Vellum and lots of ink

Day Two

Sleep!  Real sleep!  Comfortable bed at Kelly's Hotel—a fairly rustic and hip-a-delic hotel south of the Temple Bar district.  They provide ear plugs instead of mints.

    Minimalist to the Max, rustic to the point of precious, but very likable hotel room

                           
 Steve hanging with an old friend of his from his College Days


First planned event was a visit to see the Book of Kells at Trinity College about five blocks away from our hotel.  Photographs were strictly forbidden, even of the reproductions blown up in the good overview in an explanatory exhibit.  The truly amazing thing about the Book of Kells is that they have survived down through the millennia (800AD), once recovered after having been stolen, also escaping destruction by Vikings and later Cromwellian soldiers.  We were able to look at two pages on display in two folios of the gospels.  The work was so fine and unimaginably executed.  No two designs in the thing are identical.  This was a pilgrimage for me; my father, an amateur calligrapher, was besotted with these manuscripts.  I now understand.

The very page of illumination that we saw, its subject: "With him at crucifixion were two thieves" Be sure to look at this one in large format.  Photos off the internet

                                 A page similar to the second page we viewed, no two designs alike

Another of the fascinating things in the exhibit was a huge thistle brooch (900 AD) from Cashel, the birthplace of my great grandfather.  This brooch must have weighed two pounds and was about six inches across.

                       Men's jewelry from the tenth century. Internet photo


We saw the oldest harp in Ireland in the fabulous Long Room library, the basis for all of the harps woven into my inherited Irish linens, a fundamental symbol for the Irish and for Guinness beer. The library is gorgeous.

The oldest harp and the longest library.  Be sure to blow this one up to full size.

Photo off the internet

The library: the happiest place on earth

We left Trinity College and strolled down a pedestrian street full of street performers and expensive shops in order to reach a 22 acre patch of green —St. Stephen's Green —and lake that actually has birds other than pigeons—though there were plenty of those.  I saw two lovely long-tailed tits, and a blue tit that were all quite titillating.  I had to make that said before you did.  Also Eurasian blackbird, magpie and robin.  Now we're talking travel!

Street sculpture performers, you donate and they move slightly. On Grafton Street

We had stumbled upon a small sign and locked foyer of a yellow and white row house that said Friends Meetinghouse on our first hallucinatory amble through town before check-in.  We noted the next Meeting for Worship time was 6:15 the following day.  We managed to arrive there on time, get buzzed in from the street.  Fran with a thick brogue, all in green welcomed us warmly.  It was a surprisingly small room with chairs and detached benches set up in a square.  About ten people were there.  We had tea afterwards and learned of the odd growth of Dublin's Meetings.  We were attending the Dublin Preparative Meeting which was derived from the larger Dublin Meeting which still owned the building but had branched into three locations in south Dublin that were more in the suburbs.  About thirty to forty members still clung to a Temple Bar presence here while the larger Meeting was renting its original men's and women's Meeting rooms (rooms as at Arch Street in Philadelphia) to the Irish Film Institute.

We talked of Irish Quaker history over tea, how banished former Cromwell loyalists fled England and settled the north of Ireland.  How these became identified as Quakers we didn't manage to discover, but by no means did Irish Friends attract lapsed Catholics in any great number but rather were displaced English.  We talked of similar Quaker trends of declining membership and how children had become certainly a rarity at the downtown site.  There is no parking and little residential proximity.  One man commented in general they are fewer but now more effective in their activism.

A blue tit

Photo off the internet

Had a great dinner at an insanely packed alley full of people of all ages having their pints, what a press of flesh.The concept at this restaurant 'Jo'burg was to pick your burger type - beef, lamb, chicken or two kinds of veggie, then pick your bun or no bun or just one bun, and then pick your flavoring —in my case I had peach curry and emmental, and Steve had roasted red pepper and almond pesto.

