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Yesterday was a sad day for Eoin and me because my daughter, Kate, headed back to Chicago after spending a week with us in Kilkee.
The actress hams it up at the fireside.
Kate’s enthusiasm and the delight she takes in her surroundings – from admiring the grandeur of the cliffs to the tiniest details, like the cup her tea is served in – makes her a kindred spirit and we have great fun together! We laughed our way through The Burren in search of The Burren Perfumery; scared ourselves investigating a holy well at the side of a dark, country road; walked along cliffs and admired the ever-changing views of the sea; took countless drives around Loop Head on bright Irish summer evenings; marvelled at dolphins and ruins; and explored the Pollock Holes – cringing at sea creatures, which Eoin handled with ease.
Kate's "eww" face
We oohed and ahhed over beautiful scenery, baby animals in fields, Irish pottery and handcrafts, cozy, quaint tea shops and even the perfect shade of blue paint that trimmed the windows of a stone cottage!
During our long journey through The Burren in search of the Perfumery, I joked that the three of us were “Thelma and Louise – and Bart Simpson”!
…well Louise, Bart and I had a great time exploring West Clare and sharing the cottage with you and hope you come back again and again! Slán abhaile a Kate!
"Louise" and "Bart" having tea at the quaintest tea shop in The Burren.
Teach deBúrca with its new red door!
With my daughter here for a week-long visit and us making the most of every moment of her stay, there has been little time for blogging from the bog! However, with both Kate and Eoin taking naps to recover from a day of dolphin watching from a boat in the Atlantic, I thought it was a great time to post a photo of our newly installed and recently painted half-door, along with our new house sign, which replaces both the old sign and the old name!
First, the door. A work of art, and an art to work! When the man who made our door installed it and then explained the intricacies of the lock and latch system, I was at first a bit overwhelmed and thought that maybe I had romanticized the old wooden half-doors, a.k.a. Dutch doors, which once graced so many old cottages in West Clare and around rural Ireland, and had bitten off more than I wanted to chew. But within a day, I was in love with this door! The latches and the locks were very easy to master and the opening and closing of this door has become a simple, yet elegant, ritual. And nothing beats having the upper half of the door open to let in the fresh Clare air and light on a mild day! A big thank you goes to Richard Beer of Irish Country Furniture for making us this beautiful, old style wooden half-door with its hidden, modern security!
Secondly, the sign and our new name. As I wrote in an earlier blog entry, “… a rose by any other name…” , when we purchased the cottage we considered keeping the name Rose Cottage, if it had any historical significance to the house. However, after a few inquiries of the locals, we found out that the name had no connection or significance to the house other than the fact that it was on the sign. Due to the lack of an actual address, the cottage needed a name, but we wanted the name to have some meaning to us. So, after finding a local forge, Paddy Murphy of Kilkee Forge, we decided to just keep it simple and name the cottage after ourselves – but to do it in Irish! Therefore, Rose Cottage is now, officially, Teach deBúrca, meaning basically “Burke House” or “Burke’s House”. It’s easy enough to say, with deBúrca pretty much sounding like it looks and “Teach” sounding like “tock or chock” – depending upon what part of the country you’re from when you say it!
Enjoying the benefit of a half-door on a lovely day.
Except for the major work we had done on the property to clear and level the ground and add drainage ditches, many of the details we have taken care of during this stay… such as, the door, the name, the Belfast Sink, and even finally having The Traveling Butter Dish and friends in place in the kitchen, were the little things we needed to do to put our mark on the place and make it ours. And I am happy to say that I feel very satisfied that we have accomplished this goal!
Waves and and a seaweed whip - what more does a boy need?
Here is a boy who, even after a winter of taking private swimming lessons to prepare for his summer in Kilkee, still didn’t like to get his face wet, let alone put his head under water!
Now he spends hours in the sea playing in the waves and riding them with his boogie board; looking for, and even picking up, marine life at the Pollock Holes; using seaweed as a toy; exploring the rocky ridge called Tucker; observing the changing tides, crashing waves, rock formations and wildlife around the cliffs; and in general enjoying a life near the sea. Now I am even hearing enthusiastic talk about his plans to surf one day… a prospect I am not as enthusiastic about!
