More Jellyfish

Hannah, Elizabeth and I walked the beach this morning and spotted
stranded jellyfish left and right. Most had been flung up into the grass
by the tide. They are the most amazing creatures! Hannah, who just
turned ten, asked how it was that I could have a twenty-two-year-old
son and just have gotten married last December. Well. When I told
her that I'd been married first to another man, had children, and my first
husband had passed away, she said, "Oh! I'm sorry! Perhaps I shouldn't
have asked you that question?" She had more presence of mind
than many adults -- dear girl! What a joy it is to be around these
lovely children. I sent them each home with one of my collage cards
and a bag of six chocolate chip cookies, which, I told them, they
were not obliged to share.

Hannah and Elizabeth...

...came to the door last night bearing gifts of wildflowers and buns.
(I kept calling them muffins or cupcakes, but I was quickly and
repeatedly corrected: buns. B-U-N-S. [Elizabeth spelled it for me.])
Their family owns the holiday house next door, and they come over
from Drougheda (near Dublin). No, they are not twins, and are
exhausted by that question, although they are just over a year
apart. They have a four-year-old brother and a baby sister. I've often
watched them fishing for mullets with their father Peter.
(The first time I saw them they were a blur of pink across the cove.)

Messing Around with Color

The Craft Fair and The Camera

Drove up to Castlebar Saturday to take in the Craft Fair and look for
a new toilet seat. The Craft Fair was big by Western Ireland standards --
instead of the usual four or five booths there were forty, and a nice
assortment of jewelry, hand-turned wood, pottery, glass beads,
felting and stone carving. We happened upon the piece above --
it's a one-of-a-kind collaboration between the jeweler Martin
Fitzpatrick and a print-maker Anne McDonnell. The pendant
is acid-etched sterling, and they're priced as a single unit.
Score! (We did not score on the toilet-seat front, though.
My response to that is bummer!)

So, a little rant on the fragile nature of The Camera:
I've been known in my day to break more than one piece
of Waterford crystal (which, incidentally, is manufactured
in China these days -- it's designed in Ireland, and there
is a certain small amount made here to satisfy the heritage-
hungry eyes of tourists), and taking out one's persnickety digital
camera in order to capture a moment is not unlike
whipping out a Waterford Champagne glass from your
pocket. Delicate! Fragile! I'd even venture to say that
the crystal glass is possibly more durable than The Camera.
Of course, Waterford would shatter with more magnificence than
The Camera, all sparkly and such, but you can really get your
hand around its stem, wrap your fingers around its bowl --
it's probably not going to fly from you at this point!
(Especially if it's bubbling with Champagne. I mean,
who would risk losing a glassful of that lovely stuff?!)
The Camera, on the other hand, is a slippery and sleek
little-weasel-of-a-creature, all polished steel and teeny hinged
doors and doll-sized buttons and an honest-to-goodness
screen. Nearly a midget television, right here in the palm
of your hand. It's a hold-your-breath kind of toy,
a take-good-care-of-it-or-you'll-be-sorry gadget,
sorry to the tune of a couple of hundred euros, which
translates to a lot more dollars than it was a few years
back, the dollar being stuck in the toilet. Ah, the toilet.
Or rather, the toilet seat. A new camera is more easily
had here than a new toilet seat. And, well, Waterford
crystal, I just might have some in my pocket. I just
have to figure out how to get it to take a picture.

White Horse Frolic

We were driving by and saw this horse running and kicking
and leaping across his pasture, so of course I had to
stop and record it, only, when he saw me, his curiosity
got the best of him, and he also stopped to check me out!
Run horse, run!

Apple Pie and Eggs

Actually, Apple Galette. The Official Apple Pie
has been consumed, digested, and converted to pounds
which are at this moment settling somewhere undesirable.
And check out those eggs! I scrambled some this morning --
the speckled one was nearly too beautiful to crack open
but it wasn't going to do me any good in the fridge.
The yolks were orangeorangeorange. Absolutely delicious,
along with some 'streaky rashers' -- bacon.

Danny Boy a la Jonny Cash

This always makes me cry.

