The Sound and The Fury

There are some things you have to do just once in your life.  Typically they show up on bucket lists as the fantastic, the outlandish, the expensive, places like Las Vegas and experiences like sky diving come up often as do activities that fall on the more elicit end of the spectrum.  One time, when I was in a mindset more focused on opportunities never to come again, I decided that I had to, just one time, be in Dublin for Saint Patrick’s day.

I wasn’t alone in this, we composed as a group the whole of Duquesne University’s inaugural Galway foreign exchange ensemble and although none of us had seemed to grasped the concept when we landed in Ireland as a whole we saw an opportunity to do something truly memorable and grabbed onto it.  Luckily we had the forethought to book hotels and planned to get in a few days of casual exploration before the big celebration, Dublin doesn’t have the best reputation among the people in the rest of the country, it is a deep seated dispute which began with Dublin having a low opinion of the island outside of its borders.  Despite that I enjoy Dublin as it at least feels in some small and impossible to connect way like my home in Chicago, its width and breath, its hustle, its self important air that doesn’t care for you and thus allows you to dissolve down its back alleys and main thoroughfares are all familiar in their cold callousness.

Through the shops we poked around, amongst the architecture we took pictures, in the pubs we drank pints and had a few good days on our own little adventure, despite what people from the ‘real’ Ireland will tell you Dublin is a nice place and isn’t too big or too up its own hole to enjoy.  If you’re ever in this neck of the woods feel free to have a poke around for a day or two, see a museum, relax in a park, do some touristy things because when you get to the heart of things Ireland markets itself as a nice place to come and visit.  The Irish Brand is what you see on postcards, rainbows over rolling hills, livestock as part of the scenery, quaint pubs full of weathered patrons, castles, ruins, the Guinness brewery, the thousand welcomes are all things that the Irish know bring in visitors-along with their Euros-to see what all the craic is about. 

Saint Patrick’s day is probably the biggest export of the Irish experience, as the day when ‘everyone’s a little Irish’ä it’s instantly recognizable as an opportunity to put on a silly hat, dust off that horrible accent you can’t do, and act the maggot with zero repercussions for your excesses.  In truth, it was the New York and Boston immigrant populations that popularized the celebrations as a way to keep connected with their heritage, cut loose, and be proud of where they came from all in a massive display of ancestral spirit.  So paradoxically, in Dublin, Saint Patrick’s day is when all of the foreigners come over to visit.   

In the couple of days leading up to the big event things had been relatively quiet, we were young so we stayed up late, we explored the nightlife, we satisfied our taste for a different culture and all it could excite us with.  All the while there was an undercurrent of something more sinister looming, the calm before the storm, the tension before the final push of a big battle.  The locals and the working people all knew that the tide would start rising that morning and would not recede for many hours thereafter.  Seven years ago today, we awoke to the spectacle of St. Patrick’s day in the heart of Dublin, and to this day I have never seen anything like it.  There was a parade, somewhere, I am sure of it, but I was not there to witness it for between me and it was a wall of humanity which took onto itself a presence that no addition of its individual parts could account for. 

Were there a million people on the streets of Dublin that day?  Perhaps, easily there were more than anyone could count, could make sense of if they tried to imagine them as a single unit, we’ve all seen crowds in stadiums, at concerts and rallies, we’ve been crammed shoulder to shoulder with busloads of strangers and waited in endless lines at amusement parks but this was something altogether different.  If there was anything which could earn itself a fair comparison would be a religious pilgrimage, the Hajj at Mecca as a swirling fervor of devotion and praise meets to cement their collective faith, Dublin felt that way only drunken, and unruly filled with incomprehensible people who moved as a great river waiting to sweep away all those who fell in under its pull. 

There is an Irish phrase which you’ve probably never come across, it’s not terribly useful and lacks the cheeky fun of Pog mo thoin, but I like it nonetheless.  Rí rá agus a ruaile buaile ( Ree-Raw Awgus a Roo-lah Boo-lah ) translates into something like a great noise and much movement although more liberal definitions of the term can mean a cacophonous catastrophe, a noise of terrible destruction, or a massively great time.  Language is one of the many things that the Irish play fast and loose with, I think they do it just to mess with the foreigners.  It’s how I would describe the scene in Dublin on St. Pat’s without hesitation as every vein of the city was clogged  with sound and color, voices yelling and singing-though the difference was negligible- and a never ending procession of arms and legs working against one another jostling, embracing, expressing, and rollicking to the beat of some intrinsic festival drum.

