Revolutionary Grammar

I've been at a "Revolutionary Grammar" Workshop this week, looking for practical ways to holistically synthesize the teaching of grammar with reading and writing. Sometimes what you come to a workshop expecting doesn't get delivered, but you fly home dusted with a different kind of pollen. Here's what I've learned:

Grammar wears blues and greens, a summer day personified. Over her shoulders, she slings a wicker pack basket filled with several changes of costume in other circadian shades. Curious props can be seen peeking out the top of her basket: a small brass hand mirror, a red admission ticket attached to it with the words “taking notes;” a pair of mirrored sunglasses ticketed with the words “Yadda, yadda, yadda;” a small bottle of Elmer's Glue labeled with a red ticket that reads “pay-per-view TV;” a Webster-Merriam Dictionary with the word “thermos” taped on to the cover, just to name a few of her metaphors. She has more in her basket, jingling around among the atmospheric garb of shape-shifters. Some days she dresses as a noun; other days, she prefers being the action. Today she is off to the nearest playground to lead a workshop on prepositions. Children soon fall into squiggly lines of chatter in Grammar’s wake as she loops her way through the park to the latest scape in playground design.

Grammar gathers her audience around her and beckons them to sit, motioning them to watch. She then climbs up the red webbed structure the kids fondly refer to as The Eiffel Tower.

“What am I doing?” she calls.

“Climbing!” the children shout.

“Yes!” she retorts. “Where am I climbing?”

“On the Eiffel Tower!” the kids glee in unison.

“Yes, I’m climbing on the Eiffel Tower!”

In a flash—did she fly?—Grammar now hangs upside down from the Caterpillar, another climbing apparatus.

“What am I doing?” Grammar begins again, quizzing the giggling children now gathered around her as she swings upside down, hanging from her knees.

“You’re hanging upside down!” comes the shrill voices of the delighted children.

“From the Caterpillar!” a pig-tailed girl in polka-dotted overalls adds.

“In the playground,” a sly older child slips in.

“On a sunny day!” Grammar smiles upside down, her short silver hair brushing the wood chip carpet beneath her blood-rushed head as she swings back and forth.

Next, Grammar runs wildly, the children joined in a whip following her blindly, joyfully. “What are we doing?” Grammar’s voice trails behind her.

“Running!” the children scream, voices deliciously icing the air.

“Where?”

“Around the spinning seats! We’re running around the spinning seats!” the children laugh.

“Can I have a turn?” asks a boy.

“Yes, you may,” says Grammar, handing him a white baseball hat with the word Leader on the bill. “You may go anywhere a squirrel can go: up, down, around, through, in, over, under, on, to, in front of, beyond, anywhere.”

“Can I be next?” a shy girl asks.

“May I be next?” Grammar gently corrects and repeats the query as she beams a smile and nods yes to the young girl, “Yes, you may.”

***

There are pivotal moments in life that a writer returns to again and again through reverie. The moment embeds itself into body memory and sinks to the depths of one’s being, forgotten until needed. If one is lucky, the experience is retrieved, plucked like a pearl and strung with other moments to form a life narrative. We wear them like a jeweled necklace, invisible to onlookers but worn to smooth polish like a constant talisman to writers willing to dive deep enough for the gifts secreted in the dark waters of consciousness.

***

My room is still dark. Only dawn light sifts through the small dormer window at one end of my shoebox attic bedroom on the third floor. The house is old, originally a barracks during the Civil War, and has more recently been stuccoed and embellished in antebellum Greek revival fashion with a Doric columned front porch. There is a wrought iron balcony enclosing French doors between the first and second storeys that is protected by the porch. Between the porch and the roof is a half circle wagon wheel window from which we can see a great distance. It is my favorite place to watch thunderstorms come in over the valley. The third floor expands under the peaked roof and includes my small room, my brother’s larger room, a small windowed bathroom big enough for a commode and a sink I can barely reach, a play space, and large open spaces under the eaves for storage. Our house is built into a hillside, and the only thing the road beyond our driveway leads to is the town cemetery, which sprawls out over the hilltop under a canopy of ancient trees. It affords visitors a peaceful vista of the surrounding rolling hills and valleys of the Ohio River in southwestern Pennsylvania. We take our daily walks there with the babysitter, popping butter and eggs and sucking honeysuckle along the winding drive. We play hide and seek among the tombstones and rustling leaves in the fall, sled down the snow-covered hills in winter.

