WWOOFing in Clare III

---

Hello! Well, as you have likely noticed, I got a bit behind on blogging. However, now that I am *sigh* back in California, I have a lot of time on my hands and therefore I can now fill you in. First thing's first: below is an email I sent to my family way back on October 4th. After that, I'll give you a summary of the rest.

________

Hello Everyone!

Everything here is still beyond wonderful. Work has progressed to lots of weeding, composting, and digging. My job for the last several days has been digging rocks out of the ground in an area that Miriam wants to plant. It’s hard work, since about 8 inches under the soil the ground is almost solid rock, and I have to break it all up with a pickax, but for some reason it’s oddly satisfying, swinging the pick down and hearing that loud crunch. I sort of feel like the Hulk. Kind of.

I went on another trip last weekend. Rumor had it that the nightlife in Galway was worth experiencing, so I booked into a hostel for the night and stayed behind when the others left after the market. During the day I took a bus to Clifden, the only sizable (by Irish standards) village in the Connemara region (remember I mentioned I wanted to see this in my last email), which is about an hour and a half north of Galway, on the coast. The bus ride was beautiful; I had been a bit disappointed that the weather was less than summery, but it ended up working out quite nicely that it was gray and foggy. The terrain is very wild and rocky, and instead of taking on the overwhelmingly rich green color the southern part of the country can boast, it’s all rust reds and burnt yellows and browns with veins of green laced through it. Steely silver lakes reflect the chilly sky from below while a thick, lazy white mist hugs the landscape from above. Throw in the many, many castle and fort ruins sprinkled about, and the whole scene makes you feel like you’re back in King Arthur’s time. The whole place just feels quiet, and old, and magical. Once in Clifden I rented a bike and cycled around the area for a few hours, imagining I was on horseback instead, galloping around a treacherously beautiful and faraway land from hundreds of years ago. I was lucky too; because of the weather and the time of year I was the only one out there; no pesky tourists coming between me and mist.

I got back on the bus in Clifden, clothes damp and hair a mess from the intermittent drizzle, and headed back for Galway. Upon returning to my hostel, I suddenly noticed I was absolutely starving. I staggered dizzily to a restaurant and snorked down a large portion of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes in a light and delectable tarragon cream sauce, as well as a hunk of something called chocolate sauce pudding, which ended up being exactly the same thing as chocolate lava cake. As I sipped my digestif (Jameson on the rocks, of course) I had to admit to myself that I was exhausted. I wanted to feel excited about my upcoming night out in lively Galway, but that bed back at the hostel sounded like a better time. But I resisted! After all, the original point of getting that hostel bed in the first place was to experience Galway by night, so I best not waste it. So I paid my bill, held my head high, and marched off to Monroe’s pub.

Monroe’s was recommended by Rick Steves for the nightly live music, in an area recommended by Miriam for the nightly live music. Clearly, this was the place I needed to be. I pushed my way into the packed house and ordered my Guinness. While I waited for it to be poured, I took in my surroundings. I saw both tourists and locals ranging in age from 17 to 70, all laughing, chatting, and tapping their feet along to the music supplied by a local band called the Sumbrellas, playing bluegrassy, and/or traditional Irishy versions of popular rock songs. Indeed, it was the makings of a good time. I ended up chatting with a group of German college students and dancing with a couple tipsy Irish lads, singing along to new takes on familiar songs and draining a couple pints along the way. In other words, I’m really glad I didn’t give in to the urge to run back to my pillow.

However, since I’d been awake at 5:30am that morning to get ready for the market, I couldn’t exactly bring myself to stay out until dawn. I finally drug myself yawning self away from the music and gaiety at around 12:30am or so and got myself to bed. The next morning I had brunch, checked out the local cathedral, and caught a bus back to Ennis.

So, as you can see, things are going quite well, and I am quite settled in here. I hope everything is going well at home too; write back and let me know how you’re doing!

Love you guys,

-Lisa
____________

Obviously, other stuff has happened since I wrote that:

I went back to Galway every weekend and occasionally during the week, partially because Galway is a pretty cool little town but mostly because of Eoin. You know Monroe's? That pub I mentioned above? Eoin's brother runs it, and Eoin happened to be helping out at the door that night, and Eoin's incredibly attractive and fun and stuff, and so the reason I had less time for blogging is partly because I did a lot of travel and hard work and all of that, but also partly because I was hanging out with Eoin. Eoin's name is pronounced like the name "Owen", by the way, for all you non-Irish out there. He's pretty awesome.