Happy Apple Pie Day

No fireworks here: no sparklers, snakes (well, duh, it's Ireland)
Roman candles, no cones of fire. But we are hosting neighbors
for dinner: homemade pizza and apple pie. Here's my pie recipe:

Crust

1/2 cup butter
1 egg yolk
pinch of salt
2 T. sugar
5 T. ice water
1 1/2 cups flour

I use a Cuisinart to make my crust, but if you don't have one,
I'll include manual instructions in a sec.
This is a very easy crust recipe to work with -- if made
properly, the dough handles like play-dough.
In food processor bowl put chunked-up butter, egg yolk,
salt, sugar and water. Process with metal blade, quick ons-and-offs,
until the mixture approaches pea-shaped pieces. Add the flour
and turn processor on until the mixture just begins to form
a ball. Scrape onto waxed paper or plastic wrap, flatten into
a disk, wrap and refrigerate for about an hour.

Lacking modern technology, place dry ingredients in a bowl.
Add chunked-up butter and cut-in with a pastry blender,
or if you're really primitive, used two table knives, cutting the
blades together. (I know this sounds really weird but it works
if you're patient. ) Continue until the mixture approaches pea-
shaped pieces. Whisk egg yolk with water and add to flour-butter
mixture, and mix quickly with a fork until it begins to hold together.
Working the dough too much will result in a hard, tough finished
product.

Filling

Apples -- I prefer a mixture of golden delicious
and Granny Smiths -- the goldens because of the sweetness
and because they soften up nicely in the oven; the GS
because of their slight tartness and firmness.

I use about 8 apples -- four of each, give or take
1/2 cup flour
1 cup sugar
1 t. cinnamon
dash salt
2 T. butter

Peel and slice-up apples into large bowl;
toss with flour, sugar, cinnamon, salt.
No need to mix dry ingredients together first --
just toss them all together. Hands work well for this!

Roll out pie dough, fill with apple mixture, dot with butter,
top with remaining crust. At this point you can glaze
the top of the pie if you want -- many things do the trick:
an egg yolk whisked with a tablespoon of water, milk,
or just plain old water. A sprinkling of sugar adds sparkle
and the glaze holds the sugar in place.
Be sure to cut vents in the top crust!

Bake in a preheated 425 oven for 10-12 minutes,
then lower heat to 365 until crust is dark golden
and filling has begun to bubble. The temperature
is a tricky thing. It all depends on your own oven
and whether or not it runs hot or cold. It's going to be
tricky for me today, because I'm dealing with celcius
oven temps and even though I've done the conversion,
it always runs hot. Plus it's a convection oven.
Every time we come to Ireland I have to readjust
to this oven.

I love this apple pie! There is always lots of debate
in pie circles (are there really "pie circles"?!)
about whether to use lard, shortening only, butter only,
or a combination. And then there are those
who swear by the addition of vinegar to the crust,
and I've even read recently of a pie crust recipe
using vodka. Hmm. My French roots scream out for
the all-butter version. Plus, it's better for you.
And think of this: if you cut a pie into eight slices
and eat only one slice (yeah right), you are only
consuming 1.5 tablespoons of butter. Not really that much
in the scheme of things. And the egg yolk fat is negligible
when you divide it by eight.

*

Back in the 1960's and into the 70's, my mom and I
used to devote an entire summer day to pie-making.
When the "pie apple" tree out back began to groan under
the weight of its abundance, we carted heaving boxes
of green apples to the kitchen and began our marathon.
The most pies we ever made in a day was 29, which we froze
and enjoyed one a week throughout the fall and winter.
Those were hazy, hypnotic days, the air afloat with flour,
peels curling from a brimming sink. No surface was without
a pie tin. This was where I learned to pare -- quickly! -- with
a sharp and efficient paring knife, and where I learned to enjoy
the taste of an apple slice coated with its flour/sugar mixture.
Heaven! Leftover bits of dough were rolled flat, buttered,
sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, then rolled-up, sliced
and baked. We called them "roundies."

Sis-n-Gov

My sister Kath and Governor Christine Gregoire!
(Watch for her in an upcoming campaign ad.)

We drove down to Galway today....new camera!
My husband is a prince. Galway traffic is insane,
the streets are impossibly narrow and I'm guessing
were intended originally for horses-and-carts.
But we persevered, and spent a good six hours
exploring the shops and pubs. Nice to be back
in a big city for at least a few hours, but it is exhausting.
Getting used to hanging in a town with a population
of 4,500. We came home to a spectacular sunset.

Little Nuthatch!

Thanks to Melinda for sending me this photo, taken on her
front porch. Baby nuthatches in Seattle, sent to you from Ireland!
I'm tempted to write yet ANOTHER baby bird poem. But I shall not.

