Going Home

My bodhran, my happy dog, and some last views of Traught Beach, near the Doorus House hostel.

I am writing this while I fly from NYC to SLC, on the last leg of my trip! I stayed in Dublin last night but didn’t see much of it. The last three weeks have been pretty easy, and pleasant, but I still have no desire to plan any more outings, bus trips, train trips, etc. for a while, anyway.
I think Ireland soaked in to my bones, it felt like home, even if it was cold and rainy most of the time. I am taking a bit of it back with me in the bodhran, my Irish drum that I bought in Galway, and intend to learn to play. I have been wanting a drum for years, but the right one never seemed to show up- until now. I love the sound of it, the history, and the Celtic connection.
Thoughts, feelings, doubts, victories? All of those- as I recall my beginning attitudes and plans, and how it all changed- but the purpose’, if there was/is one? To experience some of Europe from a non-tourist perspective, to learn about people and places… To write, enjoy, make new friends. To trust the process as much as possible, to learn to go with the flow and not need to have everything planned out. I now think maybe there is a balance between planning and spontaneousness- either that, or it takes the full plunge into total trust, going with whatever happens, no life jacket. I didn’t have the courage to try that, really.
The ‘blind date’ idea from the beginning morphed to an affair with the places I found myself in. At this point, I feel confident enough to go do it again (after a good rest) without any thoughts of someone being there to help me out. It’s better without the restrictions of trying to mesh with another’s needs- unless that person is already a good friend and you already mesh. So to speak.
Flying over Lake Michigan. The familiar landscape of the states is kind of comforting for now. Shifting back, after three months, using US currency feels a bit strange. And driving on the right- after a month of being on the left. And being able to understand everyone’s speech. And recognizing brands.
I didn’t do as much painting as I would have liked- quite a few sketches, but just a few paintings that I may photograph and share. I think next time I will have a different attitude about where I might like to go, like eastern European countries. I guess I feel less limited about possibilities.
I feel inspired by Yeats, unexpectedly. I find myself planning poems at odd times. In general, I feel a lot more content, less restless. That is a good thing. Peaceful.
I still want to see Portugal and northern Spain- and more of France. But also Scandinavia, Poland, Turkey…Australia would be great.
I learned a lot about what not to do, a whole essay on that perhaps…and ways to save even more money. As it is, I think I actually spent less traveling than I would have if I stayed home. Amazing. Traveling a non-peak times would mean cheaper airfare. Now is not a good time, but even now, flying from Dublin helped. Shannon airport in Ireland also has flights to the US, but I haven’t checked their prices yet. Shannon is close to a lot of beautiful parts of Ireland.
I have a new perspective on Irish Americans, like a deeper respect and appreciation. And I see the Spanish speaking parts of Central/South America differently now, as a parallel European settlement but largely from Spain. ‘Mexicans’ are a very complex and interesting group of people, in light of their history.
Doubts? No. I expect to go again. Maybe doubts about being more than three months- not sure how that would pan out, with the supposed restriction without a visa. I haven’t heard of anyone getting in trouble for staying longer, as long as you behave yourself- but just not sure. I was asked when I left how long I had been in Europe- by American customs. That was different, to go through customs in Dublin before getting on the plane.
Victories? Lots of small ones, mostly over my own fears and doubts. Maybe that is what it is really all about. For me, anyway. Every fear that disappears is a victory. I believe I got the travel itch out of my system for a few weeks, anyway- and now ready to focus more on painting and writing. So it is all good.

‘Home’ now, I am wading through jet lag and a virus that I think I acquired before I left- And it is around 100 F., quite a shift from the 60’s and raining. But it feels really nice to be back, with my joyful dog, waiting out the hot part of the day in front of a fan. And learning how to play the Bodhran.