Much of the new Eoin, I credit to his time spent this summer at Nevsail Watersports Summer Camp . Thanks to Nevsail, Eoin is now willing to spend hours in the wild and cold Atlantic Ocean, both at the camp and on his own, afterwards. In the camp, he has had the opportunity to try his hand at such watersports as kayaking, canoeing, boogie boarding, snorkeling and more – and has even spent some time building a raft! The enthusiastic young instructors at the camp have been great about encouraging this shy, hesitant boy to try activities that he would never have attempted otherwise and their kindness and sensitivity have made him feel welcome and comfortable in the camp.
Eoin’s daily explorations around the bay of Kilkee and his experience within the camp, have made him, not only more confident and comfortable with the sea, but more confident in his own skin. This makes every minute I’ve spent squeezing him into, and prying him out of, his wetsuit – and then properly cleaning it after each use – well worth the effort!
Monks Pub in Ballyvaughan... if you look closely you can see Eóin standing by the door.
While on holiday in Ireland, between all the sightseeing of castles, caves, beaches, cliffs, dolmens and the odd ancient church and grave yard, one of my favorite things to do is to stop for tea. “Should we stop for tea?”… is a common question asked during our journeys and rarely receives a negative response. By the time the question is asked, everyone is usually feeling the need for refreshment. Although there are the usual stops for lunch or dinner, “stopping for tea” most often means a shorter, less disruptive break and, for the most part, literally means a pot of tea and perhaps a delicious dessert, which if you’re lucky, is the house specialty. These specialties may be a mixed-berry crumble, homemade scones, a simple apple tart, or a lovely slice of Banoffi… all offered accompanied by fresh, thick cream. However, you can have your tea without dessert… but never dessert without tea! Tea offers comfort from the often cold, damp weather and the slight stimulant needed to regroup and move along on the journey. As I mentioned in an earlier post, tea usually consists of a good-sized pot of fully brewed, piping hot tea, accompanied by a pitcher of milk, never cream, on the table.
A break for tea provides for replenishment of energy for the next adventure, but equally, allows travelers an opportunity to discuss the sites and occurrences experienced up to that point and to plan the next step of the journey. In addition, stopping for tea often includes a bit of conversation with the servers, proprietors and/or other customers, which enriches the travel experience, and very often can offer an opportunity to learn about a nearby site that might have been otherwise overlooked. Sometimes stopping for tea is the highlight of the day, but mostly it is just a welcome and enjoyable punctuation between the larger experiences.
Below is a photo I took during one of these “Should we stop for tea?” breaks. On our way to the Aillwee Cave – after a lengthy drive north from Kilkee, past Doolin and up along the scenic Coast Road, which included a couple of windblown walkabouts on the Burren along the way – we enjoyed a wonderful respite at Monks Pub in Ballyvaughan at around 11 a.m.. Notice the lone tea-pot on the table – my idea of “stopping for tea”. Anton and Eóin had different ideas… but we all had a great time and departed with the energy we needed to forge ahead!
Tea, hot chocolate and Guinness at Monks Pub on a very cold, windy day!
St. Patrick’s Day blessings to ye!
In Ireland St. Patrick’s Day is a national holiday when most people have the day off work and the schools are closed. In the U.S. when St. Patrick’s Day falls on a weekday, as it has this year, we must be content to do most of our celebrating on the weekend. Therefore, since most of the celebrating in Chicago is going on today, I decided that I would wish everyone a Happy St. Patrick’s Day, today! I spoke to my son at around 10:30 a.m. and he was already celebrating with some friends at an Irish pub in Chicago, called Fado… which means ‘long ago’ in Irish. Good luck with that Anton… I hope the celebrating does not go on through to tonight! The Chicago St. Patrick’s Day Parade was today, as was the Elmhurst parade, which we missed due to the rain but could still hear from our house. Tonight, I may attend a Ceili Mor at the Irish Heritage Center which promises ceol ‘s craic – music and fun.