I did other traveling, too, though. One weekend I went to Derry, in Northern Ireland (remember that's officially part of the UK and therefore a different country), and spent a couple days with Claire, a fellow ex-Bordeaux-teaching assistant, and her family. Being in the North is kind of bizarre, because it's still Ireland, but not. But it is! But it's the UK. And Ireland. And neither. And both. It's like the whole place is in limbo; go to one side of town and you're surrounded by union jacks, pro-British mottos, and red-white-and-blue-painted curbs. Turn around again and you're faced with the Irish tricolor and buildings blazoned with republican mottos and pro-Irish murals. As if that wasn't disorienting enough, Derry actually has two different names. "Derry" is what the Irish/Catholic/republican population (and myself) call it, but the pro-British/protestant/unionist group knows it as Londonderry. It's pretty mad, but it makes a lot more sense if you know anything about the history of the area. So, er, I tend to ramble on and on about this, especially when I've had a pint or two, but in the interest of not boring you to tears I'll try to keep it short and general. *Ahem* So, the British showed up in Ireland several hundred years ago and thought, hey, this place is pretty great, I think we should keep it. The Irish were not as powerful and extremely disorganized, so eventually the British got their wish, and Ireland became part of the British empire. The Irish, who were treated as second class citizens in their own country (not allowed to practice their religion, speak their language, have any political say, own land, etc., etc.), were not pleased. So, they caused loads of trouble for the British, and Queen Elizabeth I was frustrated. Her solution was to take a bunch of loyal-to-the-crown Scottish people and stick them up in the northern part of Ireland, giving them all the best land and shoving the natives up into the rocky, infertile stuff. The thought was that by having healthy, happy, numerous, and pro-British protestants in Ireland to keep the peace, so to speak, her troubles would be lessened and everything would be peachy. Well. You can guess how well that went. Fast-forward to the beginning of the 20th century, and there's still a whole lot of unrest and suffering going on. Uprisings start becoming more serious and pretty soon it's starting to look like the British are going to have to let troublesome Ireland go. "But wait!" scream all of the nervous Brits in the North, "What about us???" These descendants of Elizabeth's loyal Scotsmen envision what lay ahead (Catholic state making everyone bow to the Pope, loss of their power, etc.) and protest. With guns. A crazy, three-sided conflict ensued and eventually the British came up with the following solution: give Ireland their independence, EXCEPT a handful of counties in the North. Those counties remain part of the UK. It might sound alright on paper, but there were a couple key problems: 1) there were still a lot of unhappy Catholics in those counties who did not get their freedom, and 2) there were a lot of people in the new Irish Free State that wanted the whole island to be free, not this halfway compromise. Problem number one caused what has been known as the Troubles (think Bloody Sunday, car bombs, etc.) in Northern Ireland and number two caused a horrible civil war in the Free State. So that, in a very tiny and non-thorough nutshell, is why the North has issues. Derry is an extremely special case, because technically it was supposed to be outside those British counties, but a group of powerful protestants there managed to get the boundaries fudged a little so they could stay in club Brit. However, the city itself has always been mostly Catholic, so there's a particularly heated situation there. Ok, ok, sorry, I'll stop. No more history.

ANYWAY, crossing the border was pretty anticlimactic. I heard that at certain times of the year a brigade of British flags welcomes you in (in the summer there are a few pro-British marches in Derry), but in October, British cloudy skies and grassy fields look the same as Republic ones. Even though I'd been craning my neck and pressing my nose against the bus window since we hit Ballyshannon, I totally missed the crossover. The only thing that gave it away was the sudden sound of 30something mobile phones beeping angrily from pockets and handbags all around me; all of us Republic customers were suddenly roaming. Claire and her wonderful family are as Irish and anyone in the Republic, and that night, as my Guinness was being poured to perfection to the beat of live pub music, I had to continually remind myself to reach for the British Pounds Sterling in my wallet instead of the Euros. It felt Irish. It was Irish. But technically on British soil. Weird.

What was different (aside from that crazy Northern accent, where "town" sounds like "toyn" and people use Scottish words like "aye" and "wee") was the tension. In recent years, the North has been relatively calm; we are not in the '70s anymore. But still, there's a tension creeping around in the shadows, a tension I didn't feel rambling around in Cork or Clare. In my little tour of the city, Claire showed me the Bogside, which is the poorer Catholic neighborhood (and the center of violence from both parties since forever), where several murals decorate the walls. She explained some of them to me and pointed out various landmarks in a casual, normal way while I nodded along and took a few pictures. A bit later we got to the other side of town, the poorer Protestant neighborhood. Claire's whole demeanor changed as she pointed out the red, white, and blue painted curbs and the union jacks flying everywhere. She didn't say a single word against the people living there, but her face darkened as she quietly told me that she would never, ever go in there. I would be fine, as a tourist, apparently, but she knows to stay away. This is 2009, in a thriving, first-world country. It served as a smack-in-the-face reminder that these things are never as far away as we think.

But Derry was great. I'll go back again, when I have a little more time to wander around, and I could not thank Claire and her family enough for making me feel so welcome and comfortable. If you're reading this, Claire, seriously, thank you! You all are awesome!! And thank you for teaching me what "roasties" are. Hehe.

After Derry, I stuck around in Clare and Galway, spending my last couple weeks in the company of people I've grown to care about rather a lot. Robin, Miriam, and Rowena, if you ever see this, thank you; staying with you guys was one of the best experiences in my life, and I'll definitely be back to visit. Huhhhh... leaving was sad. I meant to make it to Scotland this time around, but it didn't happen. And there is still so much I want to see and do in Ireland. As time began running out, I started panicking; as usual, I was not ready to go. I poured all of my energy into the futile task of finding a job so I could stay, but to no avail. I grieved, but eventually I accepted. I need to be back in the US right now, taking a breather, visiting my neglected and worry-worn family, and rebuilding my savings. But I'll be back. I'm not sure when, and I'm not sure how, but I know down into my very core that I'll be back as soon as I can possibly manage it. A friend once said to me, "You're passionate about Ireland." He was right, and I don't know how else to put it so succinctly. Ireland lives in me, somehow, and every time I have to leave I feel like something deep down in my chest is being ripped out. And every time I go back I feel like I'm coming home. So I'll be back. There's no question about that.

Ok, enough sap. Keep your eyes peeled for a link to facebook pictures (viewable to non-members too, of course); they should be going up within the next couple days. And as always, thanks for reading. My travel-writing will be on hiatus for a while since I'm broke as a joke at the moment, but I'm sure this thing will be resurrected sooner than I think.

Peace,

-Lisa

---