More Galway

As I begin to pack one more time, leaving Monday for Dublin-I think about how much this part of Ireland has affected me. I feel sadness in leaving, maybe because it is a soft and gentle place, peaceful and welcoming. Clean and authentic. County Galway ( I like saying it that way- like we could be saying County Salt Lake) also has the laws that prohibit jet skis and motor boats on public waterways, so maybe that also contributes to the peaceful feel of it.
I was back in Galway yesterday- I had bought an 18" bodhran (irish drum) and an instruction DVD- and then learned from the DVD that I probably needed another 'beater' or special stick to play it with- so had an excuse to return to the city. I walked to the Nogra bus stop where the only bus leaves at 7:10, so was in Galway before the stores were even open. I took a long walk to Salthill, a tourist area just southwest of Galway with beaches and parks, hotels and B&Bs and restaurants all along the prominade. One park is called the Children's Park, and dedicated to a six year old named Celia, one of a multitude who died in the famine. reminders are everywhere!
The bay near Galway is full of swans. I heard that last year some immigrants were catching and cooking them- but were quickly stopped. The swans are fun to watch. When they sleep with their snake neck tucked over their back, they often have one foot up on their back also. Seems tricky, floating and sleeping.
The walk is on the longest promenade in Ireland, and it is beautiful. There are monuments with poetry along the way. Wordsworth was one- I wish I had written it down! This one (also Wordsworth) will do:

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Well, back at the hostel, we now have a full house- about 50; adolescents from Dublin and their keepers. The place is a wreck. It was clean when they got here, and we are waiting for them to leave to clean again, that was the deal. So now it is just one more night of wildness, screaming and shouting. The keepers seem to be deaf.

Carol and I cycled to another side of the peninsula today, and were met by a brown border collie who accompanied us the rest of the way to the pier. Another really pretty place, the whole ride was gorgeous. The pictures are dark, no sunshune, again. Border collie insisted on playing fetch. Of course. I miss my dog!!

Boss Sean and his partner (fiance) (in Europe it seems they call all significant others 'partners') Michelle took Carole and I out for a drink and some music for my birthday. He has been the best host ever.

The Famine and Other Bits

That's how they talk, the English, it's bits of everything. Other bits like working in a hostel- the cleaning up bit is mopping and vacuuming and washing the sheets, not very intense, and the fun bit is in meeting people from everywhere. An elderly couple from New Zealand is here, leaving today to move on northward, another month to go on their four month sojourn. Motorcyclists from England, bicyclists from France...

Ireland. In my mind, a morphing concept. The famine was 150 years ago, but people still carry the scars, even across generations. Today's news still reflects the anger- at the conditions that contributed to the famine. Beyond the religious persecution, there was outright opression. My host, Sean, (30-something) says he has always had the feeling when he eats that he must hurry, that it might be taken away. Sean works the farm, tending cattle in the little walled pastures that have been in his family for many generations. He lived in New York for 13 years, but returned to Ireland when his father became ill.

Reading about the famine, it becomes clear to me that the potato blight was only the lst straw of an already unbearable situation. Tenant farmers were no more than slaves to the landed gentry- creating wealth for the landlords who lived in England. Their own take of the product of their toil was so reduced, that potatoes was all they could afford, or had the wherewithall to raise. They were living in deprivation before the blight which had been a recurring problem for decades, but became more frequent and devastating. Meanwhile all other food produced in Ireland was shipped elsewhere.

The response of the English rulers was denial that there was a problem, then evictions as the farmers became a liability for one reason or another, then 'poorhouses' as they streamed into the cities desperate for food. 20% of the population died or left on 'coffin ships' for Australia, Canada, the U.S.- and more died in the horrible conditions on the ships, or of disease after they arrived. In this area of Galway, 30 % of the population was lost- and even in the city there was a population decrease, while other cirties like Belfast and Dublin had swelled from migrant evictees and starving farmers.

One particular trend that continues to be a sore spot was the practice at the time of some protestant churches to offer help, as in food, if the catholic farmers would just come to the protestant church.

I recall back on Arran Island (Scotland) the stories of the 'clearances' meaning evictions as small produce farms were lumped into bigger sheep farms. I have since read that the tax laws changed at about the same time, to favor larger parcels, and this contributed to the eviction rate.

These are my impressions, and not necesarily fact- but I am most impressed with my own ignorance, somehow buying it that it was a simple matter of a potato disease that caused all the problems. There may well be another side to it, but I think oppressive treatment of the whole popluation of Ireland was a pretty clear fact.

Reading about W.B. Yeats has fit in with my thoughts- he was born in 1869, not long after the famine, and was a major part in the fight for home rule for Ireland, even though he had close connections in and with England.

He had a passion for Irish mythology, for the occult, for Irish freedom (and for certain women). I still wonder how it would be to live a life being so clear as to what it is you are passionate about. I find Yeats inspirational mostly for his ability to find ideas and to persevere on them- something I could learn to do someday?

