The Simple Life, minus Paris and Nicole

Hello again from the County Ros Common, well, that's a bit of a fib because I'm back on the couch in Dublin but while I was in Castlerea over the weekend rest assured that I, and this fella, were sending our best regards your way.  The Irish country is a welcoming place to be sure especially if you use the measuring stick of hospitality.  I swear I'm trying to lose weight while I'm overseas but if geneous hosts of 'the bogs' had their way I'd leave at least two stone heavier.  Never before have I had so much food push upon me, not that I'm complaining but I would survive without four servings of porter-cake daily on top of a handful of 'buns' and a pair of scones.  And all this is just during the tea breaks!  Four to six of which occupy the times between breakfast, lunch, dinner and supper (with the occasional midnight sandwitch) and perhaps even a hot whiskey or two to round out the evening.  All of which is home style delicious and impossible to resist, I mean it, I'd be happy just chowing down on buttered up brown bread but even when I try to defer a treat it's pushed on me like cheap beer at a frat party.

But all the same I'm not suggesting that nothing gets done down on the old homestead.  Oh heavens no, all of this nutrition is necessary for the neverending stream of work, chores, and even excursions that make the days full of action.  Keep in mind now that whatever I'm doing is out of the goodness of my heart in repayment for all of the generosity I receive and I am in no way shape or form compensated monetarily.  The day starts somewhere around dawn as sun streams in the picture windows of the guest room, I amble downstairs to the days first feeding which may be some simple porriage or a full Fry-up as the situation dictates, off to the shed where your man is already hard at work fixing up the local populace's tractorial equipment.  He's a miracle worker who seems to have a knack for finding the shortest distance between broke and mended via what scraps to metal are laying about.  More or less I'm in charge of fetching the necessary tool from some far flung corner of the disorder that passes for a shop, tool number one is of course the hammer (which comes in regular and lump varieties) followed by the spanners (a technical term for wrenches) both of which are simple machines that can be used with surgical precision in the right hands.

After about a day's worth of monkeying it's supper time after which, sunlight permitting, the real fun begins.  This weekend we set ourselves to extending the shed which required the erecting of a pair of massive steel struts which will be covered by metal sheeting before winter sets in.  Here I can be seen watching the proceedings from the safety of the ground but rest assured I did a bit of ladder work getting the joists into place.  The whole process included a fair bit of night welding which I am ashamed to say is not captured on film, it was truely a sight as fat drops of molten slag plummeted to earth exploding like fireworks in reverse.

In less industrial settings I was volunteered to shovel turf out in the bogs.  I tell you ladies and gentelmen you need look no further for an upper body work out.  I reckon that a three or four days of the exhertion would leave you with shoulder as broad as a bull, fortunately for myself I was only set to it for an hour and gained little more than a hearty appreciation for what the farming peoples of the country have done for centuries to stoke the flames of their hearth.  Compounding the threat of exhaustion is the fact that the bog is a deadly expanse that vaguely resembles the surface of mars.  Imagine if you would a great stretch of dirt red earth peppered with sprouts of shrub and scrub brush, yet sprouting up in fields are the stacks of cut turf resembling rudimentary ziggurats, when the sun catches them at the right angle you can prize out an intricate array of spiders' silks connecting one small temple to each and every other structure in a small scale city of sod.  The danger lies, however, in the ponds which have formed in the hollows where the soil has been dug away.  Beautiful, serene pools of water perfectly square.  One would imagine they would be a great place for a dip or even a pool party with the addition of a beach ball and a small grill.  But, as I was informed, many had gone in never to return for the bottoms are a mire of thick mud which will suck you down harder than quicksand, and even if you were to get to an edge the sides will fall away under your hands and leave you frantically clawing for a freedom that will not arrive.

Outside of that the countryside is picturesque and I hesitate to show off many shots as each and every one seems ripped from a postcard.  This is a 'castle' tucked away in the rolling hills outside of Glinsk, such scenes are not at all out of place, nor are the charming little houses with thatched roofs which, while keeping with the classic asthetic may just be equipped with WIFI and surround sound stereos.  I spied this one on the way back from seeing an antique 'thrasher' (sp) in action.  I could try to do justice to just what that experience entailed but I'll let an expert do the talking for me.  Slan for now and have a slice of cake, go on.

Dancing with the Devil

Day 12 in Ireland, I think, my math is fuzzy.

So I’ve been inside all day tending to Reg who came down with a bad case of something as a result of walking around Dublin in the rain yesterday. Halloween was kind of a bust but it goes that way sometimes and as a result of my nurse duties I missed most of what has been the most beautiful day on the island thus far. But as I said to Reg (who can’t talk back) there’s still no where I’d rather be than by her side, that’s just kind of how love makes you feel.

To illustrate why I feel this way let me tell you about the other night. We had the house pretty much to ourselves and seeing as there wasn’t anywhere we’d rather be we parked ourselves in the living room and put a bag of coals on the fire. As it burned we relaxed with Thai food and a couple of drinks while we watched “Clue” the ‘85 movie with Tim Curry, if you haven’t seen it then please please please do me a favor and get your hands on a copy asap, it’s a joy. Curled up on the couch, watching a movie, sated and cozy, what more could you want?

Well, there’s one thing that always makes thing better in Ireland; Music. Now I could go on for pages upon pages about the magic that is an Irish Trad. Band flowing through a session tucked deep in the corners of a tightly packed pub, and with some luck I will do just that at a later date. But that night we did not put on anything from Reggie’s homeland, instead, Reg whipped up a play list with the likes of Tom Waites and the Rolling Stones and we let the night begin to smolder.

Mind you Regina is a somewhat trained celi-dancer (pronounced Kay-Lee, I can’t type Irish on this keyboard) and in her own way has quite a few moves at her disposal that fall outside the realm of ancient celtic arts. So She, in a sexy pair of high heeled boots no less, starts to swing and kick her way all around the wooden floor of the living room. I, being a proud descendant of Italian chestnut farmers, simply could not let a pretty girl dance alone and got up to join her. Now, I’m no Astaire or even a poor man’s MC Hammer but all the same I felt obligated to hold my own in the seduction that is dance.

Admittedly I was hindered by the fact that I was wearing my socks so I ran upstairs to fetch some hard soled shoes and my bowler hat, pairing those with a slim pair of black jeans and a black tank top and I have to say I was one cane and a little guy-liner away from being a cabaret idol. In an obvious fit of jealousy Reg bolted upstairs and returned a few minutes later wearing a bob-length, cold-fusion blue wig. Now it was ON! She and I started cutting loose in what was clearly a two horse race for king and or queen of the dance floor. She bobbed, I wove, I twisted, she kicked, she boogied, I woogied and soon we were both sweaty and silly on the inebriation that only a good dance off can provide.

By will of the cosmic forces of the universe two people really can connect when wrapped up in a dance and somehow Reg and I seemed to be reading the same choreography sheets. Caught in the heady energy and enslaved by the Bangles ‘walk like an Egyptian’ we danced on and on until we finally collapsed in a fit of fanning and panting. And there as the embers glowed on, as the rum bottle got slowly emptier, as the songs began to repeat themselves, we lost all sense of time and place and were absorbed by the all consuming happiness which will, if you are lucky, overtake you at one point or another but only after you’ve forgotten all of your pretences and lost yourself in rhythms.

First Pictures Post!