Crash

Groovy photos, yes? My camera spontaneously snapped these
as it tumbled to its death. Bounce, crack, shatter.
The lights are out now until we can find a suitable
replacement. Boo. Hoo. (Can you see the consternation
wrinkling my brow?)

*

Errand day. Paul took more than a dozen pub-front photos.
We bought Official Trash Sacks so that our Official Trash
can finally be carted off by the Official Trash Collector.
Found some interesting paper at the stationary store.
Mailed art-cards. Bought the current copy of the Mayo News.
Stopped in at the Jesus store looking for holy cards. (No dice.)
Bought a blue woven wrap. Drank a Coke-Zero. Checked out
the pamphlets at the Catholic church. Sat by the river
and read the Mayo News. Drank a brandy-port at The Jester.
Talked to assorted people. Ate bangers and mash
at Twigs. Listened to two young boys play trad. music
on an accordian and concertina at the Gig Rig in the center
of town (outside). I'm sure there was more but that's enough
to mention, I think.

Warmth! Sun!

*

Paul has posted a quite marvelous entry today.
Not to be missed.

Alas, grim muse.

After the Fox

Not my ankle splayed there, stripped
of meat, not my ribcage, my skull
discarded on the bog. Solitary horn.
Most likely an unlucky sheep,
spinal tissue still visible.

Behind me a stone cottage hunkers
in decay, vulnerable to stars.
One black boot, god knows how long.
A steel trap, teeth locked
on decades of rust.

How easy to be this victim:
a simple slip, a trip, collision
of flesh and rock. Rendered
immobile in peat, tucked back beyond
hill after hill. The distance out

measurable only in the fleet foot
of the fox, for whom this day
quite possibly promises abundance.
But not me, not these precise steps
around, away from, abandoning

this boneyard. Not this hand,
this ear, this throat. I press
a relentless path into the wind,
keep watch, go quickly
quickly.

*

Doo Lough, July, 2008

Magic

After the Fox

Our Lady of Armagh

Brooding

(Click on the photo for the full effect.)
The light shifted ever-so-quickly, and I stepped outside
to capture these lovely cloud-bruises.

Queen Maeve's Tomb at Knocknaree

Trekked up to mythical Iron Age Queen Maeve's (Medb, Medhbh,

Meav, Meabh) tomb -- about an hour STRAIGHT UP. Seems

that the Irish don't go for switchbacks. Huffed and puffed on the

slippery scree. I can't believe I didn't take a pic of the actual

tomb, but the wind was fierce and very distracting.

The site dates to at least 2500 B.C. Spectacular 360 views

from the top.

On the drive back we stopped for a sackful of junk food:

coke, salt'n'vinegar potato chips, dark chocolate KitKat,

and for good measure, some cashews. O feast! O salt!

O chemical poisoning! To atone, at dinner I roasted

vegetables, mashed potatoes (or, as they say here, veg. & mash)

and baked some buttermilk biscuits (very light on the butter).

Very satisfying. (A splash of red wine in a crystal glass.)

*

I'm worried that I've not written a stitch of poetry

these past two weeks. Paul says that I'm storing it

away, that perhaps sometime next winter something

will pop up and make its way to the page. But I want

my poetry now! I want to choose the poem, rather

than the other way around. I want that particular high.

I want I want I want.

I've decided I need to shut down this computer
and get out in the world. Blue sky teases us
this morning, between blasts of sideways rain.
I think we should drive up to Sligo and hike
to Queen Maeve's grave. Yes. That's it.

Westport Park

The ad in the Mayo News said:
Family Day at Westport Park!
Free Admission!
Craft and Food Booths!

On the site of an 18th century manor home
and former home of 16th century pirate queen
Grace O'Malley, Westport Park is home to
swan boats, a "slippery dip", a flume, a kiddie
train....we ventured up to the Wild Animal Park
and saw:
1) a donkey
2) an Irish red deer
3) three alpacas
4) two llamas
5) a rabbit
6) a goat
7) a dozen hens
8) one white goose
9) numerous ducks
Awesome.

Swans

(Photo of most unwild swans at Westport Park....)


The Wild Swans at Coole


THE TREES are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine and fifty swans.

The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold,
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake’s edge or pool
Delight men’s eyes, when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?