Aran Islands and Connemara

After two days of adventures I am back at the Hostel. Just catching the bus was an adventure the first day, as one must stand in the road to flag the bus down at Doorus Cross, not being a regular bus stop. Also, it is on a curve, so that the bus driver can only see you at the last minute. And the tall hedges hide the bus so I don't know when it's coming, and had 3 seconds to decide if it was the bus I wanted or not.

After all that, I was one of only two riders all the way out to Doolin. OK, enough about the bus. I had a bit of a walk to find the ticket office for the ferry. The town is way up the hill and out of sight from the pier, but there is a nice golf course in between... I had booked a ticket the day before, as is suggested on their fliers, and now had to find the office to get my ticket- There were at least four ferry companies near the pier...Doolin Ferries, Doolinferry, Doolin Ferry, and The Doolin Ferry Co. I finally tracked down the one, but in the end they all charge the same and there was no big crowd looking to go out on a cold windy day. I thought I had a ride to the big Island, Inis Mor, which has all the 'places of interest' on it, and a side trip on the way back to view the Cliffs of Moher from the sea. Turned out to be wrong on both counts.

The island destination was one of the small ones, Inis Oirr (or Inisheer). A big lopsided rock with lots of cottages, birds, and a few horse-drawn wagons/buggies. Getting there was exciting as the swells were getting bigger and the ferry had to get out between breakers from one direction and swells from another. It was on the way that I met a loud red-haired fellow with a lovely young girl- Paul and his daughter Hayley. They were both friendly and invited me to join them.

We walked the island raods and found most of the landmarks- The ruins of O'Brians' Castle (15th century) the signal tower dating from the Napoleanic wars, and the remains of a 10th century church in an old cemetary.

The ride back was even more rock and rolly. We had watched the captain dash back to the dock to get his rosary just before we took off, so thought maybe things were a bit iffy. It was bad enough that it turned out the side trip to see the cliffs was cancelled. Unloading at the small pier back in Doolin, small children and people with strollers were having an especially bad time with the ramp which was rolling back and forth and pitching with the big waves.

We had acquired another member for the party, a young woman from New York, and the four of us found a pub and had lunch, or drank beer. Paul was interestd in Doorus House, so decided to give me a ride back and check it out. Eventually the plan developed that I would go with them to tour the Connemara the next day, when they would stay at the hostel before heading back to Dublin, and Holland. Haley wanted to watch the Spain-Holland Football game in Holland, which is where Paul is living. Haley is spending a few weeks with him before going home to South Carolina. Like me, Paul had discovered that flights to Ireland tend to be a cheaper way to get between the US and Europe, and so had included a tour of Ireland in his plans for his daughter's visit.

The second adventure was to drive around the area north and west of Galway for a day- the Connemara is a wilder kind of place, with large expanses of land lacking the piled rock fences, and rock houses, that are so endemic most places. The mountains are breathtaking, with interesting and unusual shapes,and sheep were everywhere. We stopped at Aughnanure Castle, near Oughterard. The castle (or old Irish tower house) was part of the O'Flaherty clan's domain in the 1500's before England took over. The castle was fixed up a bit, so walking through gave an impression of the rather austere living conditions with not much space, giant fireplaces, and rudimentary 'plumbing' (a recess built in to a corner of the castle, collecting waste from several floors). Surrounded by rivers, in the woods, I thought it was quite pretty.

Driving through mountains and woods, around large peaceful lakes, I am reminded that very few lakes are open to noisy motorized recreation here. In fact I have yet to see one. I was also admiring piles of peat that had been cut from the turf- and now I am curious about that whole process. It is turf, aged and compacted under the boggy pastures, that somehow transforms itself into fuel. It has been used for many centuries- and is still widely used in stoves- to heat homes. The anaerobic properties of the conditions that create the peat also preserve oragnisms- like the many sacrificial humans that were buried in the bogs over the centuries, and still turn up looking pretty good.

Forests, other-worldly landscapes, a fjord...we followed the coast for a ways, from Clifden through Ballyconnelly and Roundstone, and this landscape is different again, like one huge rock garden next to the sea.

Now I can rest, back at the hostel, between cleaning and check ins- taking it easy on a rainy day.

Galway

The photos- A part of an immense walled garden behind the Doorus House hostel, which was part of the old estate belonging to Yeat's friend the Count Florimund de Basterot. The garden is now a community garden, organized by a Kinvara sustainable living group. The old steps cross a rock wall into the cemetery near Doorus House, where count Basterot and friends are buried. In the cemetery is the remains of an old friary(?) with the steps going up to what is left of the bell tower.