It is Saturday morning. Early. My five and a half year old brother, 18 months my senior, wakes me up, “Hey! Wanna go up on the roof?” I’m told we did everything together, brother and sister, but in retrospect, I think that was more a condition of sibling existence in the adult world of the 50s than an affectionate bond. No matter. Tim beckons; I follow. Out the third storey bathroom window we clamber. Up the steeply pitched tar roof shingles we climb, exploring the hills and valleys of our new found freedom. I make my way to the peak at the front of the house where I just know the best view will be had. There, I perch like a small bird, sear-suckered feathers ruffling in the wind, pixie haircut almost flowing behind me. In my imagination I can feel it, long locks kissing my shoulders.

I look out and beyond the circumference of my daily life that ends at the edge of our yard. Below me are the streets and alleyways and houses and buildings of the village arranged in neat quilt squares. There, the library! There, the village square where I nervously met Santa Claus last winter, too shy to sit on his knee. Just at the edge of the village runs the railroad tracks and beyond them is the Sewickley bridge, spanning the Ohio River like a blue barrette, holding in place the road to Coreopolis that passes Dairy Queen when we go to the airport. I can see for miles. I dream I can fly. The world is new and alive and I am its fairy awoken to its magic!

My mother walks out of the house, emerging from the front door under the roof of the porch. I watch her stride purposefully several steps out into the driveway, turn and look up. She is small from my vantage point. I want to wave, but quickly see the terror in her eyes. Tim is tapping my shoulder. “Quick, gotta get down!”

We spend the rest of the day in jail: our rooms. Bread and water are placed at our doorways. I watch from my dormer window as my father erects a swimming pool in the side yard. Our toddler brother wobbles at Mother’s knee. A neighbor stops by to talk to my parents. Laughter wafts up to my window and their faces look up at me. The story has been told.

I live out my childhood and adolescence reminded often of this misadventure, most usually retold at the dinner table like a litany for the benefit of company. It wasn’t until I left home and started to explore the world of writing that I claimed this story for my own. It wasn’t until I became a writer that I realized the day I climbed out on to the roof when I was four years old was the day I became a poet.

***

I am at Bard, sitting in a classroom in Olin Humanities and Lecture Hall reading and writing, supposedly about grammar. Place and context—I’m not seeing it. This workshop does not live up to what it advertises in the blurb. I’m waiting for a revolution. In the meantime, I’m gathering appropriate accoutrements for what I hope will be a peaceful takeover of outdated teaching models plaguing classrooms, a teacher’s constant frustration. What is in my toolbox for this demonstration so far? A pen, a notebook, seven senses, a reader, and other folks’ ideas. What more do I need?

Tomorrow is hump day—I’m told I’ll see the light then. Perhaps the troops will rally. Will we take up grammar arms and march into a new understanding? Here’s to a positive disposition rather than opposition.

***

This morning I put on my blue dress and packed my wicker basket with scissors and collecting jars. I’m off to look for monarch eggs underneath the milkweed leaves. I feel another metamorphosis coming on. Wings are budding on my shoulder blades. I have a change of clothes with me, something appropriate for flying high and getting the bigger picture, taking the measure of the land, the land where Meaning and Language reside.

Some of us wait a lifetime to claim what is ours, to recognize who we are. It is a hard lesson to learn to be in charge of your own celebrations, your own revolutions. The children are waiting.

Taking Heed of Road Signs from the Emerald Isle

images from drivingschoolireland.com

It is amazing how quickly one springs back into old habits and how fast one's environment holds the patterns of habitual behavior. Not even a week has expired since returning home from a two week trip of a lifetime and I'm back in the familiar grooves of routine. Already, instead of rising eagerly to approach the day on a full stomach fueled by a hardy Irish breakfast that I sat down to eat in good company and that kept me exploring a full day with gusto, I am full steam into my usual multi-tasking modus operandi. I am finding myself eating breakfast, usually standing up, making mental lists of what needs to be done and when, both personally and professionally, and feeling my anxiety rise as if the day is too short, the summer half over, and the horizon of a new school year is already breathing down my neck. Whoa! Time to calm down.