I’ve had some great fun celebrating over the years. Many St. Patrick’s Days were spent at the South Side Irish Parade and there were a couple spent in suburban pubs sipping disgusting green beer while wishing there was a vegetarian version of corned beef and cabbage. One particularly memorable St. Patrick’s Day took place many years ago at Irish Eyes Pub on Chicago’s north side with Fred, back when we were dating. We enjoyed some great Irish bands that night and I, in my youthful enthusiasm and amateur status, drank perhaps a beer more than I could handle and ended up with my face laying on the table! Recently, St. Patrick’s Day celebrations have been of a more subdued nature, with Declan and I marching with Eóin and his preschool in the Elmhurst St. Patrick’s Day Parade for a couple years and eventually, just the three of us watching from the sidelines.
In March of 2002, I had the good fortune to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with the Irish, in Dublin! That year Delcan, Kate and I made the most of an authentic, Irish St. Patrick’s Day by attending as many events as possible. Two days before St. Patrick’s Day, we attended Dublin’s spectacular fire works celebration on the Liffey, surrounded by a crowd that seemed impossibly huge for a country with a population of roughly 4.5 million (6.2 million, if you include Northern Ireland)! On the day itself, March 17th, we made our way to Dame Street in the City Centre for the parade, and stood at the side of that narrow street in a crowd so thick with Irish people, as well as folks from around the world who came to celebrate in the land of St. Patrick, that it was nearly impossible to see the innumerable floats and marching bands passing by. We craned our necks and stood on our toes doing our best to see a bit while we nearly froze that cold, wet day. After about an hour of this, we decided we needed a bit more comfort. I should really say that I needed a bit more comfort, considering Eóin was born a mere 8 weeks later! Fourteen-year-old Kate insisted upon staying to watch, so Declan found a platform for her to stand on so that she could see above the crowd while we slipped in through the door of the pub that stood right behind her. So… there we sat during St. Patrick’s Day 2002, in a pub on Dame Street, Declan having a beer and me a Club Orange, watching the rest of the parade on the pub telly, as it marched right past Kate and the pub door!
Unfortunately, the weather became increasingly bitter cold and wet that day and forced us to reluctantly miss the post parade festivities in Stephen’s Green where many great Irish bands were scheduled to perform in an outdoor concert. However, that year I felt satisfied to have done my best to make the most of a truly Irish St. Patrick’s Day.
Here, for your enjoyment, is my idea of a great St. Patrick’s Day celebration… Lá Fhéile Pádraig Sona Duit!
The Last of the Donkey Pilgrims from kevin-ohara.com
Several years ago I read a delightful memoir that took 25 years to write. Last of the Donkey Pilgrims, by Kevin O’Hara, tells the story of the author’s mad decision, as a young man, to trek around the entire coastline of Ireland, traveling on foot with his donkey named Missy, pulling a cart. Poor Kevin was on foot, in part, because he is a softhearted man who couldn’t bring himself to force this very stubborn, temperamental creature to carry him along with all his gear but also, because he wanted to make the trip in the span of a year and Missy would have none of it unless he walked beside her!
In 1979, Kevin O’Hara was a restless man, dealing with the emotional impact of the horrors he had witnessed during his time spent serving in Vietnam and looking for a way to move forward in his life. An Irish-American who had a life-long loving relationship with the West of Ireland, his Irish granny and other relatives and friends there, he had a yearning to connect with the land of his roots in a way he felt he could only accomplish by traveling slowly, in the old style of donkey and cart, which by that time was a rarely seen spectacle. He knew the old ways of Ireland would soon be a thing of the past and wanted to experience the country and its people fully before the changes already taking place, were complete. Through Mr. O’Hara’s recollections of his adventure, we get a glimpse of a time now past in a land where doors would still open for a stranger with a story to tell.
The first few chapters describe the decision making process, preparation for the long, demanding trip – which included purchasing and learning how to care for Missy – and the bemused reaction of the locals to the idea of this American traveling with a donkey and cart around their country! However, for me the book really took off after Kevin bid Granny farewell and began the yearlong excursion with Missy along the highways and winding boreens, bóithríní, of Ireland. Once the trek begins, we are treated to the characters and scenery of an adventure, which was physically challenging, sometimes quite dangerous, very often hilarious and contained moments of spiritual insight. For the author, it became a life changing, character-building journey that brought joy back into his life. Readers are provided soulful and vivid descriptions of the passing countryside and its inhabitants from the viewpoint of a person enthralled with the land of his ancestry. A master storyteller, Mr. O’Hara’s often self-deprecating sense of humor, dry wit and vast appreciation of detail, provides wonderful anecdotes about the landscape, characters and the sometimes-awkward incidents, which occur along the way.