Dublin on Saint Patrick’s day is a once in a lifetime experience in so far as I feel no need to go through it again, I actually have a problem with big crowds, loud noises, and sensory overload give me something like an anxiety attack and my nerves will quickly fray if I spend too long in the middle of it all.  On that day I took refuge in the many cathedrals of the city which were oddly deserted on that very Catholic holiday, away from the madness my wits returned to me and my sanity was saved by the welcome respite religious sanctuary can offer.  Galway isn’t like that on March 17th, sure people get drunk, there’s a parade, and we all have license to go a bit overboard, but it falls far short of madness, of chaos, of the unbridled exhibition that a big, unfeeling city can get away with once or twice a year.  It’s no rí rá agus a ruaile buaile, and for that I am thankful.

Murder Most Fowl

‘Tis the season once more.  No, not Christmas, not quite yet despite the fairy lights and commercials you may be starting to see with increased frequency.  Not Halloween either even though that one is a perennial favorite among my clique of twenty-something revelers.  The season to which I refer is like both of those holidays combined for me with a healthy dose of thanksgiving thrown in for good measure, I find my anticipation building as I can’t wait to wake up in the early morning hours and climb downstairs as if to open my presents.  I will don my outfit and trek tirelessly though the cold eagerly awaiting my next prize, and after all of that I will sit down with unparalleled satisfaction to a hot meal which fills me with such gratitude for everything I have.

Yes my friends, it is nearly hunting season once more!  Those of you who know me personally know that I a bit nuts about guns and try to take up every opportunity to head to the range or into the field for a shot.  There’s something so relaxing about being out on a hunt, the way your concentration become absolute, your senses heighten, and all of the problems of the world melt away as you wait poised for your quarry to make its presence known.  Hunting to me is meditation and I can’t find anything quite like it for that feeling of pure, uncomplicated oneness with my surroundings.  Plus I get to shoot things, which is fun.
In honor of that most wonderful time of the year I’d like to share with you some of the stories of hunts I’ve had while here in Ireland, the highs and the lows and the funny things that happen when afield.

My very, very first actual hunting experience in Ireland was an interesting one, some years back, knowing that I had a fair appreciation for the finer arts of firearms Regina’s father said we should wander out across the fields behind the house and see if you could scare up a pheasant.  First went on the wader boots, up scaled wellies that reach up to your thighs and are fastened up with a belt, then there was the ammo belt itself, lined with dozens of shotgun shells-enough to hold off a small army- of varying loads, finally there was the gun itself, a well worn and traveled side by side 12 gauge that was probably made around the same time I was.  We let the gun dog, Shadow, out of her pen which may or may not have been a poor decision as her training had gone a bit lax as of late.  Off like a shot she bounded into the field and proceeded to run and root with no sense of restraint.  It was obvious that my experience in Ireland was going to be much different from the States.

When pheasant hunting in the states you could easily wear sneakers if not a sturdy pair of sandals on a good day, the terrain is largely flat and often cultivated into rows for easy navigation, wheat has been planted specifically to give the birds cover and attract them, and since in most places in the Midwest game birds have been hunted until they’ve practically disappeared most of what you actually hunt is farm raised and planted before you set out.  The first obstacle we faced that day was the electric wire used to keep cattle from roaming, placing the butt of his shotgun against it and stepping over Basil warned me that I’d get a mighty shock if I inadvertently touched it.  Not enough to do me permanent damage, hopefully, but certainly enough to put a damper on the day.  After that we had to take a short hop across a water-filled trench and into the marshy, uneven, shrub-filled areas adjacent to the river that we’d be hunting through.  It quickly became apparent that the biggest challenge I was going to face was not in hitting a bird but rather in simply navigating the ruts successfully and not ending up face first in some dirty water.