I have come to view with a wary eye my dogged tracks as ones I've worn to ruts. These ruts seem as deep as some of the gullies I tried desperately to avoid steering the rental car into as we drove the waysides in Ireland. Getting accustomed to driving from the right side of the car on the left side of the mostly narrow roads was complicated further by trying to read the road signs and traffic postings. Now that I've had some time to reflect a bit on the signs, I have a new found appreciation for something I simply thought was curiously quaint when I first read it, and that was the idea of "Traffic Calming."

Imagine driving in a counter-intuitive manner on unfamiliar roads, very narrow roads often with hairpin turns or successive bends around blind curves, no shoulder but instead stone walls, gullies, or hedgerows that tickle the sides of the car as you try to stay within the confines of the white line marking the middle of the road (if there was one or grass growing through the macadam if there wasn't) and the dotted yellow lines marking the edge of the road (again, if they existed), while at the same time trying to maintain something close to the speed limit which was often an unimaginable 80 or 100km. Just as we'd get up to speed, there would appear on the road surface the word SLOW followed by several painted yellow lines across the road as a physical echo of the admonishment before the words EVEN SLOWER followed by more yellow refrains would bring us to a sign posting 30km and the words "Traffic Calming" as we entered a short stretch of brightly painted buildings indicating a village. Often, the traffic calming sign was followed by a series of ramps (better known to us as speed bumps) where pedestrians can cross with the right of way, which finally lead to at least one roundabout, oftentimes more, before the other edge of town was reached, and frazzled by that time, we'd read the sign for 100km and have to speed up again.

Once these signs and patterns for traffic calming became more familiar, I allowed myself to think about just what was intended by the road planners and how it was accomplished. Lane endings, traffic islands, mini-roundabouts, build-outs, chicanes and pinch points are all speed reducing measures that are put in place in myriad variations. They are intended as a way of slowing motor vehicles through road design to match the local conditions and to improve road safety. An added plus is that these measures also reduce things such as noise and air pollution in communities. It all makes sense, and it all happens here in the USA as well. What caught my fancy, however, was the Irish and UK sensibility to use the nomenclature of "Traffic Calming."

So, here is one of many "take-a-ways" from my trip: I need to institute traffic calming measures in my lifestyle. I need to slow down and then go slower. I need to stop and let some things go. In a roundabout, I can always circle as many times as I need to in order to make the right choice. If I get lost, there's always the option, as Fiona (our GPS system) often reminded me, to "make a U Turn when [I am] able." Even though we are now past the summer solstice, the days are still long, the summer is still young, and the new school year resumes at the end of the ample summer. Now is the time to reflect and imagine, to live in the calm, and to enjoy the fruits of summer living.

40 Shades of Wonderment on the Emerald Isle

The saying goes that there are at least 40 shades of green in Ireland. Katrina, our horsewoman from Long Stables, said it herself yesterday, although today when I asked a chocolatier on the quay of the Liffey in Dublin how the saying went, he scoffed at me and said half the sayings attributed to the Irish never originated here and aren't often heard in Ireland. I suspect he was having his fun with me, a tourist, but his real point in our brief conversation was that the green in the Emerald Isle can't be quantified, it is so myriad. It is, I think, like trying to count the wonders of the universe. Some simply refer to them as The Ten Thousand Things. The numbers and hues aren't important; the idea is that they coexist in a world that is as interdependent and and as diverse as the stars in the Heavens, the fish in the sea, and the birds on the wing. The trick is to be able to discern and celebrate the abundance of variations on a theme, be it person, place, animal, mineral, or plant.

