Not Just a Poetic Form

Like Cork, Limerick is a river-city, sitting on the banks of the Shannon and its offspring, the Abbey. Long divided into English Town and Irish Town until the 1800s, when British soldiers finally removed the medieval town walls, the city stretches for about 20 kilometers along the Shannon, crosses the ancient divide of the two towns; the Abbey, and continues north.

It’s very much like Cork with a university of its own and a Saturday open-air market selling fruits and flowers and footwear, where we bought a pair of St. Bridget’s Crosses- reed-woven square constructs that reminds me of the palm-frond crosses we used to make at Calvary.

From the market we found our way to St. Mary’s Cathedral. Built in 1168, it’s the oldest building in Ireland still used for its intended purpose. The property is surrounded by city on all sides, as well as raised graves and family plots put into every corner. The interior is wide and spacious; the history surrounding you in busts of patrons and cardinals, plaques commemorating donations, and in the very pock marked white-washed walls and archways. But for all this, it is evidently still a very alive and active modern parish, with billboards and newsletters and service times to greet you as you walk in.


A stone archway commemorating a cathedral donor.

After taking a turn around the cathedral we headed farther down the Shannon to King John’s Castle and the last vestiges of the formidable stone wall the once surrounded Limerick. One large round turret greets you at first sight, flanked by the gleaming modern front of the visitor’s center. Once you walk through the “thrilling” and strangely oriented history of the castle, you can emerge into the courtyard, complete with fire pit, blacksmith booth, covered wagon, and even a real live hangman’s noose.


Certainly worth the photo opportunities.

The castle itself was a wonderful vantage point for the city. From along the wall we could see as far as the Muster Rugby Stadium while hundreds of feet below the Abbey rushed into the Shannon. The castle sits directly on the banks of the Abbey, stone wall plunging into the water. At high tide it is a spectacle.

We finished our tour of the castle with an underground view of the recently excavated entryway and wandered farther into the city to the Hunt Museum, a privet collection of artifacts from all periods of European history. It was a bright, clean place with each exhibit propped for the best view. There were drawers full of artifacts to examine and even special places where you could stick your hand in a feel the object before guessing what it was (not just for kids, considering the drawers were often at chest-level.)

By this time it was nearly 3 o’clock, so we settled into the Gallery restaurant and made ourselves PB&J sandwiches, all the while contemplating the dessert selection, which we eventually had to give in to.


My choice, Apple Crumb pie with creame.

Thus refreshed we retraced our steps back to the Limerick City Gallery of Art, a free public institution on the edge of the spacious and shaded People's Park, which surrounds Rice's Memorial; a large pillar of stone capped with a stature of the aforementioned Thomas Rice. We wandered the park for a bit, where my camera’s battery decided to give out, and then headed onto the museum. While the main exhibit was closed for a conference, we did see a collection by artist Clare Langan called “The Ice Above, The Fire Below, and Other Works,” which consisted of three videos, four to nine minuets in length, and eerily enhanced with chilling music. From there we found a second exhibition called “Into to Irish Drawing,” a hodgepodge of contemporary Irish artists, each with their own selection of pieces covering everything from old newspapers to charcoal silhouettes.

By the time we wandered back down to the main floor dark was already falling, and there being only a two block walk back to the bus station, we turned our way there. As we waited for our bus to pull up, I stood outside the station holding my reed-woven cross to keep it from getting crushed in my bag when an older Irish gentleman took note and struck up a conversation about how long it had been since he wove one of them himself. Ending his short story with a handshake and an ernest "Godbless ya," we were sent back to Cork.

Go Raibh Maith Agat Gaillimh.

More so than Killarney, or even Cork, Galway is an upscale little city on the west coast of Ireland, about a four-hour drive from Cork by bus. We arrived Friday night to tour the city a bit before deciding our plans for the weekend, when we ran into a few of our flatmates up for the weekend as well. We spent the night at a chic little pub called “The Living Room” before headed back to our room about midnight to decide what to do.

In the end we spent Saturday touring Connemara National Park, situated to the north and west of Galway proper. It’s an expansive region, and sparsely populated except by small outcroppings or individual houses stationed near the numerous lakes and rivers cutting into the region from the sea. In the spring and summer I imagine the mountains to be green and bright, but this time of year everything carried a brown pallor in conjunction with the overcast sky. It was cold here, being farther north, and the change was noticeable.


Ireland's only fjord, in the Connemara.