And as if the day weren't full enough we went to a pub called M. Hughes where traditional Irish music of the sort that Steve is fond of is played from 10 PM on.  We listened for a while in the room that was closed off from the rest of the pub, what Steve says is a "snug." Between sets there was indeed the famous "craic" (pronounced crack) he had hoped to hear.  Outrageous stories of spilled beers on famous players, or insults deftly delivered and descriptions of odd characters were given as punctuation to the music.  Steve took up his mandolin for about a third of the tunes though he stayed out of the inner circle, and we were by and large ignored.

Mrs. O'Bleary

Day One

Propelled by the excitement of our arrival in Ireland we bought a three day bus pass and headed toward our hotel.  Knowing it was too early to check in we left our baggage there and started to walk around downtown Dublin.  We encountered the Dublin Castle site shortly, and in the kismet that I fear we have come to expect, it was free Wednesday and the first tour of the day was to be ours.  This was the perfect introduction to Dublin and Ireland in general. Built on the site of a large Viking village at the confluence of the smaller Poddle and the Liffey rivers in a place they called Black Pool (Dubh Linn) the palatial Georgian-looking Castle square was first an English fortification, then a castle, chapel complex for English Viceroys, and the site of the handover of rule to the Republic of Ireland — where Michael Collins raised the Irish flag at long last—and now a site for inaugurations of the prime ministers (The Taoiseach—"chief" in the Irish language) and state visits. In the 1960s renovations led to the excavation of an old fort gun powder tower and part of the medieval walls of the ancient larger city. We descended the stairs to see this dank-smelling underlayment to the bustling town above.  In about two exhausting hours we were brought up to date on much of the history of Ireland.  We particularly enjoyed our guides brogue and attitude toward this by-and-large oppressed homeland's history.  In regard to a decision to close the Police Museum at the site he said "Many Irish are rather sniffy about the police, that is until they need them for anything and then they call right away.  Personally I think they do very well for an unarmed force."

Dublin Castle courtyard and one of the large reception rooms of the State apartments.  The Irish have lovingly maintained the oil paintings of their overly bedecked and beplumed former English Viceroys.  No destruction of historical truth in service to Revolution

It was minutes after leaving this great introduction tour that I realized I was in desperate need of sleep. We waddled (Steve wishes to point out here that he does not waddle) to yet another historic site and all I could do was sit on the bench and blink in the sun— occasionally lifting my head to look at the impressive facade of Christ Church.  We had choices.  Go on another tour, sit through Peace Prayers at Noon (and fall asleep) or just catch a bus, any old bus and ride it for a full circuit.  We got on the bus.

We startled the driver who at the end of the line came up the stairs of the double decker to find two sleepy Americans still ensconced.  We had ridden for over an hour to the outskirts of Dublin south, dull tracts of suburbia lulled me into a deep sleep which I couldn't break until Steve roused me at the end of the line back by our hotel.  We finally got to check-in and slept for three hours.  Revived, we had an Indian dinner with beloved onion bhadji appetizer.  Here we struck up a conversation with an Irish woman and her German boyfriend about the boom times in Ireland, immigrant beggars making 200 quid a day, labor union differences between the U.S and Ireland, books and general morning grumpiness.  I was struck by the pluck of her, the storytelling, the enthusiasm she had about so much interesting stuff.  I told stories myself, funny ones that elicited real laughter.  I thought to myself perhaps I am Irish.

The view from our doubledecker bus while I was still conscious

Circadian-navigating the World

In the hope of staving off jet-lag we have a strategy.  We travel and visit our daughter Irene on the East Coast for a few days before jumping the pond.  This is not a hardship.  I add a few east coast birds to my year list. We bask in the non-virtual, non- "text" usual wonder that is our grown and thriving girl and her young friends.  It is a gift that completely recharges our confidence in her, her choices in life and school, and our luck and joy.