On our way back to Dublin for our last night in Ireland, we decided to explore some of Erie's interior counties because we've pretty much been hugging the coast since we landed. We headed toward Tipperary. Although not an official national park, the Glen of Aherlow Nature Park in Tipperary County certainly qualifies in my book. The Glen of Aherlow is a long velvety swath of fertile valley set at the feet of the Galtee Mountains on the north and the Slievenamuck Ridge on the south, stretching for sixteen miles or so east to west, just south of the town of Tipperary. We took the scenic drive after turning off from the regional highway heading to Dublin and wound our way through the valley in search of the park, wondering when we'd get to it. Our book had mentioned a giant statue, The King of Christ, at the park's entrance which was also the trail head for a variety of marked hiking trails. The valley is said to be the Holy Glen of Tipperary and many early Christian sites are located here, though we would have needed weeks to discover them. All we had time for today was one last hike before heading home. After a few hairpin turns in the road following many signs pointing the way, we were breathless at the vantage point the entrance to the park finally provided. We gazed out at a crazy-quilted valley of greens that was spread below us, back lit with the blue Galtee Mountain range and the cloud-studded sky. What a treat for our last day! We enjoyed the view and then entered the wooded path and took the blue trail markers for a 4km hike before getting back on the road. We did take note of the giant stature of the King of Christ, his hand raised toward heaven in blessing to all those journeying who pass beneath his image.

We arrived back in Dublin in time to sit on the quay and enjoy a tea and cappuccino and a stroll into Temple Bar in the late afternoon. Being a warm Saturday evening, people were out and about and there appeared to be a Gay Pride celebration happening, adding to the street ambiance a carnival air. There were musicians playing on the streets, set up with their guitars and amps and drums or more simply with a fiddle and a microphone and the tunes ran from original contemporary to traditional folk, all with a distinctly Irish flair. We made our way back across the Liffey to have a World Cup Special at Madigans where we watched the game with high hopes for our American team's chances to advance another level. We've been fortunate to have caught almost all of the evening World Cup games while we've been traveling. Sadly, our team did not win the game tonight despite overtime play, but they were in the game heart and soul, the only way to play. It's also, I've learned, the only way to travel.

We ended our night with a traditional trio who took up their instruments and voices when the game was ended, so we came back to our hostel with music in our hearts. A grand ending!

Over the Connor Pass through Kerry into Cork

The Connor Pass cuts over the Dingle Peninsula, connecting Dingle to Castlegregory, and is the highest mountain pass in Ireland. Once you pass the viewing pullovers at the crest of the pass, the road narrows significantly and winds down toward sea level through very dramatic scenery, uninhabited mountains haloed in mist and valleys dotted with black lakes. One expects wild Irish clansmen to ride up on horseback, but in actuality, there's only a car waiting in a bit of shoulder hugging the mountain while you take your turn to take the pass. Once off Connor Pass, we set Fiona (GPS) to Killarney National Park.

Each national park we've visited has been spectacular, and Killarney National Park is no exception. This park is right on the edge of Killarney itself, and at its core is the Muckross Estate, a 19th century mansion and its grounds. However, the park includes much more than this restored mansion and the Muckross Abbey. There is Ross Castle, which we didn't see, and more than 10,000 hectares that contain wild deer, ancient Oakwoods (the tree specimens on the grounds of Muckross Estate were stunning), glacial lakes or loughs, three of them that are connected, and a waterfall. We only had a short time to spend here before driving on, so we took a walk on the hiking path alongside Muckross lake as far as the Estate for a cup of coffee in the visitor center (every visitor center we've been in has been inviting, informative, and well designed) and then over to the Abbey before turning back along the drive the jaunting cars (horse drawn buggies) frequent on their round the lake tours of the park. There were dozens of jaunting car cabbies hawking their trade, desperate to drum up business, but we preferred to walk, stretching our legs from the car ride.

We arrived in Kinsale late afternoon. Kinsale is a harbor town of tiny winding streets, colorful shops, many pubs, and a marina of masts and motors, large and small, grand and humble. After a quick wander in and out of many of the artsy shops, I took a walk out toward Scilly and Charles Fort to see what I could see, mainly where this tucked in little harbor town actually meets the sea. I'm glad I took that walk so I could get a glimpse of the fort ruins out along the cove and have a chance to see some of the views of the harbor that are limited within town. I heard tell that Kinsale is the oldest historic town in Ireland, but whether or not this is true, it does seem to have determined itself to be the mecca of gourmet dining. Judging by the literature in our B&B and the lines out the doors of many of the higher end restaurants, there is some truth to this notion. We had a lovely pub meal of fresh fish while watching Spain and Chile play the World Cup. No need to stay out for music tonight! Our B&B is very centrally located right amongst the many shops and pubs and it is Friday night. We've heard the music as if we were perched right on the pub stool! We're in quite a busy hot spot for our next to last night in Ireland! Tomorrow, we head back to Dublin.