Yesterday I caught a ride into Galway, about an hour away- and spent half a day wandering in the touristy town with lots of young people. Many school-agers were there in groups on tour, and lots of college-aged kids seemed resident. I was in need of a good raincoat, as it was raining yet again, and I had whittled my possessions down perhaps a bit too far. The lady in the info booth pointed across the street, saying there was a Pennys in the mall. What mall? It looked like any other old street lined with small markets. But cleverly tucked in a doorway was an entrance to an inner immense shopping mall, including Burger King and McDonalds. I like that these were hidden. On the lower level is a reproduction or reconstruction of a castle, blended in with the food court. I believe there was a real castle there at some time. Or three, at least, back in the 11th century. The origins of the name Galway (Gaillimh) means 'stony river'. The city was a thriving sea port in the middle ages, but succumbed many times over the centuries to feuds and religious wars, civil wars and famines, as well as fires and tsunamis. It has recovered some in the last century, but probably nothing like its glory days as a shipping port for Spain and France.

There are several streets that are pedestrian only, with lots of interesting shops, more touristy stuff. I checked at the tourist information office about bus tours of the Connemara, the area north and west of Galway. I decided against the rental car idea, again, mostly because of stories I have heard about peoples credit card being charged in the neighborhood of $1500.00 for scratches. The roads around here are so narrow, with no place to escape as not only are there hedges with brambles, there are rock walls- within inches of the edge, and when a bus goes by the other way not even that much. The insurance to cover such things as scratches almost doubles the rental rate.

I took the bus back, and picked up the latest schedule. Bus schedules vary by the day, the season, and subject to change. I can get a bus within a mile of the hostel (3 KM)but only at 7 in the morning, to Galway. At the crossroads 5 KM away is a bus to Galway or Cliffs of Moher every couple of hours, but not after 5.

I have plans now to go to the Cliffs tomorrow, along with a ferry tour to the Aran Islands, and have to catch the 9 o'clock bus from the crossroads.

The Burren and the Poet

The music in Kinvara, at Keogh's, was fabulous. Ten musicians made the tiny room crowded already, and it was standing room only for a while, but it was free, except for the glass of Guiness. A guy named Billie Carr seemed to be the senior member, and it was an informal gathering, a jam session. He played a squeezebox and spoons, others played fiddles, mandolin, guitars, the Irish drum, flute, pipe, and irish bagpipes.

I met a few of the locals there, quite friendly and talkative. I plan to go again tonight, maybe a different place. Saturday night means even more choices.

I took the hostel bike yesterday and explored the closer part of the burren, which is hills of limestone full of ancient building and grave sites, and now a national park. The tallest hill is only about 1000 feet, but the views from there are spectacular. I took some pictures from part way up, then the battery died, but you can get the idea.

Several houses- and a hotel in Kinvara- have new thatched roofs. It seems to be a growing trend, and it really is beautiful. The Merriman Hotel in Kinvara is one of the largest buildings anywhere with a thatched roof.

I am reading a small book on Yeats, who spent a lot of time in this area, and was a visitor in this house (Doorus House) in the 1890's, talking with Lady Gregory about starting a theater company in Dublin. Yeats lived from 1865 to 1939. I think I mentioned earlier about visiting his grave up near Sligo, where he spent a lot of his younger years. It is just coincidence that I find myself on his trail. Or is it?

I am slowly learning the hostel management business, but business is even slower... A few people each night, would be more interesting if it was busy I think. A few hours of cleaning each day, and check ins in the evening- not too strenuous. I am thinking of renting a car for a while, as the bike has issues, or I do with the hard seat it has, and there is much more to see and do that is just out of reach. After practicing riding a bike on the left side of the road, I have a little more confidence I could drive on the left without total brain freeze.

Mostly, this place is really laid back, and I do have lots of time- so far I have nothing else planned and can stay here til I go home if I so wish. I have to admit that the appeal of making more moves to more strange places has lost some of it's luster. For now.

I have booked a flight from Dublin- which is half the price than from any other city in Europe- to return to Utah on July 20. So I'm thinking from now on it is just a matter of learning all I can about Counties Galway and Clare.

Kinvarra

The photos: Ben on the beach, the view from Dan and Pam's living room, Main street in Kinvarra, stone walls and an old building near Doorus.

*****

I have a few minutes, having got off the bus here at Kinvarra, or Kinvara (seems both ways are common) waiting for my next host to pick me up. This is one of those moments, at the edge of experience, when a whole new scenario is about to begin- both the place and the personality of the host are unknowns, yet they are my current destiny.