We stopped for lunch at a small pub along the route, famous for its appearance in the 1989 movie “The Field,” starring Richard Harris, a legacy the pub holds on to firmly. Afterwards we wound north to the main attraction of our journey, Kylemore Abbey, a large, right stone estate, both Benedictine Abbey and girl’s school. Now with just 25 students, there is talk of the estate being sold again. It started as a mansion in 1867, built by Mitchell Henry and sold to the Duke and Duchess of Manchester in 1903, only to be sold again, less than 20 years later, to the Benedictine Nuns who now own it.

It’s a massive stone structure, ornately decorated, sitting on the very edge of the lake and surrounded completely by the Connemara. It’s a wonder how Henry found the spot in the first place, it being fifty miles from Galway proper and lodged firmly between two very large groupings of mountains. It’s really a spectacular sight. Here we toured what bit of the mansion was accessible and then went down to the chapel and from there to the mausoleum, all the while taking a beautiful walk along the lake with the precipice of the mountainside towering over us on the left-hand side. It was the first time I got a real feel for the natural landscape of Ireland.

On Sunday we opted to go in the other direction- West. The Aran Islands are a group of three outlying rocks, some of the furthest most west pieces of land in Europe. An hour-long bus ride found us at the dock where we were ferried to Inis Mór, the largest of the islands, being about 12 miles square. There we rented bikes and toured it ourselves. Here you can see the bedrock that makes up not only these islands, but Ireland as a whole. Like much of Co. Claire, the island was lined with hundreds of rock-walled pastures spreading down to the shore. Here is where hundreds of year ago farmers hauled sand and seaweed up from the beach to line their paddocks, making them better for growing plants and pasturing animals. What remains are lopsided but sturdy walls and the rather frequent stone skeleton of a thatched-roof house. Animals are still kept here, cows and ponies, as well as a wealth of chickens and the occasional cat.


A friend we met on Inis Mór.

We went along the shore for a good hour and a half, just stopping at beaches and picking up rocks. The stone here is pocked and brittle and although the day was abnormally warm and clear, I can imagine the wet, cold sea the island must usually see. After awhile we wound up to the Seven Churches- a cropping of seven ruined churches on the hillside. Here was also a cemetery, and a very recent one at that, where people still came to mourn.

We took a wrong turn and ended up missing the second side of the island, instead biking right through the center and catching some wonderful vistas from the top. Late in the day we caught the ferry out, and then the bus back to Galway, but upon arriving in Galway we found out the last bus back to Cork had departed at 6:00pm, and that we had missed it by roughly an hour.

Out of ideas, we ate dinner at Supermac’s- a conglomeration of fast food that even America has yet to top- and spent the night in the comparative luxury of a Travelodge. Catching the 7:00am bus this morning, we finally stumbled into Cork at 11am, tired, smelly, and glad to be back.


Looking towards the beach at Inis Mór.

O'Bama

I wish I could say I spent the inauguration in a pub with a pint of Magner’s and a handful of Americans, but because I had to see it live, spent it in my apartment with the girls as we silently listened to the 44th President take the oath of office.

Here in Ireland, it was known to be happening. Perhaps most interesting is that two out of our four channels showed it live- and one by streaming feed from CNN. Our Chaucer professor let us out early in case we wanted to catch it, and I happened to come across a very interested Irish guy who wanted to know where he, too, could watch the crowing of our new prince.

It is strange to think that people here care so much. Also to sit in the living room and watch cars go by on the street and think, don’t they realize? Why are they out when there is history to watch?

Both that the rest of the world cares so much, and also that they don’t care much at all.

I wonder what today in America was like. Can you feel the Change yet?

The Price of Eloquence

When I heard about kissing the Blarney Stone, no one told me it would be an utterly terrifying experience made better only by the slight of Irish luck imposed on us by the act. The town of Blarney is about a twenty minuet ride from Cork proper, and still in County Cork, a small place composed mainly of the world-famous castle and grounds. It was a blustery, windy way up until we set foot on the castle grounds, at which point the clouds opened and the sideways sun began to shine for the first time in what seems like days.

The castle is first seen as a large square edifice set upon a mound of bedrock and surrounded by the green, remarkably well-tended castle gardens. The ceilings are low and the entire building seems to be nothing but a man-made cave of tight doorways and winding stairwells, a lot like Skipton Castle in Northern England, actually, although perhaps bigger.

Inside the path guides you through the entryway to the main hall, up into the master chambers, around into the family rooms, and finally bringing you out onto the castle parapets where large gaps in the stonework not only drain water, but also provides a direct view to the ground some 90 feet below.