In retrospect the challenge of hitting any birds was non-existent as Shadow, the gun dog, did her best to run a good 50 or 60 yards ahead of us in a completely unpredictable pattern while ignoring any commands we futilely barked in her direction.  What she did manage to scare up was thus well out of our range and was probably not even aware of our presence as it took wing towards the safety of the far treeline across the river.  We saw no pheasant that day despite the numerous occasions when I’d seen them in local fields, crossing the road, or startled them bursting out of hedges while I walked by, we did, however, kick up snipe during our safari.  Snipe are one of the odder birds I’ve happened across in my travels, although I did not get a very good look at any of them that day I estimate that their bodies are about the size of a baseball and they move like a combination of hummingbirds and electrical currents.  When disturbed they immediately shoot up to shoulder height and dart in an erratic zig-zag pattern away from whatever is perusing them before disappearing back into the bush like Vietcong.  About three quarters of the way through the hunt I decided to take a shot at one of the snipe just to be able to say that I had, I think my chances of hitting it would have been the same as if I’d discharged my shotgun directly into the ground in front of me but at the end of the day taking a walk where you fire a gun beats taking a walk and not firing a gun any day.

I think Basil knew that we weren’t going to actually get any pheasant that day but just wanted to see how I handled myself in the field and for myself it was a good opportunity to try out a new experience even if it was nothing more than a trial run.  This year has been the first one that I’ve been in country for the entirety of bird season and with my entry into the family in a official capacity I’ve been brought out on a couple of hunting excursions that have been a bit more formalized.  I haven’t done much (any) duck hunting in the states but my understanding of it is that the common method is to build a duck blind-a camouflaged shack in the water- set out decoys and use specialized calls to bring the unsuspecting targets in for a landing.  You are welcome to watch some Duck Dynasty for a more elaborate run down.  Duck hunting here involves a Jeep (truck) apparently and I found myself riding in the back seat next to a pair of 12 gauges in the predawn hours one morning. 

The method for duck hunting we employed was based around driving to different locations, ponds, rivers, flooded fields, where ducks could be expected to be resting, getting out of the truck, sneaking up on them, and opening fire at will.  I’m not sure if this is more or less sporting than sitting in a cold metal box employing subterfuge but I will say it was a bit more entertaining, especially as it allows you to see some more exotic sights of the country.  The sun was just coming up as we drove down a back road adjacent to a farmer’s field when we spotted it, a fox, the first fox I had ever seen in the flesh in my whole life.  I had expected a small and somewhat adorable animal, I expected it to have a nice red coat and perky ears and a fluffy tail.  The animal I saw was big, I’ve seen many coyotes in my time and this animal rivaled them, for the first time I understood how one could kill a sheep as I’d been told they do frequently.  It was black as well, or at least predominantly so as it seemed patchy and mottled, a wild animal in every sense of the word it must have sensed our intention as it bolted across the field away from us.  Basil mashed the gas pedal and we lurched forward into pursuit.

Even with the engine at full rev we barely kept pace as the fox had the better line towards cover, we bounded around a corner and it was explained to me that foxes are considered a pest and it is always open season on them.  Pulling to a stop we piled out of the jeep and took up positions on a small stone wall, even though we had the whole of the briar patch covered it was neigh impossible to get a bead on the beast.  At most I would glimpse a set of ears and a second later a swish of the tail could be seen some feet away, it’s cunning and guile was evident as it flitted between hiding spots with the ease of an apparition, we called out to each other to little effect trying to anticipate its movements and designate who would have the best sight should an opportunity present itself.  Evan, my brother in law, had perhaps the best chance but it was gone in the blink of an eye and within the span of 30 seconds our window was passed and we saw the fox bolting back up the field making time in a way we could not hope to match.  It was for the best, Evan said, he wouldn’t have felt right shooting it.  If we had gone out hunting fox that would have been a different story, but we were there for ducks and it seems as though nature itself shared his sentiment.