A favorite anecdote for me came from Kevin’s unusual opportunity to spend some time along the route with a group of Travelers, or Tinkers. This experience, along with the author’s interpretation, gives readers a rare glimpse into an often misunderstood and disparaged culture. Another gem in the book occurred during a late night hike ‘home’ from a pub through a rural field, were he stumbled (almost literally) upon an elderly woman laying in the grass, gazing up at the night sky and praying the rosary by using the stars as rosary beads, the way she was taught by her parents as a small child many years past. That chance meeting, followed by her send off of, “Slán abhaile agus oíche mhaith”, safe home and good night, was haunting and magical. Along with these incidents and many others, an important and poignant thread throughout Kevin’s journey was his evolving relationship with Missy, his donkey, which begins a bit shaky, but grows much deeper as they develop a mutual bond of coexistence and reliance upon each other. All in all, Kevin O’Hara comes across, as a very sensitive, spiritual man who brings these events, and characters to life in a way that stayed with me long after the book was finished.
A Lucky Irish Lad
I am very happy to learn that Kevin O’Hara’s second book, A Lucky Irish Lad, is due to be released this month and can now be ordered through Amazon. To experience a bit of Mr. O’Hara’s wonderful storytelling talents go to his website at, http://www.kevin-ohara.com/ If you click on “Events” you will be provided with audio of the author telling four wonderful stories from his childhood.
Currently, I am reading a memoir written by Karen Armstrong, an ex-nun. The title, The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of the Darkness, gives a pretty good idea of the mood of the book and of the writer’s struggle to come to terms with her difficult time spent in a convent and the years of readjustment that followed her decision to leave. Over all, it is a very interesting, well written, but somewhat depressing memoir. Normally, I would find this to be a perfectly acceptable and engrossing book to read. However, it is hard to relate to the life of a highly intellectual, angst filled ex-nun when I am currently being haunted by the group of likable, eccentric friends I very recently met in the fictional town of Ballybucklebo in 1960’s Northern Ireland.
"An Irish Country Doctor" from us.macmillan.com
My interest in Ireland, has led me to read many books about the country, both fiction and non-fiction. During my frequent visits to the local Borders bookstore, I have on numerous occasions, come across a particular book that both attracted and repelled me since it was first released in 2004. Patrick Taylor’s An Irish Country Doctor promised an escape into an Irish countryside of the past, while at the same time threatened to be one of those ‘didley-yah’ books full of exaggerated “Oirishness” that promote a fantasy of a quaint Ireland that either no longer exists, or never really existed in the first place. Often these books are full of stereotypes that are insulting to the Irish people and can be so corny that they make me cringe. So, over the years I have held this particular book in my hand, looked at the cover design with it’s painting of an idyllic Irish countryside, read the description of the story… and set it down for fear it was another of the many books out there trying to cash in on the Irish-American love of the fantasy of a quaint Ireland and its quaint inhabitants.
Well, sometime in December, I was between books and looking for some light, easy reading to get me through the bustle and stress of the Christmas holiday season. Just back from Ireland, having closed on Rose Cottage, I decided to “chance my arm” on Patrick Taylor’s book. The upside of owning an Amazon Kindle, is that the purchase of a book is as easy as the click of a button, so within a minute of deciding to read An Irish Country Doctor, it was in my hand.