Amongst the various things on this leg of our journey were a great dinner with a big group on Friday, a  trip to the Franklin Institute exploring the technology of weaponry of Genghis Khan (shuddering to think about the swords' pasts) and taking in the Giant Heart exhibit, and dealing with Irene's stalling car.  Ultimately we decided her car was not up to the task of taking us to JFK on Tuesday so we signed up for a shuttle.

I can't tell if these are different species or just different moments in a dogwood's life

The shuttle trip was incredibly long as we wound around neighborhoods on the outskirts of Philadelphia picking up its eight passengers.  We left at 11:30 AM and got to the airport at 4:50 PM.  There was a Turkish man, an African man, an Indian family of three, two Moroccans and one Lebanese traveler amongst us.  It truly felt that our travels had begun.

I thought I had booked a British Airways flight to Dublin.  It actually was, in a  bait and switch maneuver, a jam-packed American Airlines flight.  Every inch of cabin space had been used to create seats.  We sat like praying mantis—our arms doubled over and mincingly placing food carefully up to our mouths.  I commented to Steve and the Irish man next to me that we would be more comfortable feeding each other.

Six and a half hours to Dublin in a race to sunset and sunrise that all eastern trips at night are. The seats were so close that  I felt I was spending the night with two men and the best way to handle all of the coziness was just to relax and enjoy that novelty. Suffice to say I didn't really sleep at all.

We descended toward Dublin at about 6AM — a city ringed by odd barren tors or hills that looked like ancient volcanoes.  We had seen so many of Ireland's rock-ringed fields from the air.  This was a heavily worked-over place, wilderness schmilderness, and already it was clear that my ancestors had to have been hardier than I ever had or could ever be.

Off to Ireland

Here I hope to track the many exciting elements of our trip to Ireland from June 2nd until July 5th.  I am already completely packed as that gives my brain a huge relief from the weight of the load of lists that are in my head.   Now I just ready the house, and get around to things I have procrastinated about in the last four months.  I am quite emotional about the upcoming trip as I feel it is a huge processor of family for some reason.  I am giving it more import than it may deserve or I should probably assign it.  Will I feel the magic of Ireland or come away relieved that my ancestors escaped the rocky living that they had in the mid-nineteenth century?

Whenever I go on a trip I get more wistful for my home.  I will miss the ripening of our figs, and the bloom and fade of blowzy peonies.  I can't even bring myself to make a vase of my garden's current flowers because they will die and rot after we leave.  A measure of time that —do you have time enough to wait for rot or will you throw away flowers in full? I live in a beautiful place.  No matter where I am.

The Los Angeles Train Station

One of my favorite places in the world is the art deco/mission style train station in downtown Los Angeles.  This place still has the feel of the era of train travel and the luxury of yore.  I was taking a sleeper car to Albuquerque to see my spanking new great nephew and his parents.   AMTRAK had a special bar/lounge for sleeper car people, served a sweet snack w/juice and had a porter take our bags out for us.  Such treatment.

Union Station. Photo by Needled Mom

I had just made my connection from a bus from Bakersfield, that had taken me off the Capitol Corridor train from Emeryville. So the contrast was quite distinct.  After our bus let us off four hours before my connection I settled into the big seats of the main waiting room.  These are the biggest damn pews in this cathedral to an earlier mobility, there isn't wood enough left today to replicate these over the top, high-top, communal yet individual throne way-stations for transients.

I had time to kill so I got out my knitting.  It was November 1st and every twentieth person was in Dia de los Muertos facial paint.  Dressed rather normally but often with half of their faces as skeletons. It was an altered world of walks, strides, shuffles, bounce, texting, chatting, rolling, dragging, with a dash of morbid art thrown in.  Only in Los Angeles.  I love to people watch and this is a very easy place to do this, especially if you are knitting.