At the base of one of these hanging parapets is the fabled Blarney Stone, a flat blue rock situated in mid-air. In order to kiss it, one has to lean back over the open space in between and reach for the stone while the rain and wind try to knock you from your perch. There was a man there to hold us as we dipped out necks out over the landscape and held on to the protective bars. At one point I was sure I was going to slip off the rock, which only my legs touched, with only the bars to hold on to, but after the initial terror subsided I kissed the stone quickly and regained my footing on the solid castle roof.

From that point, our luck did seem to change. For the next hour or two as we walked the grounds down to Blarney House and the lake, the clouds blew east and bright blue sky came out. It was a mushy walk, but made all the better for the momentary lack of rain. As we ended our walk, however, the clouds encroached again, making us dash for the bus back to Cork, once again subject to rain, but now, hopefully empowered with the eloquence to pass the classes we are so far neglecting to study for.

Fishmongers

The English Market is deserving of its own entry, and here it is. This open-air market is wedged between a number of larger buildings in downtown Cork. There must be four or five different entrances and in order to get to there it seems you either have to know where it is or be willing to walk into strange alleyways of your own volition. Either way, you end up in a place that is neither indoors nor outdoors, crammed with people and foods and buying and selling. It has most everything, including a number of stalls selling fresh meats and vegetables, eggs, cheeses, herbs, vinegars- an olive bar- chocolates, wine, and fresh baked bread loaves for as little as 2 euro.

It’s like a place you read about in British Victorian novels, and sometimes I feel like I should round a corner and find a kitschy fortuneteller’s stall and some old woman inside. It by far beats the Tesco in price, freshness, and interest, that’s for sure. This is where I get my fruits and vegetables, bread, and the trout I bought for dinner.

The fish stalls must be the most interesting for me. At first I couldn’t find them, sitting on the far side of the market as they were, the fish laid out whole and fresh. Octopus, squid, whole shrimp line the open display and as I choose a fish I saw it laid out, gutted and filleted right before me- guaranteed fresh.

It’s always an experience, the English Market, and even today I found a hitherto unseen flower stall and a girl taking pictures. One day I’ll remember my camera too, it’s maybe the best place in Cork for photo opportunities.

A Meeting of the English Literature Society

It rained today, as it rains about every other day, and I walked through the rain, in the falling dark, to the West Wing of the quad where I heard the English Literature Society was meeting. The quad is the oldest building on campus, complete with the stone hallways and high Gothic windows we come to expect from old-world buildings, but at the same time my Middle Hall is still older than these structures.

What I found in the West Wing was seven Irish guys and one American from my Chaucer class who sat in a circle and read pop lyrics and stories about giant frogs and discussed the merits and flaws of Seamus Heaney- and then read him too because that’s what they’d come to do.

It was a very interesting two hours during which I learned quickly and eagerly many of the main differences between this massive place and my warm, safe Washington. One of the main point of contention seemed to be the lack of respect the University gave to popular culture- things like rap and contemporary published authors. I was frankly surprised, and intrigued, as I began to realize they were rallying against something that students at Washington really had no reason to rally against.

From Tolkien class, to Hip-Hop Lit, to Shenk’s Contemporary Fiction, to our constant stream of visiting authors (Neil Gaiman comes to mind) Washington seems to have a realization for the merits of popular culture these boys complain that academia lacks. They protest how the professors advocate the merits of dead authors, and how later professor will surely advocated the merit’s of later authors, as soon as they too have died.

I could not help but remember my Shakespeare class, as Moncrief brought in 10 Things I Hate About You, or how Olsen insisted on showing us the YouTube video “They’re Taking the Hobbits to Isengard.” Not only had we all seen these things before, but they were a wonderful tool in relating past writing to us, today.

Not to say I have any qualms with my classes here- they’re all interesting and thought provoking, and really all I thought a lecture class would be. They tend to lack the small, discussion-type atmosphere of Washington, but that’s to be expected given the school size. I was simply surprised by this attitude, and in turn they seemed surprised that my school did offer these options for learning about contemporary culture.

Not all schools are the same, and being here has made me realize the quality of learning I get at Washington is really, very good.

Wind and Rain

Killarney is a town smaller than Cork, which is saying something considering you could easily walk Cork in a day. An hour and a half bus ride found us checking in at Neptune’s hostel in this tiny village, and in another fifteen we were headed back out on the town searching for a cheap place to eat.

There is a lively bar scene in Killarney, but nothing really seems to get going until about 11pm. At a sports pub called “Tatley Jack’s” we drank our fist Guinness, a drink tasting vaguely of coffee and thick enough to fill me up for the next two days. Here we also listened to a lively three-man Irish band sings songs with lyrics like, “The natural gas will burn your ass/ And send you all to Hell," and other such patriotic tunes.