The fox eluded us that day and if he stayed cagey he may still be out there today in his den or out causing trouble, and if our spirits are up to it we may meet him out lamping one night and we’ll truly test his luck.  That’ll be a story for another time though, as the one I want to finish up on is a story from the end of the season, the story of the last duck of the year.   It was, in fact, the very last day of hunting season and we resigned ourselves to one more attempt at the fowl as it would be many, many months before we’d get another crack at them.  Basil, Evan and myself loaded up into the jeep once more for an evening hunt and motored our way off to an isolated field which was reasonably flooded and in many places impassable.  Somehow I’d drawn the short straw and was suited up in the standard issue, mid-calf wellies while the more senior partners were clad in the two pairs of functional waders we possessed and thus at a reasonably stranded spot out in the swamp I was told I would have to wait there alone while they went ahead across a deep drain and into the more secluded sections of wetland.

Sure, no problem, I perched myself upon a protruding hill of mossy earth and waited for them to start shooting, the plan was for them to locate a flock and start the assault, theoretically the birds would circle somewhere in my vicinity and I’d spring a secondary ambush on them.  It seemed like a solid plan, or at least a solid explanation as to why I shouldn’t feel bad about being left behind.  I heard their first shots some ten minutes later after they’d walked out of my view and waited patiently for my first chance at a kill, in short order I saw a pair of mallards winging my way.  I pride myself on being a crack shot and with confidence I unloaded my barrels in quick succession, but to my dismay the birds kept flying and as I ejected the shells and fumbled for replacements they first two birds broke away and were out of range in seconds.  Birds kept coming sporadically as shots rang out from my hunting companions at odd intervals, yet time and time again my aim was untrue and I managed to miss birds coming at me from all angles and altitudes.  On more than one occasion it seemed as though the drakes knew I only had a double gun and would cut directly towards me as I tried desperately to reload after throwing up ineffectual volleys.  It was a chronic case of “I should have hit that” that played out over the next couple of hours.

Darkness began to settle upon us and the efforts of targeting took on new dimensions, what had been dark silhouettes of game outlined against a grey sky became undefined shapes out the corner of my eyes.  It was thus that as the light faded I relied less on my eyes and more on my ears to track inbound ducks, an exercise which was chaotic at best.  The sound of a large bird in flight is quite distinctive, the whooshing of wings on the beat can be heard at some distance, combine that with the gentle, low quacks they emit regularly and you have a reasonably sure sign of ducks nearby.  What makes tracking them difficult is the fact that they fly two or three at a time in unpredictable arcs and trajectories.  So what you perceive is less “Aha!” and more “Huh?” as your mind figures out: A, If that really is a duck I’m hearing; B, Which way is it heading; C, How fast; and D, Is it worth shooting at?  All of that before trying to aim and shoot passably, which I mentioned before I had been struggling with all day so far.

The light kept fading and I soon found myself thinking that if a duck didn’t make itself obvious in the next five minutes my chances for the season were effectively kaput.  I crossed my fingers and hoped, shotgun in one hand, flashlight in the other, like an air raid marshal during the blitz on London.  Seconds turned to minutes, I willed ducks to come my way, so many had seemed to swoop by almost in arms reach, I was sure a small flock had landed nearby yet across the insurmountable drainage ditch.  If just one more would give me a clean line I would take it and be satisfied that I had tried my all and the odds simply were in the birds’ favor that day.  The five minutes passed, it became impossibly dark and I resigned myself to failure.  Yet I couldn’t head in until Basil and Evan returned and I was sure they had given up hope just as I had.  Five more minutes passed and somewhere off in their general direction I could hear a faint slogging of boots possibly heading my way, it was then that I heard ducks incoming. 

Heading straight for me I did my best to track them without any sight whatsoever, I poised myself to trap them between myself and the only slim hope of light left to me, a weak glow of streetlamps coming from a distant hill.  I could hear they were just a few yards from me, coming in low and oblivious to my presence, putting everything else out of my mind I focused in on my target zone.  In a single instant I saw them, three perfect black outlines of ducks against the hazy orange glow on the horizon, I moved my barrels by inches to mimic their flight pattern and pulled both triggers in quick succession because there is no reward for bringing home the most ammo.  I cannot say today which shot stuck home, I could not say then either for all I cared about was the solid splash of a dead duck hitting the water.  I whooped and hollered and danced on my little dry mound as I reached for my flashlight, the duck had fallen across the way and I could do nothing to reach it but I diligently focused a beam on where I heard it fall so that Basil or Evan would be able to collect it for me. 