I noticed a guy in his early thirties sit across from me, he was on the phone as he walked up, and then he sat down.  His conversation went something like this:  "Yo wassup, yeah, no, hey man, no I can't make it after all, no, I need ten dollars for the trip and I'm short three.  Yeah, I know, its too bad.  No, I only need three more dollars to get to Riverside.  I guess I will have to miss the party.  I guess I will try again tomorrow, maybe I can figure out a way.  So see you soon bro, OK, bye.   He hangs up and sighs, looking at his shoes.  Picks up the phone again, " Hey Mary,  I won't be able to make it tonight.  I am in the lobby of the train station in Los Angeles.  Stupid thing but I am three bucks short... I can't get out there... I just wanted you to know... sorry, no really, I am sorry. Yeah I thought I had my ATM card but I forgot it and I don't have the ten I need.  It will have to be tomorrow, OK, bye.  

He sat back, slumped a bit,  sighed, and then looked at me.  I kept knitting.  He got up and moved off to a new mark.

Tethered to warmth

On a cold as tile day, in the great gray windy Quimper Peninsula all set about with cedar trees a person is as likely to voyage out as a prisoner is to stride home.  What were my adventures today? Oft through the internet I am afraid, off to see the Colbert, under the sea to watch a brinicle, messages from Facemail.  Nursing a new cold, and a hangover from public speaking last night, I at last venture out with my faithful multi-breed dog, to get a latte, to talk with friends at the co-op.  One can never just say Hi at the Co-op.  Barkeley the dog and I (finally! he thinks) walk around the beautiful setting of Kah Tai lagoon, tall cottonwoods and leafless rose brambles.  Ducks paddle away from the shore and young people  hunker into darkening bench spots.  Sunset in winter, too cold to linger, highlight of my day.

Baby Owls and Nesting Flycatchers

One of the most amazing things about living here is the extensive woods that take over any place that isn't regularly cleared.  We live on five acres plus and manage to hack back and maintain about one acre from returning to a primeval state.  Yesterday I heard a very raptorish weird bird call,  an ascending tseeep but big and raspy.  I saw an owl fly but I couldn't place it as being the cause.  Last night Steve heard it coming through an open skylight and thought that our resident bats had become extremely distressed and vocal for a change. We have allowed a colony of about forty bats to live above our SIP panels in the ventilation at the peak of our roof.  Perhaps not a good idea, but we like giving shelter.

Steve went outside and traced it to the trees closest to the house.  Two trees in fact.  We have a great big spotlight and we shone it on what were clearly two owls whistling in turn.  I thought they were barred owls as we have been blessed with two of them around here since the first year we moved in.  We have video of them hanging out in a willow by our pond.

This photo of a mature barred owl was taken in our now fallen willow near our pond the first year we lived here. The second photo is the excited me videotaping the birds, and a local Auduboner photographing one of the earliest records of the barred owl within Port Townsend city limits, 2005.

Gotta love the internet, looking up barred owl vocalizations we learned these sounds are the sounds of young juvenile owls begging.  Today I heard them around 3PM and went out and saw a huge adult owl (male I think) in a tree fifty feet from the house.  He just stared at me.  Further, near the labyrinth, I could hear the baby owls begging.  I walked down the hill and found one of them in clear view.  He or she does not have the crisp white barring on brown feathers that the adult has.  This one's head was gray and slightly fuzzed all around the top and its eyes were black holes, as if eyeless, as it stared at me. Amazing wildlife viewing.

The other night I grabbed a sleeping bag and slept on a bunk on the far side of the chicken house.  When I woke up I immediately regretted not having brought binoculars with me.  Without them, my wheezy eyes and bad vision was not going to let me discern a single bird flitting in my view.  And yet I noticed these two birds kept coming closer and closer to me, making a tsureep question call repeatedly.  They got so close I could tell they were Pacific-slope flycatchers, and then as my eyes began to function I realized right above my feet on a ledge was a mossy nest.  I can only imagine my arrival in the dark, and presence in the morning within three feet of them had caused much stress.

This is a photo of the young owl today.  And below it the pacific-slope flycatcher nest.  Be sure to click on the photos to enlarge them, you can really see the mother flycatcher well.

Blessed with living in a nursery.  Mostly secret.