Salty Waters in South and West Ireland

Lahinch

The clouds parted and the gods sent the jellyfish

Cathal was bound and determined to go surfing on the west coast. Mari-Liis and I, as passengers in his car, didn't have a chance to argue. Peering out into the dripping cold, we mumbled acquiescence and braved the grey clouds. The Lahinch beach was dreary and we were almost shivering as we grabbed our wetsuits to go into Seaworld to change.

We were soon laying on our boards on the sand with Ollie the patient and ever present instructor before us. We practiced jumping up into the cool surfing dude position, knees bent, back straight, and well balanced. Easy enough without the waves sliding around underneath.

proof!

I remembered this being somehow much easier when I was 13 in California.
"This isn't California," Ollie barked. "The Irish invented surfing."

The rain had finally stopped at least, and the sky began to clear, showing the hills in the background. Not that we looked around much, we were mostly trying to catch that perfect wave, although Cathal had been stealing most of them, the crazy natural.

Finally coming out of the water, well worn out and stung by mini jellyfish, a good pint of smithwicks was in order.

Intending on going to Spike Island, we arrived at Cork Harbour  instead in time for a good fish dinner and a walk along the pier. Where we came to understand was the final docking point for the Titanic. Cork harbour at Cobh (go on, try to pronounce it) ran alongside friendly pastel apartments with pubs and a hotel even boasting the Queen's Victoria's one time presence (she really didn't get around much, or ever make repeat visits, so she was kinda a big fat royal deal).

The irishman thought he smelled fish and chips.
And off he went.

Spike island

The Cliffs of Moher, a site well visited in Ireland, were actually in the running to be one of the 7 wonders of the world a couple years ago. They are best taken in by ferry ride, which are offered at the small coastal village of Doolin, my new favourite place in Ireland (with exception to the restaurant Made in Belfast).

...ya think?

Here's where the real masochistic thrill-seekers come

Not having drank too many guinnesses or smithwicks or jaeger bombs (pointedly raised eyebrows) the night before, Fred and I caught the bus from Galway in time for the last cruise after a well-timed tea with scones on the rocks by the pier watching the gutsy surfers.

This was unfortunately not our boat

Et, voila.

the view back *enter dreamy sigh here*

"Ireland is where strange tales begin
and happy endings are possible"
-Irish blessing

Seeking Craic - Ross, Blarney, Bunratty Castles

Bunratty

If ever in need of recovering your Zen, or just finding it for the first time, Ireland will gladly supply you with at least a few months' worth of self-actualization.
Before going shopping for a new pencil case to lock myself up in the library this year, a last meander around the country of the leprechauns was on the agenda.

Somewhere in the middle

This time beginning in county Kerry. I hitched a ride with a lovely couple 'in favour of random acts of kindness' from the airport to Killarney, a small town at the top of the Ring of Kerry.

Killarney

Never have I ever in such quick succession met such warmth from strangers...with the exception of the tourist office several hours later. As I happily walked down from the bus station towards the National Forest, the men driving the horse carts all turned, grinning at me: "Hey, howarya", went the typical Irish nod of the head.

Arriving finally after snacking on some lemon puffs and a buttery english/british/irish/no difference scone at Ross Castle at the lakes, I had already found what I had been pining after. No pictures can capture the serenity of sitting at the edge of a pier watching the fishermen and the ducks putter around with misty hills in the background, but of course I tried.

Ross Castle

They're super serious
about their blarney

Soon enough I was on a bus to Limerick to meet up with Mari-Liis and Cathal. The following day we three set off on the inescapable journey nibbling on hot n spicy Monster Munch to find the gift of gab. Yes, you guessed it. And we did. We kissed that stone. And felt a bit sheepish after, too. Cathal noticed a quick difference in his wit, but we girls must have long ago reached our quota.

View from Bunratty

Next was Bunratty, after a good sausage breakfast. I still chuckle at the name, although at that time Cathal was getting a bit fed up by my slandering Irish jokes (can't help it, it's in me blood).

Mari-Liis and I cautiously peered into the homes of the preserved village, avoided some of the farm animals, and sat in the wooden desks in the two room schoolhouse before treading up the narrow, white-washed, circular staircase up the castle.