Back on Streedagh Point, I walked the dunes this morning, still marveling at the simple beauty of it. The grave site on top of a hill, the stone walls built in the time of the famine, a make-work project along the sea. The rabbit warrens like condos in the steep sides of the dunes. The flat open spaces of short grass looking like a huge green on a golf course.

I will miss all that, and more. A beach walk and a rocky pass to a grassy point, all in view of Dan and Pam's living room. Absolutely rediculous!

The scenery on the way down was more of the countryside that reminds me so much of Oregon. If you turned the houses in western oregon into stone cottages, and the fences into stone walls, it would be hard to know which was which. All the blackberries, the damp air, green fields, cows and sheep...Coming through Galway, I had an hour to walk a bit- although dragging a suitcase is inhibiting. I find most people very friendly and easy to talk to, except for the occasional churlish bus driver or ticket agent.

I am just south of Galway, across the bay, actually. The website for the hostel (Doorus House) has an enticing list of things to see and do, not the least of which is the proximity of a ferry to the Aran Islands. Of course it is fitting, having visited Arran Island in Scotland, that I see the Aran Islands in Ireland. Had no idea there were two such places. Also tombs, castles, caves, beaches.

Stay tuned, its not over yet!

******

Now in the Doorus Hostel- nice guy that runs it is trying to decide if it is in fact a viable operation. He planned to lease it from the hostel organization which owns it, but the conditions seem too stringent. The place needs some renovation to be really nice- but no one has the money. Carpets, paint, and other projects just wait.

I was beginning to learn the check-in process, and we had ten people show up last night, which was unusual. Many days are not booked at all, or only a few people. Not very tough duty- cleaning in the morning as soon as everyone leaves, then free for a while at least. Went to Gort for groceries, walked to the beach near here, and planning some trips to the Burren, (a national park) and the Cliffs of Moher.

I am learning that while Kinvarra is a relatively small and unknown town, it has some of the best music- one to three places playing every night of the week, many are jam sessions. I will go into town tonight after we close up this place, and listen to some. And let you know how it was.

Arran Isle and Ireland

The title is kind of a tongue twister. But the places are breathtaking, and very relaxing.

Arran Island had to be delayed a day because the trains were not running between Glasgow and the port. I changed trains in Kilwinning, and the timing was all good to get right on the ferry boat. I met Marion, a lady from Prestwick who was having a day out, and we chatted for the hour it took to get to the island. Once there I headed for Brodick castle and planned to stop at the museum on the way. There are buses but I decided a half hour walk sounded good. I wound up spending several hours at the museum, learning about some of the history of the island. There was a long prehistoric record, neolithic farmers for thousands of years, with rock structures in several places from ancient celtic times. A period of time in the late 1700's and early 1800's called the 'Clearance' had many small farmers being evicted to make room for larger spreads, for sheep farming. The evictees were offered land in Canada, but the immigration involved great hardship and much loss of life.

The museum has a great collection of old farm equipment and early farming lifestyle exhibits. I stopped for lunch and shared a table with some people from east Scotland who told me they come to the island every year. They had relatives in Canada since the Clearance, but had lost track of names through marriage.

By the time I walked to the castle-which was closed for the day, picked some orange blackberries (?) and walked back to the port, the ferry was coming in. I talked with Marion again on the way back, and learned that she had moved from England to Scotland 25 years ago, to a country place in the south, and had moved again recently into Prestwick as her husband became disabled with arthritis.

I had dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Troon after getting back on the train. It seemed too ironic to miss, and the place I intended for dinner was closed- but Irish Mexican food is something I can't really recommend.

At 5 the next morning I was watching a fox cross the golfcourse while waiting for a taxi. I made the connections- flew to Dublin, then took a bus to the train station. Train to Sligo-a three hour tour across the middle of Ireland on a lovely day. Stone walls everywhere. cattle and sheep, all in stone walled pastures. Stone walled houses. Small towns at small stations. Enchanting.

At Sligo, Dan met me at the station, and at his home in Streedagh Bay his wife Pam welcomed me to a place I would call Camelot. With views of beaches, at least one castle, and fantastic cliff-sided hills of Ben Bulben on the inland side, with a park-like preserve space next door to walk in and watch rabbits, huge numbers of them, with access to rocky fossil-encrusted shores, fishing spots, rolling turf-covered sand dune hills...