They come to me after a time, apparently their eyes are better than mine or they are simply more stubborn in their habits, but they did no shooting after me, and after they picked up my duck presented to me their only success of the evening, a woodcock Basil had shot with great skill and luck.  I suppose our take that night was not so impressive and by rights I should have made half a dozen shots that went wide, but I felt confidant that no hunter out later than us could have made a kill without the aid of night vision goggles, so when that bird was roasted and basted I took extra pleasure in knowing I was eating the last duck of the season.

Ya Like Dags?

Lassie, Rin Tin-Tin, Ole’ Yeller, man’s best friend.  Dogs are loved the world over and their connection with mankind in social circles and working relationships is ubiquitous.  How we see this relationship and how we adapt it into our lives changes from culture to culture, sometimes that happens because our needs change, our living conditions differ, or sometimes it simply comes down to our mentality towards our animal companions which shape them and us both.

Here in Ireland, people treat dogs very differently to how I’d grown accustomed to in the states.  At first I was astounded as the distinctions are so wide my brain had trouble grasping just how it could all seem to work so fluidly.  In the states a dog is perhaps the oddest member of the family, like a five year old it must be looked after constantly, fed special foods and bought the best toys, never allowed to stray far from a parent’s watchful eye, even put into doggy day care and obedience classes so that it knows always how it is supposed to behave.  We all too often make the dog fit itself into our world on our terms, with doggy beds and crates, with tethers and invisible fences, our leashes and harnesses seem to convey that we have tamed this animal, that we possess it and while we love its personality and playfulness we will only abide it as long as the dog understands that we rule it.

As with many things American, I have come to realize that we do not exactly do things the wrong way, but merely we find a harder way, a more complicated and expensive way, to arrive at ends which would have sorted themselves out.  Here dogs are no less loved, no less part of the family, but they occupy a more specific place, that of an honest to god dog as opposed to an especially furry and illiterate child.  I have read, and accept, that in the very early ages of the dog’s domestication that it was the canine which chose us, feral animals finding safety and purpose in the tribal life of herdsmen, it was the dog which adapted itself to our lifestyle all on its own.  In Ireland, that fact seems to not have been forgotten.

The dogs I know fall into different categories, there are Country Dogs first and foremost as I have gotten to know them the best.  Regina’s family has three dogs to their home and each fills a specific role, you will first meet Rambo, the guard dog, as he spends almost all of his time outside on their land, watching the comings and goings of cars on the road and barking to alert the family of any visitors.  He is the doorbell and the butler, vetting anyone who approaches and following them while they go about their business.  He’s a full coated Collie dog and almost all guard dogs are some variation on that breed, keen, loyal, quick and tireless they lope after anything that comes into their territory but are happy enough just to chase cars off down the road.  This habit, however, can be quite disquieting when driving-especially at night- as the sight of a dog lunging out of a driveway halfway onto the road as you cruise by at speed can make your heart skip a beat.  In the States you might say to yourself that that dog needs to be kept in the yard but here it’s the dog’s prerogative to now his own boundaries and dodge the traffic he jumps into.

Guard dogs get their fair share of affection and appreciation, their work is essential and they all seem to take their job seriously, a pat on the head and a plate full of chow are all the thanks they need, at the end of the day they make do with a doghouse or maybe a bit of a bed in the shed.  House dogs, on the other hand, live almost exclusively in the cozy confines of living rooms and kitchens.  Rocky, a white West Yorkshire Terrier, sits in the lap of luxury in the family house.  Allowed up on the couches and chairs, having not one but two beds available to him, in just his size, and gets the little lion’s share of table scraps tossed to him.  He has adapted several begging strategies which are variously adorable in order to get the handout he has his heart set on.  He is constantly underfoot or on a lap, possessing no sense of personal space, he has learned just exactly what he can get away with.  Like a precocious grandchild he is doted on and knows any sin will be forgiven with the right combination of cute facial expressions and innocent whimpering.

