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.