A Day on the Dingle Peninsula

Blue sky, azure water, verdant hills, a happy village, welcoming people, ancient ruins, Irish cob horses, scenic drive, pub music…a day to remember on the Dingle Peninsula. The village of Dingle is a very happy place with its brightly colored buildings lining the narrow streets that hug the hillside around the harbor. Although I was charmed by the hues of blue around town, the storefronts were every color of the paintbox and many had fun signs and embellishments. We stayed in a very centrally located B&B right on the quay and our host, Thomas, was very friendly and helpful in giving us information about the area and in making suggestions. As an aside, most of the B&Bs and guesthouses we've stayed in have been hosted by lovely people, mostly men, and all of them have been delightful! We feel very fortunate to have had so many positive experiences.

After walking around town in the early morning, I stopped in the tourist office to inquire about activities, particularly horseback riding, something we've been wanting to do since we've been in Ireland. The tourist office clerk rang the stables for me, and I booked an hour horseback ride for us out in Vestry, a tiny village west of Dingle, along the scenic Slea Head Drive that goes around the tip of Dingle Peninsula.

Long Riding Stables have close to 100 Irish cob horses, although there were only about a dozen or so out for riding when we pulled up. A lovely young woman, Katrina, greeted us and explained how to pick out hard riding hats and boots to fit properly from the selection in the tack room while she saddled up the horses for us. It is a mystery how or by what criteria she chose the horses for us (was it how tall we were, our weight, the look in our eyes, our smiles?), but I was put on a traditional black and white cob lad without a name as yet, though they were thinking he looked like a Michael, so Michael he was to me when the need arose to slow him down or get him going. I found him to be a slow poke most of the time, but he did give me pause during a trot when I thought he might bolt just to get away from the nasty flies that kept dogging him around the head. Although we've had wonderful weather for our trip, it's been considered very warm here, and the horses were feeling it. Katrina kept us to the hedgerows around the farmland and we had to forgo the gallop on the beach because there were already too many people there. Katrina also felt there was too much danger of the horses just laying down and rolling in the cool wet sand just to cool off, riders be damned! We had a delightful ride nonetheless, learning much about Irish cob horses (the best value for a horse these days, apparently, as these horses are sturdy and good for trekking or for working), and the local area as well, from Katrina who has lived in Dingle and worked with horses most of her life.

After our ride, we stopped off for some cappuccino at a pottery cafe (everyone seems to mix retail with the opportunity to cater to travelers in need of a rest and a pot of tea or coffee) and then wound our way along the Slea Head Drive, stopping here and there at the pull overs along the very narrow winding road for a spectacular view from this western most shore of Europe or for a viewing of some ancient site or ruin, the best of which were the ancient bee hive huts, or Clocháns. We stopped to look at a cluster of these huts that possibly date back to the 12th century. The huts are corbelled with dry rocks so that no mortar is needed and the hut can have an opening at the top for a chimney or light or air, but could be simply and quickly covered as well when the need called for it. The structures were small but elegant, simplistic and pure in form, reminding me of Andy Goldsworthy installations.

At the end of the day, after completing the majestic Slea Head Drive that brought us in a wide circle back in to Dingle, we took in the World Cup game of the night and then headed to the pub for dinner and traditional music. It was a perfect day on the Dingle Peninsula!

Clints and Grykes, a Sea of Stones in The Burren

We covered a lot of distance today, traveling from Clifden in Co. Galway into Co. Clare to see The Burren and the Cliffs of Moher on our way to Dingle Peninsula in Co. Kerry. As usual, we started our day with an agenda that time and energy couldn't support, especially since I seem to be slow to process road signs when there are more than three pointing in multiple directions. I also seem not to understand that exits on roundabouts don't necessarily correlate to egresses, so when Fiona (the GPS voice) says "in 450m enter roundabout and take the second exit," if the first egress isn't marked with a route post, it doesn't count as an exit. Of course, Fiona never says "…take the second exit for R59" which would make it ever so much easier because I'd have a sign to look for rather than having to guess. The point is that we, and subsequently Fiona, had a fair amount of "recalculating" to do today because of my processing lapses, but even without the lost time of turning around, getting from here to there in Ireland takes much longer than one realizes. That being said, it seemed clear that we would have to take a portion off our plate, so we bypassed the Cliffs of Moher. We've had our share of dramatically cliffed coastlines, having already visited the Causeway Coast and the Slieve League, so we opted for the drama of The Burren, and we weren't disappointed.