W.B. Yeats (1865–1939)

Dinner last night at J. J. O'Malleys -- upstairs

in a cavelike attic space, dark wood everywhere.

The waitresses moved so quickly they produced

a breeze every time they passed. The menu was

all over the map -- literally: Irish, Chinese, Thai,

Mexican, Italian. I decided to risk it and ordered

beef fajitas (Paul was sensible and ordered the lamb).

Well. I enjoyed a delicious beef stew with bell peppers,

carrots, onions, mushrooms and pea pods in a rich

brown gravy. On a side plate there were two flour

tortillas, shredded lettuce & mozzarella, and three

thimblesful of guacamole, salsa and whipped butter.

And I mean thimbles.  Aside from the meat

being a bit gristly, it was quite good for what it was.

What it wasn't was fajitas! A pint of Bullmers

cider washed it down nicely. We completed the evening

at The Porter House (pub) with a brandy-port each.

Unfortunately, the music ended right after we landed

primo seats at the banquette. 

Next week in Westport is Fleadh Cheoil Chonnacht '08,

a weeklong festival "packed with music, street dancing,

lectures, boat tours and singing." We're there!

And our experience here in the west of Ireland is that

the inclement weather discourages no one from attending!

Cathair na Mart Thursday Market

A lovely bunch of organic lettuce, basil and arugula (rocket)
from the market yesterday -- a curious mix of fresh produce,
home-baked breads and pies, woolen goods, bead jewelry,
slate etchings and garden plants. I stopped by one table
where a woman was selling, among other things hand-knit
gloves. When I picked up a pair, she said,
"Those are from before I lost my yarn."
I said, "Your yarn! How did you lose your yarn?"
I noticed a flapping of sorts below her shoulder,
and she said,
"No! My arm!"
Oops.
Now she makes baskets out of strips of aseptic juice
boxes and milk cartons. She said that she uses everything:
her (remaining) hand, her teeth, her feet. I must admit I was 

mortified at my mis-hear. Or, er, my creative hearing.
I mean, it did kind of make sense, seeing that I was
holding a pair of knit gloves, and her flappety sleeve
was resting quietly at her side. Granted, it's rare
for a knitter to lose her yarn. But you never know.

Photos from last night's walk with Jack:
1) Pat's boat
2) beach weed
3) Jack
4) mossy stuff on rocks

Today is Beethoven weather: the symphonies.
Crash! Pound! Roll! The occasional delicate bit.
Cranked up high.

From my brother-in-law Dick:

Knock, knock who's there?

Merchants selling holy ware !

Precious items, buy the lot,

We even offer holy snot !

Knock Knock

Our pilgrimage to Knock (an Cnoc) was marred by spitting rain
(I was foolish, yet hopeful, when putting on capri pants and sandals).
It was not at all marred by a wrong turn, or rather, the lack of a turn,
which sent us careening off towards Claremorris. Getting lost, or turned
around, is one of my favorite things in Ireland. Adventure! There is
always something new to see. But to get back to the subject. (I'll admit
that my prose wanders almost as much as our car....) Knock is the site
of a religious apparation. In 1879, reputedly two women saw the
diaphonous forms of the BVM, St. Joseph and St. John the Evangelist.
And it was witnessed by 13 other people. (Why the guide books don't
say that 15 people saw this I don't know. But every accounting states
the two women plus the thirteen.) There are claims of miracle cures
from the waters that flow through the town -- once when we were there
in September all the holy water spigots (there's a wall of them)
were turned off. Ha! The big attraction for us Catholics-turned-Pagan
is the gift shops. (Be sure to check out CitizenK's account of this.)
For me, it's a romp through the iconography of my childhood, albeit
enhanced by the miracle of light-up Virgin Mary's and wall-sized
glow-in-the-dark rosary beads. There are perhaps a dozen shops,
all carrying nearly the same items, which number in the thousands.
Besides the holy water fonts and pick-a-size Virgin Mary's, there are
plastic farm animals, Bart Simpson t-shirts with "kiss my ass" in Irish,
linen dish towels (Irish family names, an Irish blessing, flowers
of Ireland), wool cable-knit sweaters, pot holders, mugs, decorative
thermometers, packages of green soldiers -- you name it. I was there
for the holy cards: St. Patrick, St. Dymphna, St. Clare.
At one shop I approached the proprietor with a handful of holy cards
and a miniature book of prayers, and he said, "how about a euro
for the lot?" What a deal. Paul, bless him, faces the Knock
Catho-capitalism with a bit more angst than me. He worries about
the cynicism we feel as we traipse from shop to shop -- it's like one
convenience-store-for-Jesus after another: a whole lot of cheap shit
(made in China) coveted by elderly women in wheelchairs.
It's an economy all its own, and I'm happy to trot away with my Padre Pio
medal in my pocket. Humming. I admit to being a sucker for cheap kitsche,
wherever on the planet it is found. (This goes right along with my fondness
for jell-o and multi-colored marshmallows and Lucky Charms.)
So.