An Irish Country Doctor, tells the tale of a young man, Dr. Barry Laverty who, fresh out of medical school in Belfast in the mid 1960’s, moves to the fictional little village of Ballybucklebo in Northern Ireland, to fill the spot of assistant in the small rural practice of Dr. Fingal O’Reilly. As you can guess, the story is chock-full of interesting and eccentric characters not the least of which is Kinky Kincaid, the doctor’s housekeeper, who hails from County Cork, and is not only an excellent cook (and provides many of her recipes at the back of the book) but she is also fey… a bit psychic. As you might expect the writing is full of Northern Ireland and Cork colloquialisms and even peppered with a few Irish words and phrases for your enjoyment! Dr. O’Reilly, Himself, is a bit of a curmudgeon who has learned over the years, how to deal best with the characters in the town, while never sacrificing excellent, 1960’s ‘modern’ medical care. Due to the era and the rural location in Ireland, Dr. O’Reilly enjoys a lofty standing in the community that would no longer be granted to the town doctor, but provides an interesting background for the story. An Irish Country Doctor is a bit of a romp through an Ireland that no longer exists with a group of quirky, likable characters who manage to come to life through the simple narrative. And best of all, Patrick Taylor manages to tell his story without resorting to the kinds of Irish stereotypes and gimmicks I was so sure I would find in this book. There are no major plot twists here, no feelings of impending doom or even a lot of excitement and anticipation that would make a person want to skip ahead to see what happens. But this book creates a strong visual impression and provides characters that get under the skin and seem real. While reading I kept getting the feeling that these people, especially Dr. O’Reilly and Kinky, were just outside my field of vision and, though I could not actually see their faces, if I were to just look over my shoulder quickly enough, I would catch a glimpse of them. By the end of the book I truly did feel as though I had taken a pleasant, little holiday in the town of Ballybucklebo, and was sad the holiday had come to an end.
However, much to my delight, during the six years that I had been picking up and putting down Patrick Taylor’s book, he had been busy writing three… count them THREE… sequels! Well, the last book is more of a prequel, which focuses upon the housekeeper, Kinky’s, youth in County Cork and explores her mystical visionary gifts that are only touched upon in the first three books. With the help of my ‘magic’ Kindle, it was an easy matter of purchasing and reading one book after the other in sequence providing me with a marathon immersion into the 20th century Northern Ireland town of Ballybucklebo and eventually, Kinky’s childhood home of Béal na mBláth in County Cork.
This is not heavy reading, or even exciting reading. But if you’re looking for a pleasant escape during these cold, often dreary winter days, into a fictional place in Ireland and want to make friends with some likable, and a couple not so likable, characters, I recommend these books… as long as you are prepared to share your home for a time with a group of ‘ghosts’ who make it quite difficult to move on to deeper more serious reading!
For more information on the books, An Irish Country Doctor, An Irish Country Village, An Irish Country Christmas and An Irish Country Girl, as well as a bit of the interesting background of the author, Patrick Taylor, who happens to be a doctor himself, check out his website at: http://patricktaylor.ca/index.html
…and for an added treat, when you are browsing the website, go to the Home Page and click on the link in the blue text that says “Celtic singing” and enjoy the lovely voice of his daughter singing the Irish tunes, “My Lagan Love” and “Bonny Portmore”!
Ennis, photo by Peter Choi
One of the things I learned during my first trip to Ireland, was that often it is the mistakes and mishaps that can turn a vacation into a bit of an adventure and lead to unexpected delights. Don’t get me wrong; sometimes a mistake is just a mistake. Like the Jury’s Hotel my travel agent booked me into for my first two nights in Dublin. I had requested a hotel that would put me within walking distance of the City Centre so that I could do all my Dublin sightseeing on foot. She assured me this was the case, however, the rather fatherly taxi driver who drove me from the airport to the hotel, immediately set me straight on this particular mistake when he warned me that the neighborhood north of the Liffey, where this hotel had recently been built, was not safe to walk around in at night and that I should also, never venture north of my hotel even during daylight! It didn’t take me long to find out that the taxi driver was right and I was forced to hire the taxis I had hoped to avoid hiring when I booked my room from the States.