The next day we headed out around 10:00 to catch a tour of the Ring of Kerry, a 170km road circling the peninsula between Dingle Bay and the Kenmare River. It was the rainiest, coldest day I’ve had in Ireland yet, but the van was warm and dry. A five hour tour saw us stopping at a number of spots along to route to take cold, wet photographs of a cold, wet landscape. More than ever I was reminded of what our accommodations officer had said, that we were living on a rock in the middle of the ocean. The Ring of Kerry felt exactly like that.

Unfortunately the rain continued into today, when we planned to rent bikes and tour Killarney National Park, including Ross Castle, a building sitting on the shore of Lough Leane and dating from the 1400s. But after a fruitless search for open bike rentals and a half-hour walk in the drenching rain, we finally gave up upon stopping for directions and learning the castle was closed.

So we opted to dry out at the hostel and head back to Cork and our oft too warm Leeside Apartment, finally defeated by the Irish rain.


A Statue of the Blessed Virgin, the Ring of Kerry.

The Irish Experience

I’ve been in Ireland a few days, but yesterday was a true “Irish Experience.” Bridget, a native to Ireland who studies abroad at Washington, met us at the train station today for, in her words, “A day full of Irish things.” It stared with a tour of the old Jameson Distillery in Midleton, a town renowned both for having the largest “Xtra-Vision” chain video store in the country and at one time the country’s highest suicide rate, owing to distillery fumes, actually.



It was a nice tour, rather grand actually, and full of a wonderful mixture of history and what appeared to be rather hilarious Jameson propaganda videos. It all ended with a whisky tasting, which we watched as we sipped our own individual glasses and toured the gift shop.

For the afternoon Bridget took us back to her own house, getting us effectively out for Cork proper and into the greener, lusher countryside. The sun was actually out, which seemed to surprise the natives a great deal. In a field not far from her house they host an annual “point to point” horserace where locals line up to bet. We each bet about two euro, with Eric’s horse actually winning, mine coming in second, Erica’s in third, and poor Bridget’s lagging at the tail end. I can only compare it to a county fair with kids running around and the smell of horses and mud in your boots. There were food stands and many, many people placing an collecting bets at the bookie’s booths.

From there we walked the narrow road back to her house. It reminds me a great deal of the house I stayed at in England in 2006. Bridget’s family has lived on the property for centuries, while just down the road her 95-year-old grandfather built a new house last summer after living in the same one his entire life. In her words, “it’s all very exciting.”

After the most filling meal I’ve had since home, we thanked her mother profusely and jumped back in the car to Ballycotton, a small fishing village on the southern coast. Here we met with Bridget’s friend Evelyn, who will be staying at UCC this semester. We took a tour of the beaches, which were windy, but not as chill as I expected for January. The grass on the cliffs is still green and the water a cloudy aquamarine.

It was a wonderfully Irish experience, as we assured Bridget when it was all over. A real Irish day.

Of Pink Apartments

I arrived in Cork around 11:15 yesterday morning suffering from jet lag and severe fatigue. Luckily getting out of the airport was no problem and I found myself lying on my bed in Leeside within the hour.

The apartment is a good size and rather oddly shaped. We have four rooms- two singles and two doubles- two bathrooms, a kitchen, a dining area and a large living room (according to the students who live in other rooms.) The showers have a habit of always being cold unless you boost the water heater ten minuets beforehand and the windows look out onto Grattan Street at eye level, so it’s best to keep the shades shut, both for privacy and heat. But the building actually faces the Lee on its front side, so if you ever get lost you’ll be fine if you find the river, provided it’s the right side of the river.

The four other girls in our apartment are from St.John’s in Minnesota and came with a group of about 14 other students who invited me out to the pub last night, it being my first night in Cork and for them, their second. We ended up going to a place on North Mall, right across the river from the apartment, called The Franciscan Well Brewery, where they sell specialty brews and where many of the girls in the group had their first beer. It was really good time, as we talked about where we were from and how the trip over was.


My room key.

Today we ventured into Cork proper and found a Tesco and a mobile phone store. The streets are small and sidewalks, thin. All the shops are crammed close in a crowded collage of bright colors and loud voices. The city itself is mostly like this, small and crammed and stone (except for the apartment building which is in fact pink), without much green at all, but tonight a few girls who have been studying here for about a year are going to show us some of the better spots around the city and overall have a good time.