Most houses I’ve visited have a companion dog, never more than knee high, it is the lap dog or purse dog without the prestige.  Often from the working Terrier breed their origin as a pest control pet isn’t forgotten, Yapper, the old family house dog, started out as a vicious killer of all kinds of varmints and only retired to the cushy couch life in his last few golden years.  On the other side of the coin are Field dogs whose entire existence revolves around hunting or herding, their instincts given precedence to socialization they live in pens almost exclusively, being let out only for exercise or to fulfill their expressed purpose.  The unfortunate truth is that if a working dog spends too much time in the company of humans or other, fully domesticated, dogs it will begin to ignore its instincts and training, thus becoming another mouth to feed while not providing to the wellbeing of the homestead.  It is not the easiest life for a dog, and for those of us who know only fully domesticated animals it may seem cruel, but these are the hard ways of the world and of mother nature, and those laws still must be obeyed on the farm.

As you travel further from the fields, into the neighborhoods where dogs don’t have to earn their keep, you’ll see a sight all the more alien to American eyes.  For far from our conventions house dogs are allowed to roam the streets completely unaccompanied by their owners, yes, it is not at all uncommon and rarely if ever a cause for concern to come across what yanks would look upon as dogs gone loose.  This is not to say that stray or feral dogs roam the streets terrorizing the locals, but rather that households let their family pet out in the morning and let them go wherever they please throughout the day.  Typically these dogs keep to themselves, barely even bothered to give you their attention, never begging for treats, staying on the sidewalks, and distaining to root around in trash cans or in any other way cause trouble.

You would think this would cause trouble for the responsible people out walking their dogs on leashes but you would be even more surprised to see that most dogs walk with their owners unfettered and sans tether.  A trip to the park is almost guaranteed to include the sight of dogs playing fetch or jockeying with other dogs while their owners watch placidly, unconcerned with the potential for fights or run-aways.  I try to explain why this is strange to my Wife, that in the states we have universal leash laws (typically enforcing a 6’ maximum length) and that dogs are only allowed off leash in specialized dog parks, fenced in and regulated, some even requiring membership passes to get into.  She shakes her head at the folly of it all, Irish dogs are raised to behave, expected to be responsible, they’re all so well behaved not because of some rigorous obedience school with compulsory attendance but rather because they have known no other life than loyal but free. 

This adherence to obedience doesn’t just end at the park, dogs walk off leash in the busy city centers sometimes with their owners but also just on their own.  These dogs know how to keep out from underfoot and will even use crosswalks correctly, they don’t steal food from tables and perhaps most amazing of all will sit quietly at the entrance of shops waiting for their masters to conduct their business and emerge once more.  Sights like these give me that ‘not in Kansas’ feeling on a regular basis but it’s not so much a case of culture shock as much as a recalibrating of my expectations. I’m seeing more and more that the way things have always been done for me represent less of an ‘only way’ and more of one choice from many.  Ireland once again encourages personal responsibility rather than zero tolerance, because the own gets to decided for themselves just how far their dog can be trusted so among the free wheeling carefree canines you see the occasional hound leashed and muzzled. 

Because there are laws governing dogs here, it’s not a free-for-all, but the restrictions are put on dogs which have been known to act dangerously.  If the breed is known to exhibit ‘lock jaw’ a trait associated with Rotwiellers, Dobermans, German Shepherds, and others characterized by a strong, clamping bite then it must be muzzled in public.  Similarly I’ve seen electrified fencing put up around houses where aggressive and powerful dogs reside, and the penalty for a dog known to bite a person is to put the animal down without a second warning.  Now this may seem cruel, or unduly harsh, but that is the dichotomy of dogs in Ireland.  The dog is a servant to the house but also a beloved family member, it is given every advantage of its own independence, and that is only possible when the dogs who would jeopardize the safety of others are regulated and tightly controlled.  A dog here is allowed to be its best self, a little domestic, a little wild, and all around man’s most loyal companion.