Waiting for my subjects, or a hog feast. Whichever.

At Bunratty, the Irish capitalize on their medieval history by reliving it. Hog dinners on steaming platters amidst vegetables and potatoes (won't include obvious joke here..) are brought out for nightly feasts in the dining hall where you're invited to come dressed like a princess (or knight). After gasping at the horror of blacksmith and farmer accommodation in the village, the four poster beds and pillowed window seats in the castle seemed pure luxury, even in the small stone rooms. I whispered to Mari-Liis, 'Now I could have lived here,' to which she rolled her eyes.

Then on the road again, this time munching salt and vinegar chipsticks.

Must be the Guinness

To sleep: perchance to dream. - Stratford-upon-Avon

"We are such stuff as dreams are made on, rounded with a little sleep"
The Shakespeare Hosterie

In my teens, like so many other english literature lovers out there, after having thoroughly read the Jane Austen novels (see respective blog here), my eyes gleamed at the idea of living in an age of eternal teatimes and long flowing dresses.
Not long after, I picked up a tatty old copy of the entire works of Will Shakespeare, expecting to find more or less the same effect.

"These violent delights have violent ends"

Disappointed, I quickly shelved the 4 inch bible. This wasn't the English to make me swoon. The jokes were lost, if humour was what he was even going for.
Romeo and Juliet seemed so much better with Leonardo Dicaprio and Claire Danes than on paper, and "Ten Things I Hate About You" with Julia Stiles and Heath Ledger was a more relatable story just given the title.

"I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers in their sum could not,
with all their quantity of love, make up my sum."
River Avon, with rowboats named for the female characters

But in the following two years I played character (minor, awkward, and generally there for comedic purpose) roles in college productions of "The Taming of the Shrew" and "Comedy of Errors", giving me not only historical lessons in my first language, but also a personal understanding of the clever bard.

I could thereafter giggle at subtleties and didn't wrinkle my brow on hearing words like 'ere' 'lest' and 'avaunt'.

If someone bit their thumb at me, I was royally offended.

"Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love."

Shakespeare in Love

Plus during slow rehearsals I even learned how to fence a little bit. I'd include photos, but that was before most phones had cameras, and quite frankly the 16th c. costumes didn't quite have the same flattering effect for me as for Gwyneth Paltrow...

The clocktower installed for Queen Victoria
in her jubilee year, on the other side it reads,
"Ten thousand honours and blessings for the bard
who has gilded the dull realities of life
with innocent illusions" - Washington Irving

More outdated Shakespeare terms
or a Shakespeare insult generator


Shakespeare was a theatrical catharsis meant to be seen and heard and lived, not a comfort read, curled up with a cuppa and a chocolate hobnob. So when I saw my favorite play was being performed at the Royal Shakespeare Theater in Stratford-upon-Avon, I couldn't put off seeing his hometown any longer. My MSU English Lit-loving friend Phebe was currently living in London studying her MA, so we soon met up at the train station to embrace our inner literary nerd and see "Hamlet" performed by Jonathan Slinger, directed by David Farr.

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks"
Snacking on sandwiches before going
into the RSC (behind the adorable Phebe)

We were agape, walking from the birthplace, a charming little wooden cottage on Henley Street, to the baptismal font and the grave in the Holy Trinity church.
Every street was a picturesque vision of the 1600s or before. Thatched roof pubs announced their histories of lodging kings. Mortared white houses with black timber surrounded by trimmed hedges calmly declared Shakespeare's granddaughter had grown up there.

"I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space,
were it not that I have bad dreams."
Shakespeare's home

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horacio,
than are dreamt in your philosophy."
Town Hall

"There is nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so."
Garrick Inn, now a pub, dating back to the 15th c.

"To be, or not to be...that is the question."
And there he rests.
And I have no inclination to move those bones.

"This, above all: to thine own self be true."
Mel Gibson as Hamlet

I was flouncing around like my 7 year old self at the "Honey I shrunk the Kids" exhibition at Disneyworld. But this was the REAL thing, plastic figurines and giant lollypops aside, pure genius born here changed this world, certainly my world.



And how was Hamlet?
Well, I'm not sure many dry eyes left that theatre.