Also, there are the awkward, embarrassing mistakes that can happen when traveling to an unfamiliar place on your own. This type of mistake happened to me at Trinity College Dublin when I went to see one of the main sights on my list, the Book of Kells. When I approached the building that the map I was carrying had led me to, sure enough there was a sign posted on the wall stating, “Book of Kells” with an arrow pointing me toward the right. I turned right and proceeded until I got to the far end of the building, where I came upon another sign stating, “Book of Kells”… except this sign pointed me back in the direction of the other sign. A bit flummoxed, I stood between the two signs facing an oversized, unmarked, ancient looking wooden door with an old brass doorknob at its center that looked as though it had not been opened since ‘Dracula’ writer, Bram Stoker, attended the institution. I shrugged my shoulders and decided to give it a try. First I jiggled the doorknob, but it would not budge. Then, beginning to feel foolish but not wanting to give up too easily, I knocked. Nothing. Finally, while I stood between those two signs knocking on that old, locked door, a student walked up to me and said, “That door doesn’t open. I’ve never seen it open.” I indicated the two signs and their arrows and the student just shrugged it off as though that was to be expected and proceeded to lead me around the the corner to the large, quite modern looking entrance to the museum. Red faced, I felt like I had just fallen for the “make the American look like a fool with the fake signs pointing to the useless relic of a door, gag.” This all happened before I learned to never completely trust an Irish sign!
However, some mistakes turn out to be what artists call “a happy accident”. That is when something unplanned and initially unwanted occurs, but ends with a positive result. I had a few such ‘happy accidents’ during that first Irish adventure, and the most memorable of these occurred on my last full day in Ireland during that first trip. I was spending the last day and night in the town of Ennis and, after checking in at the Queen’s Hotel (chosen because James Joyce in his book “Ulysses” referred to this particular hotel as “delightful”) I went out searching for a place to eat. At this point, although I had enjoyed a wonderful trip, I was tired and ready to go home. I missed my children, was tired of eating out, and more than a little bit worn out from the previous days spent immersed in and navigating a culture that was different from my own. I just wanted a quiet table in a corner to sip some tea, have a bowl of soup with buttered, brown bread on the side and to read my book.
After a bit of a search, I finally came upon a little shop down a side lane that turned off what passed for a main street in this medieval town of cobblestone and footpaths so narrow that they forced one person to step down into the gutter when walking side by side with another. When I entered the little cafe it was the middle of a rush and packed with customers. By the time I received and paid for my food at the counter, there was not a free table in sight. At a point when I was beginning to become annoyed and to feel hassled, a waitress approached and asked me if I would mind sharing a table with another woman. I did mind. I didn’t feel up to one more conversation with a stranger. Shy by nature, the previous days had taken a great deal of pushing myself beyond my comfort zone, and though it was well worth it, I was drained and didn’t want to do it anymore, not on my last day.
But, lunch in hand I needed a place to sit, so I replied to the waitress, “I’d be happy to share” and proceeded to follow her around a corner into another room to a small table for two. Sitting across the table was a petite, and charming looking, Irish lady of an age hovering somewhere between 75 and 80. She introduced herself to me and held her hand out for me to shake. I can’t remember her name, but I remember her face and how pleasant looking it was. Her eyes were lively and her face was framed with shiny, gray hair pulled back into a small chignon at the back of her neck. She was dressed very neatly, in pale colors that flattered her complexion and, in general, had a glow about her. I remember that the first thing she said to me after introducing herself was, “I suppose you won’t be surprised to know that I am a widow.” Due to her age, I wasn’t. But when I responded that I was also a widow, she was surprised… after all I was only 41 years old at the time. She said, “Only yesterday I was telling my daughter that all I meet anymore are widows, and when a young person like yourself sat down at this table, I was sure I was finally meeting a woman who was not a widow!” All this was said in a very good-natured manner and led to probably one of the most pleasant conversations and most enjoyable company I had throughout my entire trip, coming at a point when I really needed it. She told me that she was originally from Galway but had married an Ennis man many years ago and had lived there ever since. She talked about the booming Celtic Tiger economy in Ireland, but remarked that with all the money floating around there were more people begging in the streets than she remembered ever seeing back when nobody had much money at all. Most of all, she expressed amazement at what she saw as my ‘courage’ for venturing out to a foreign country all by myself. She said it inspired her to listen to her daughter’s plea that she get out more and try new things. Finally, she said she had to leave to make it to mass on time, something she did every afternoon. When she said goodbye she told me, “I believe everything happens for a reason and that I was meant to meet you and talk with you today.” I’ll admit, I was somewhat surprised at this mystical statement coming from an elderly, Irish, Catholic woman. She wished me the best of luck and told me she would light a candle for me that day in church. What she didn’t know was that she had already brightened my day and left me with a wonderful memory on this, my last day in her country.