We tried like the devil to come up with at least one good
Knock Knock joke on the drive up. No luck.
I'm open to suggestions! (It must be Catholic in theme.)

Flat Tyre....

...on the way to dinner last night. Flappety flappety flap.
Paul said, "listen to that wind!" And I said, "that's not wind."
And the teenage boy who strode out into the road and knocked
on our window said, "you've got a flat there." Ah.
Flap. Etty. Flap. What is it about a car with the trunk up
and emergency flashers on that invites an audience?
Two chefs and a patron stood at the door of the restaurant
across the street and seemed to enjoy our plight an awful lot.
Or....perhaps they were just out for a smoke. I don't know.
But they took note of our every move and commented among
themselves as if they were watching a production of Hamlet.
Amazing how easy it is to change a tire. Especially when
all you have to do is watch.

We finally made it to dinner at Quay Cottage. I had
a Clare Island Organic Salmon fillet with a wild mushroom
sauce; Paul had Sea Trout, the Irish version of Steelhead.
Interesting in that the salmon was the cheapest thing
on the menu! I was too full after dinner to stop at the pub,
but there's a drink I just must try: a brandy-port.
Just a pour of each into the same snifter. Sounds good.

The winds have finally eased, although our plans for a hike
today (post-tire-repair) once again have been thwarted
by the elements: rain. Summer? What's summer?

I enjoyed a video-chat with Reilly today on Skype.
Up for a chat? Sign up for Skype online. It's free
if both parties are signed up. Takes only a few minutes
to download, and you're good to go.
My Skype ID is: t.clear

Carrowholly Gale

We motored in to Castlebar today and filled up
the tank for $7.85 a gallon. (Yes, Paul did all
the conversions.) Just thought I'd give all you
Americans a little perspective. (Not that I like
paying $$$ for gas. Just sayin'.)

I was in search of an art supply store, running
out of specialty papers, and after a very tame
wild goose chase there was one to be found,
through an archway and down an alley, a closet
of a place and a very helpful salesclerk who
ordered some precut papers for me from her
supplier in London! When I told her what I was
doing -- she became very concerned and suggested
envelopes for my postcards. (Maybe she was just
up-selling.) I said that mailing them unenveloped
is a big part of the appeal for me. Handmade postcards
at the mercy of postal clerks all over the world. Naked.
Some may not survive, but the preciousness-level
isn't high and I like postmarks. So we'll see.
The first batch goes out tomorrow!

A small death, a humble grave.

Murrisk Beach Walk

I am enamored of the colors in this landscape -- we took a short hike

in the shadow of Croagh Patrick, past Murrisk Friary and on down

to the shore, which curves and curls around tidepools and pastures

where horses graze unconcerned with the wind. When I beach-walk,

I'm torn between keeping my eyes raised to take in the greater

surroundings, or keeping them earthward -- there is so much

to observe and such an expanse of colors in the flora,

the tide-lines of seaweed, the crab carapaces tossed

by the hundred into the grass, the periwinkle shells,

the cockles, the mussels. (On this particular stretch of beach

the human-contribution to debris was at a minimum: shreds

of rope, and the occasional plastic jug.) We were blessed with

a good hour without rain, but it appeared to be lashing at the

hardy souls trekking up Croagh Patrick's scree.

Finally back at the car, we feasted on ham sandwiches

made with the last of the homemade bread and some

Polish pickles (as close to dill as I could find).

Warning: the following entry contains meat!

Still life: Dinner With Art Stuff.
But seriously, check out this Irish Stew recipe.
I tell you, I'm done with my tried-and-true Fannie Farmer
beef stew. This one contains a cup of Guinness and a cup
of red wine, along with the usual stew stuff. My god, when
I inhaled after adding all the ingredients, I could've expired
on the spot, it was that fragrant.