I have been shown many fascinating places not far away, like Yeates grave at a lovely small church (a place called Drumcliff), megalithic tombs, Park's Castle. The countryside is greening up again with recent rains, after weeks of an unusual drought.

History just seeps out of every beach and lake, and wafts from every stone in the walls, castles, houses. Just out the window where I stay, the shallows hide the remains of wrecked galleons from the Spanish Armada of the 1580's, and brings to life the fantastic story as told by a survivor. The storms that pushed 26 ships in that one season onto the coast of Ireland still rage, as the aftermath of Atlantic hurricanes washes up here.

Much more to say, but not much time for writing between explorations!

Tomorrow I leave for a hostel in the Galway area, traveling down the coast by bus.

A little bit south of Troon

The map is a closeup from one down on the beach that illustrates the smuggling route that Troon is famous for in the late 1700's The other photos are some buildings on the streets of Troon.

A few last thoughts about France- or the little piece of it I experienced, anyway- it has a distinctive feel which is maybe a little more proud, more concerned about the environment, broader minded. Jean said she thought most of the people who had moved down from England had come with some sense of entitlement, and had never got along with the French people they chose to live with- and recently many of those same people are moving back to great Britain, partly because of chances in their financial condition (and currency values) and partly because they were tired of being unwelcome. Which was their own doing. Jean finds the French people in general to be friendly and helpful, and has no such problems.
She also told me about local prisons which are very strict and refuse to cater to any prisoner comforts. She thinks that’s why the repeat offender rates are very low. She also said that things like drunk driving, car theft, or possession of illegal drugs will put one in jail right away. The consequence is very few car thefts, and rare drunk driving.
Would like to find out more about the French legal/penal system, but for now, Onwards- to Scotland
Flying out of Carcassonne was another learning experience. First, while in Spain, and as I was told by friends there, and as was evident by the carry-ons that I saw- not much attention was paid to the strict limits on size and weight of carry-on luggage. I assumed it would be the same in France, but was wrong. I was ok on size but over on weight, and had thought I didn’t need to check anything. I could have, before check-in, for 15 euros. But I had already checked in, so now the cost was 35 euros. Oops. Better to plan on a checked bag.
Another sign of mental fatigue- Having decided to wear a blouse that had a metal decoration on it on fly day meant having to be thoroughly frisked at security.
Flying north across France was an amazing sight- the patterns and colors of the farm fields made an endless mosaic, with dark green lines where there were hedgerows between, or where the canals wound through. Roads made spider-web designs centered on towns of tile roofed stucco buildings.
The British Isles were similar, but more forested sections, and the further north we were, the more golf courses there were. I landed at Prestwick near Glasgow, and a short taxi ride took me to my B&B, Westwinds, owned by a friend of my last hostess. She gave me a pile of literature on the area, and I went out to explore. I wandered the streets of Troon, the closest town, but to get there I skirted a few golf courses. There are at least five within shouting distance, and famous ones at that.
Troon has a nice beach, and little shops. I found the train station and learned that I can ride to the Isle of Arran and back for 13 pounds, so that is the plan for tomorrow.

Wrapping it up in France

Pictures: In the Citte, the Cathedral (Basilique Saint-Nazaire), Old Cazilhac, Cemetary at the Citte, detail on a monument.