Poulnabrone Dolmen - from burrenpage.com
I’ve been home all day today with my 7 year old who is, thankfully, recovering from a bout of stomach flu. Between the sick child, a lack of sleep last night and being deprived of my daily iced mocha… I haven’t a thing to write today, nor the energy to type it even if my brain would allow me to think clearly. So, as a bit of a cop out, I thought I’d drop in a pretty cool photo I found online, showing the Poulnabrone Dolmen that I mentioned in my post yesterday. This dolmen stands in a farmer’s field somewhere out in the Burren. The first time I visited it I entered the field through an open gate. On the ground next to the gate there was a bucket containing some coins and above the bucket a hand written sign was posted stating, “Donations, for upkeep of gate” !
Outbuilding, a dó
My two sons are accompanying me on a one week trip to the cottage at the end of March. Originally, the plan was for me and my youngest son to go alone, because although my husband cannot get away from work until the summer we felt that somebody really needed to get back there sooner to check on our “little housheen” to make sure things are in order and to attend to a couple of matters we were unable to address during our last, short visit. This would include arranging to have a new, painted red, wooden ‘half door’ built for the cottage as well as the purchase and installation of a few electronic mouse repellent devices, because after all, when the cat’s away – ! However, much to my delight, my oldest son agreed to come along for the trip. Having him along not only provides great company for us and lightens up my burden with the addition of another adult, but it also provides me with a pair of much needed, strong work hands. So, in addition to taking care of a few odds and ends while I’m there, I can also address the ‘brush’ issue.
Knowing back in December that my eldest son, Anton, will be accompanying Eoin and me on this March trip, I had the foresight to prepare a little “Clare Survival Kit” as a Christmas gift to him. The ‘kit’ consisted of only two items, but these are two items he cannot be without on this excursion, and with his size 14 feet, two items we would probably have a lot of trouble locating for him in the little town of Kilkee. So for Christmas my son received two large shoe boxes, one containing a pair of sturdy, warm, Australian sheepskin slippers and the other, a Cabela’s box containing something I’m sure my son would have never in a million years thought he would own… a pair of Wellies! The slippers are a must have for the cold floors of an old cottage. The brown, Wellington boots are a must have for a city slicker prepared to muck about in the bog and do a bit of ‘brush clearing’!
You see, our property contains two… count them, two… stone outbuildings in varying degrees of repair, or disrepair, depending upon how we choose to look at it. I emphasize the number ‘two’ here for future reference, when I one day tell the story of how it would have been only one outbuilding and less property, if not for the diligent work of a couple of Dublin solicitors, nudged along by our persistence. These outbuildings probably once functioned as a shed and perhaps a small barn, maybe for a donkey or a few chickens. The larger of the two stone buildings is toward the rear of the cottage and borders the back of the property. That building is in great need of a roof and it is our hope to one day not only provide it with a roof, but to do the work needed to turn it into a guest room for the comfort of the many people Declan and I hope will come to visit from both the Chicago area and Dublin. The other building is at the front of the property and, though smaller, appears to be in better condition. However, we have been unable to peek inside, or even see a door for that matter, due to the brush, weeds, furze and whatever else has spent years growing around the structure. This is where Anton comes in.
The plan is that my son, all wellied up, will do his best GW Bush imitation and get rid of the brush, so that we can discover what is or is not, within the smaller outbuilding. Now, my son is a hard worker who has continually been employed since he began his first job, at a local coffee shop – Chocolate Moon Espresso Co., the weekend before his 16th birthday. And I have no doubts about his ability to work hard and to get any job done. However, this is a gentleman who has done very little in the way of manual labor during his 27 years and I doubt he has ever had the experience of calluses or even a blister on either of his hands. Now that I think of it, perhaps I should have included a pair of XL heavy duty, work gloves in the Survival Kit…
Blogging from the Bog 