Now I am typing in the car on the road to Dublin, dividing my attention between the keyboard and the landscape outside. We’ve been in Ireland for 9 days now and, incredibly, today we have encountered the first traditionally Irish weather of our trip. It’s chilly and overcast, with bursts of rain interspersed with periods of sunshine. It’s still strikingly beautiful, but somewhat differently so.
re: Wednesday 19 May 2010: Arrival in Ennis
Now backtracking to our arrival: we dragged ourselves into the Rowan Tree around 10am, wrung out at weary from the trip. Our rooms weren’t ready for check-in yet, so we had scones and coffee in the café attached to the hostel. I have always been fond of scones but this was probably the best I’ve ever had, even without the exquisite Irish butter and raspberry jam. The coffee, too, was wonderful (though I admit that may have been influenced by my exhaustion and caffeine deprivation at the time). Soon we settled into our rooms – doubles with bathrooms ensuite, quite upscale for hostel living – and went out to explore the town.
Our first stop was the Tesco supermarket for necessities (particularly important as two of our group didn’t have their luggage yet: no surprise to anyone who has ever flown Delta via Atlanta). Following that, we wandered the streets of Ennis, getting our bearings and admiring the colourful storefronts and pubs. My classmates and I crashed soon after and napped before dinner at The Cloister, an elegant pub, restaurant and nightclub across the street from our hostel. Next door to The Cloister is the old Franciscan Abbey, which we were unfortunately unable to explore as there is work being done on the structure.
That first night’s dinner was (inevitably?) fish and chips accompanied by my first pint of Irish-poured Guinness. The fish and chips were great, but maybe not better than what I’ve had at home; the Guinness, on the other hand, is indeed different and better on the turf where it was brewed. (Turns out the Guinness we get in the U.S. is brewed in Canada anyway.) The seven of us split up after dinner and the four girls in the class took another stroll through town together. We were surprised to see that nearly everything was closed up, though it was just after 6pm; all we found open were pubs and a little candy store. The streets were largely empty, though at one point we did pass a cluster of four boys who called out to us. We didn’t respond, partly because the spokesman of the group was maybe nineteen – probably younger – but mostly because rather than greeting us cordially he called out “Ladies, sexy ladies,” which was not only cheesy but also ridiculous considering we were all looking about as rough as we felt at the moment. They called to us as we walked on, eventually getting mildly vulgar when we didn’t reply to them; but honestly it was much milder than what most of us have heard at one time or another in the States. After that it was early to bed for us: next morning we were off at 7am to catch the ferry to Inish Meáin.
I have made this dessert twice in three weeks, which is highly unusual for me — but it’s just that good. It’s going on file in my permanent repertoire of specialties.
I found the recipe on European Cuisines and have adapted it by adding the Bailey’s-spiked chocolate sauce. EuroCuisineLady identifies this as a traditional Irish dessert, likely to be at least 100 years old. It begins as a soufflé but falls right out of the oven, resulting in a texture more like cheesecake than anything else (though a little coarse due to the ground almonds). Once baked, the whiskey flavor is subtle and well balanced by the orange and almond. The final product is strikingly different from anything I’ve tasted before and uniquely delicious.
It's even better than it looks
Irish Whiskey Pie
1/2 lb boiled potatoes (about 1 1/4 cups mashed or riced)
1/4 lb (1/2 cup) butter, melted
3/4 lb sugar
3 oz almond, ground (using a food processor or mortar & pestle)
1 Tbsp orange extract
6 eggs, separated
4 fluid oz Irish whiskey
Butter an 8″ springform pan. Line the bottom with parchment paper and butter it as well, then flour the whole pan.
Preheat the oven to 375° F.
Separate the eggs and put the whites in a bowl in the refrigerator. Beat the egg yolks thoroughly, until light in color, then gradually add the sugar and beat until smooth and fluffy. Beat in the potatoes (which should be mashed or riced till smooth, and cooled). When they are well blended, add the melted butter, ground almonds, orange extract, and whiskey. Mix well and set aside.
Make sure that the oven is fully heated before proceeding. In a clean bowl, beat the egg whites until stiff. Carefully fold them into the whiskey mixture, adding 1/3 of the beaten whites at a time and combining very carefully. Once fully incorporated, carefully pour the mixture into the prepared springform pan and place carefully into the oven. Close the door gently to avoid deflating the soufflé.
Bake 375° F for 40-45 minutes. Remove carefully from the oven and set aside to cool. The top of the pie will be dark brown and it will quickly begin to fall. Let cool and serve at room temperature, or refrigerate and serve cold — the pie will keep for several days in the refrigerator.
Serve with fresh whipped cream (you did not go to all the work of folding in egg whites to use junk from a can!), very lightly sweetened if at all. For extra decadence spread a generous spoonful of the chocolate sauce below on the plate before adding the pie. If you do this, serve very small pieces as it is extremely rich. (I cut the pie into sixteenths.)
Bailey’s-spiked Chocolate Sauce
1 cup dark chocolate, broken into small pieces
splash of heavy cream (a few tablespoons)
splash of Bailey’s Irish Creme, to taste (a few tablespoons or more, if you like)
Put chocolate and cream in a microwaveable container and microwave until melted, stirring every 30 seconds. Add Bailey’s and stir until fully incorporated. Serve sauce warm or at room temperature. Store in an airtight container in the refrigerator and microwave very briefly to reheat. Try this sauce on ice cream, strawberries, anything that suits your fancy — and try it with different liqueurs for variety.
In nine days I lace up my travelling shoes and set out for a month in Ireland and Scotland. It will be my first foray overseas. I expect it will turn out to be the best gift I have ever given myself.
Littlest Birds
(© Parton/Holland/Barrett)
Well I feel like an old hobo,
I’m sad lonesome and blue
I was fair as a summers day
Now the summer days are through
You pass through places
And places pass through you
But you carry ‘em with you
On the souls of your travellin’ shoes
Well I love you so dearly I love you so clearly
Wake you up in the mornin’ so early
Just to tell you I got the wanderin’ blues
I got the wanderin’ blues
And i’m gonna quit these ramblin’ ways one of
these days soon
And I’ll sing
The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs…
Well it’s times like these
I feel so small and wild
Like the ramblin’ footsteps of a wanderin’ child
And I’m lonesome as a lonesome whippoorwill
Singin these blues with a warble and a trill
But I’m not too blue to fly
No I’m not too blue to fly cause
The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs…
Well I love you so dearly
I love you so fearlessly
Wake you up in the mornin’ so early
Just to tell you I got the wanderin’ blues
I got the wanderin’ blues
And I don’t wanna leave you
I love you through and through
Oh I left my baby on a pretty blue train
And I sang my songs to the cold and the rain
I had the wanderin’ blues
And I sang those wanderin’ blues
And I’m gonna quit these ramblin’ ways
One of these days soon
And I’ll sing…
The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs….
**I don’t care if the sun don’t shine
I don’t care if nothin’ is mine
I don’t care if I’m nervous with you
I’ll do my lovin’ in the wintertime
** Syd Barrett
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