Still ‘chillin’’, literally! It has been rainy and cold here in Carcassonne, with only a few sunny hours since I got here. I have mostly enjoyed it; it reminds me of Oregon.
Saturday I decided to walk into Carcassonne from Palaja, where I am staying. Ross started out with me, but the rain got to him about half-way (he had decided against the brightly colored umbrella that was available), so I went on alone. Over all it is about 3 or 4 miles, and a lot of it was on a narrow highway with no shoulder to walk on, just deep ditches on both sides of the road, full of wildflowers. The last third, after the pretty old town-turned-holiday-house-subdivision Cazilhac, was on the ‘old road’, a little used back road that goes directly to the old walled ‘citte’.
Walking between fields of wheat, sunflowers, and vineyards with the frequent old stone buildings or ruins on a winding road made it easy to imagine how it was hundreds of years ago, when this very road was in use, though probably not paved. Seeing the towers of the citte rise ahead of me, donkey carts, flocks of sheep and goats, and the occasional knight with entourage would have been no surprise.
The rain continued, and when I had wound my way up into the back walls by the cathedral, I found a deserted place, the cobbled streets wet and quiet. It was afternoon break time- in Spain it is called siesta, but I don’t know the name for it here. I found most restaurants were closed but found one sidewalk cafe still open and went in to warm up and have a cheese omelet and small glass of red (rouge) wine.
Both times I have been here before, I have gone into the cathedral- after all the glittering gold of Spain’s cathedrals, this one feels simple but elegant. The best part however is the men’s a’capella choir form Moscow that performs in the central space with a combination of fantastic acoustics and amazing voices. They are selling CD’s, and sing for about 5 minutes every hour or so.
The crowds start to reappear in the streets, but mixed in are lots of people dressed in medieval costumes- just to embellish my time warp experience. It turns out there was a jousting match, but I never found the jousting field. I visited the cemetary just outside the citte walls, and like other cemetarys bith here and in Spain, it has a big wall around it. The graves are monuments, very few just head stones like we are used to. THey are often very ornate, and decorated further with figures and I found a bus back to Palaja late afternoon. I was still wet from the walk, and getting cold.
At the house, things had been getting tense between the hostess and the other helper, but I didn’t know why. He said she blamed him for a broken gate, and he denied it. She said he needed to grow up. While we were expected to have meals with the hosts in the upstairs kitchen before, we were now, as of Sunday, told to make our own meals in the downstairs apartment. This is how I would have preferred it anyway. I think that Jean is in a tough situation, trying to do too much, with too many things going wrong. William’s health is a major issue, and managing holiday rentals is stressful enough. Add financial problems and myriad other details like finding that neighbors have been dumping trash in back of her property and that her best pet goat is sick…Ah, the quirks of help-xing. We are the third and fourth helpers Jean has had, and the previous two were pretty awful by her description.
We have finished a large patio, painted a bathroom, tiled a storage shed, helped clean, weed, odd chores…about 7 hours most days. While she has acknowledged that the standard for helpers is 4-5 hours 5 days a week, she gets pretty upset if anyone mentions hours. I suspect that she is so excited to have help, she feels a need to get the most out of it.
I shipped another box today, so finally down to one bag. It saves a lot on Ryanair, and I have learned how to get by with less, and less. One bag! At the post office, as usual, the lady spoke no English, but the last customer happened to be an English teacher, and she was called in to help Good thing, too, because the problems included my needing to go to the grocery store to find a box of the right dimensions, and to the tobacco shop to buy tape to seal it all up. Then back to the post office to fill out forms that were far from self-explanatory. I miss being able to use Spanish! Sometimes people around here do understand Spanish, more likely than English- I think I said that before, but it is a big deal. So hard to be in a country where you have no use of the language whatsoever! Well, I do know a few words now, but far from comfortable.
Ross has left for Perpignon and beyond, to help build tree houses in the Pyrenees mountains. I have a ticket to Glasgow in two days- Ryanair again. Jean knows the owner of a B&B near Prestwick, and the room is 25 euro per night, so I am treating myself to a few days there. Then another flight, to Dublin, and across to the west coast of Ireland by train. I will visit an old friend there, then return to Dublin and go south to help-x again, on a goat farm near New Ross on the south east coast, or a hostel on the west coast near Galway. Choices, choices.
Postscript- Peter the goat took a turn for the worse today, and I went with Jean to the vet. She left me with him in the car while she waited in the waiting room, and meanwhile the vet came out and tried to talk with me about Peter- while I tried to explain that the owner was in the office waiting. In the end, I went in when they took the goat inside, and found Jean who had no idea they were looking at him. The vet was amazing, a lady who did blood tests on the spot, and had already found a large tumor in his stomach/liver. He had to be put down. Very sad, I have only known him a few weeks and I was crying too.
Things are a bit calmer this evening, but the remaining goat, Bella, keeps us reminded of the missing. I think I have my own stuff sorted and ready to travel on, trying to read a bit of Robert Burns as preparation and remembering why I never got very far before- but there is a book here with translations.

Chillin in Carcassone

Pictures-

Some houses in a small village east of Carcassone;

The Cherry Tree Patio in progress; Boot Sale; Ross, Jean and William; The main courtyard in the palace in the Citte; 2 views of the palace; and Peter, one of Jean's goats.