The winter that we seem to be experiencing here in Ireland
ceased for a few hours this afternoon and we rushed out
for a walk, accompanied by Jack-the-dog who brought along
a deflated blue ball that Paul threw, Jack fetched, etc.,
on and on down the lane. At one point, Jack picked up
a second half-ripped, deflated ball, and it became evident
that he wanted Paul to carry the blue ball back. Ha!
This is a smart dog, both when he's herding sheep
and when he's herding humans. And apparently we're
easy humans to herd. We obey. Baaaaa.

I just took this photo and it's 9:44pm. It's night-time and
it's daylight AND it's completely socked-in AND it's the
first full day of summer. Whooda thunk? The rain isn't
very visible in the photograph, but it's been pretty unrelenting today.
And I'm sure you've all seen rain before. Duh.
A quiet day today, running errands in town, Irish coffee
at Matt Molloys. I've spent all evening working on postcards.
Patience! It's time-consuming and often vexing but at the same
time incredibly enjoyable. And I really don't wish to part with any
but since I've promised (and you know who you are!) I guess
I have to.

Supped on a homely little soup -- tomatoes, chicken broth,
onions, garlic, carrots, zucchini, potatoes, cannelini beans,
pasta, a shaving of grana, a sprinkle of herbs. I love that
this soup doesn't pretend to be anything other than what
it is. No point in dressing it up. I could do with some crusty
white bread, however. Should've baked. Tomorrow --
to go with the Guinness beef stew.

The official summer solstice occurred last night
at 23:59, a minute before midnight as we plunged
through the bogs & vales of North Mayo in our
little red car, solitary travelers in a landscape
on the cusp of summer. On Monday night, bonfires
will flare into the night as the Irish celebrate St. John's Eve.
We have great heaping piles of gorse in the yard,
which would make fantastic bonfire fodder, but
the ever-present wind on this cove might send
it tumbling down the lane. Wouldn't want to set
Carrowholly afire! Last summer solstice, we drove
back to the house after a late supper, and even
in the rain, we saw people hunkered in their yards under
umbrellas, taking-in the spark and crackle
of their St. John's Eve blaze.

The woman who looks after our house when we're away
stopped by yesterday -- Rose Fields (that's really her name!)
As always, she carried with her a bounty of blossoms from her
garden -- delphinium, larkspur, sweet peas, cornflowers,
valerian, daisies, Canterbury bells. Rose is an Irish posey
unto herself: a kink of wind-tousled red hair and always dressed
in assorted tones of pink/red/purple, she talks a blue-streak
and then suddenly, seemingly without having taken a single
breath, says "bye now!" And is gone. Whoosh!
She's a wealth of information on the local flora, and knows
at least half of the 4,500 population of Westport.

And for all you punctuophiles out there,
don't miss this piece from Slate.
I'll be laughing all day!
(Long Live the Semi-Colon.)

The Mullet

Yes, just like the haircut. We spent the afternoon
exploring this northwest island, and stayed in Belmullet
for a Dick Gaughan concert in the new
Belmullet Arts Center -- Aras Inis Gluaire.
Situated in the Gaeltacht, this area is bilingual,
so the signs are all in Irish, and Dick Gaughan,
who is a Scot, was introduced in Irish and English.

A song he sang in a Scot dialect moved me to tears --
even though I couldn't understand a word!
The power of music....

We left Belmullet around eleven -- just past
the gloaming hour. The fifty miles back to Westport
were lit by an ebbing glow on the western horizon
behind us, and strings of reflectors on either side
of the narrow road in yellow, and a line of white

reflectors down the middle -- beads of light strung out
for miles before us to guide the way home.
(No overhead streetlights!)

On the last bit of country lane down to Carrowholly Point

a fox scurried beside us, visible for only a single glance,

then disappeared into fuschia hedgerows.

Slow-Cards

For a lovely accounting of our day today, check out

Citizen K.

As chicken simmered with a Balti sauce on the stove

tonight I broke out the art supplies -- exacto, glue,

deckle-edged postcards, various papers, colored pencils,

a bag of 50-year-old stamps I bought at a yard sale for a quarter.

I'm doing a collage-postcard project. If you'd like to

receive one (and suspect that you're not on my list),

send your USmail address to carrowhollygirl@gmail.com.

I'll do my best to send one out to everyone who requests!