Chillin in Carcassonne

It’s been lovely, ‘asn’t it? Just settin around havin’ a cool one, on the porch? Aye, an it can’ get much better, can it?
Aye.
Another culture warp, it is, ‘Johnny’. In the drop dead gorgeous south of France, mind you, and my hosts are Scottish and the other helpxer is Irish, aye.
I have been negligent, for sure, about writing. I did need some time to not think about much, though. I have been helping with miscellaneous small stuff- like weeding, finishing a wood deck, and building a patio around a cherry tree with pavers. Also went with my hostess Jean to look at a house- she is probably going to sell this one as it is getting to be too much for her to take care of. Her husband William has had a stroke and is not strong enough to help much, but he still does a lot of small jobs. Jean is trying helpx for the same reason, but seems somewhat resigned to finding a smaller place. This one has a finished apartment in the basement (where I am staying at the moment) and a very quaint small cabin up the hill with its own swimming pool. She rents these out to people on holiday, most from the British Isles, and earns a living that, but it is still a lot of work.
Last Saturday Ross (Irish laddie) and I went to the old ‘citte’, the famous walled castle just outside Carcassonne. It’s a bit touristy, but so well preserved it is easy to get a flavor
of what it might have been like to live in such a place. The history period that is most referenced is around 1200 ad, when a growing number of people referred to as ‘cathars’ who generally were Christians who decided not to go along with much of the dogma of the Catholic church. This created an excuse for the Catholic church to crusade right there in what is now southern France, wiping out villages and doing the inquisition thing to try to eradicate the ‘heretics’. Carcasonne, or the Citte, was a major hold out when other cities were surrendering to the massive army, called the Host”. An interesting book, a historical novel about it is called Labyrinth by Kate Mosse.
We went to a car boot sale (like a flea market) on Sunday, and I might have picked up some nice antiques if I was wanting to ship stuff. We drove through several tiny villages on the way, and I got to see some of the countryside. It is all so pretty, peaceful, and green.
We stopped at one of Jean’s friend’s house, where it turned out the friend had left for Crete, and these other people were doing some watering, and immediately invited us to their house for wine and cherry-picking. Jean said of course- she is fond of being spontaneous. So we had a few glasses of wine with people from England, and picked cherries. We also had a bag of mulberries we gathered earlier, so Jean made jam when we finally returned ‘home’.
All three of the people I now live with are hysterical. They tease me about my American accent as much as I tease them about their respectively weird ways of putting things. “You wouldn’t get me the milk now, would ya” means please pass the milk. (Irish) Tree often means three. Tird means third. Etc. Most ‘tings’ are ‘massive’, 'brilliant', or someone is ‘mad about’ someting.
Jean likes to hide from me (or Ross) when we go somewhere, then laugh hysterically when I realize she is out of sight. She calls Ross Johnny, or Scott, or Toby. So far I don’t have a lot of nicknames. She also likes to sneak up on people. A guy was in the store the other day, looking around the corner of an aisle. I could see that he was a security guard and was watching some teens who were looking at makeup. Being very obvious, and with his butt sticking out in the cross aisle. Jean couldn’t resist trying to startle him He didn’t think she was very funny.
William is just as amusing. Maybe due to the stroke he had, he only speaks in one syllable sentences, and it is often difficult to understand him, but it is usually well worth the effort to figure it out. A very dry sense of humor- and he has taken to accusing me of all sorts of things. Says I like my wine (I do, but haven’t actually had much for a while). Jean found some old cigarette butts near the garden, asked who had been smoking. William quickly says “Phibi”. That’s how he says my name. I had bare feet this afternoon, after hours of hauling big slabs of pavers and wheelbarrows of cement it felt good to have no shoes on. He said I had ‘onion feet,’ kept pointing and laughing. Think he meant bunion, but I don’t have those either. Whatever. I think he likes me. Strange man.
France does a few things differently, I am learning. One story is about a British guy who moved here and bought a house. His first tax bill came and he thought it was outrageously high, especially since his road wasn't paved. The mayor had told him it would get done one day soon, but that was a year ago. He went in to complain, and most likely was a bit pushy about it. He got a new ammended tax bill a few days later...for a lot more than the first one. Nothing he can do about that, apparently.
I haven't been able to get any cash out of any ATMs since I got to France- so finally I wrote to my bank- by instant message. They were great. Said that if the machine doesn't ask what account you want it out of, the savings account is the default account. I have several accounts, but the savings account only has a token amount. And its true, they don't ask what account. I have yet to try again, with funds in the savings account, but hopeful now. Amazing what we can do with a computer- so much better than trying to sort it out by phone.
That's another britishism- getting sorted out. "She'll sort you out" or "Did you get sorted?" Oui, Merci. Very good.