Driving through The Burren (the Rocky District) is a dramatic experience as the landscape in all directions in the northwest corner of Clare county seems to be sweeping hills covered with thick slabs of limestone called clints that look to have been drizzled like silver icing on the earth by some giant confectioner. The deep fissures between the slabs are known as grykes and we came at a time when they were abloom with vivid wildflowers bobbing against the stark hardscrabble pavement, but grasses, ivy, and other vegetation grow readily in the grykes as well, as the moisture collected there provides a rich humid soil. They are like self-watering planters. These fissures have drained the rainfall of centuries to underground rivers, and there are many caves beneath the Burren as well. The ancient people who lived in this stark land were probably farmers who eked out a life on the top soil that originally covered these rock shelves that had been formed by an ancient sea and then due to some seismic shift in Earth's core were forced to the surface, but over the millennium, the soil has been swept away by the winds. What remains are the stones: walls of stones stacked vertically, horizontally, and every which way, in random pattern held together by the laws of physics and gravity, glued only by air and sweat equity that has lasted the ages; ruins of stone forts; cairns; megalithic dolmens; and ancient burial chambers. Where the clints and grykes disperse at the edges of the Burren, the slopes are brilliantly green with vegetation.

We stopped along the way at one of the largest portal tombs in Ireland, Poulnabrone Dolmen, wishing it were sunset and that a tour bus hadn't pulled in behind us, but despite the regrettable chatter in the air, we were awed in the presence of this sacred megalithic monument, wondrous at how possibly the builders of it accomplished their astonishing task of moving, standing, and lifting these huge slabs of stone weighing tonnes, a secret yet to be spoken on the breeze.

Westport to Clifden by way of Connemara.

We drove the scenic route from Westport, County Mayo to Clifden, County Galway, going through the small village of Louisburgh and following R335 through the Doolough Pass, hugging the lake of Doolough, a sublime and majestic landscape in the middle of the Murrisk Mountains, to the small village of Leenane at the tip of Killary Harbour, Ireland's only fjord. The Doolough Pass was used by starving people of Ireland during the Great Famine, who walked through this harsh environment to reach Delphi where relief was said to be had, but they were turned away and hundreds died on the walk back. We passed the Famine Walk Memorial on the side of the road near the lake, lending a haunting quality to the beauty surrounding us.

At Leenane, we turned onto N59 and made our way to the Connemara National Park, one of six national parks in Ireland. Connemara National Park is over 2,000 hectacres of varied landscape from mountains of metamorphic rock, quartzite, schists, and green and grey marbles, to grasslands, heaths, bogs, and woods. Much of the park encompasses the Twelve Bens mountain range. The park was established in the 1980s to conserve and protect the unique landscape of Connemara. There is a herd of pure bred Connemara Ponies protected within the park and Irish red deer are being reintroduced to Connemara. Although I didn't see any deer, this pony and her foal were happily grazing on the low banks of Diamond Hill, one of the Twelve Bens. I took one of the shorter trails, less demanding than our hike on Croagh Patrick, and skirted the lower slope of Diamond Hill before dipping into the woodland trail. It was just enough up hill and down slope to stretch out my sore muscles from yesterday's excursion.

Tonight, we sleep in Clifden, another happy town, in a happy B&B, a house 150 years old, surrounded by gardens of fairy tale description. Tomorrow we're off to Dingle Bay by way of the Burren and the Cliffs of Moher!

This Pilgrim's Progress

We built a cairn on top of Croagh Patrick this afternoon on the longest day of the year, Summer Solstice, after climbing the 765m sacred mountain of Ireland's patron saint, which can be found southwest of Westport, a rather gentile, and definitely happy, picturesque little town on the Carrowbeg River in County Mayo. We arrived in Westport in the early afternoon and soon exhausted a walk around town to window shop, so we headed out to climb Croagh Patrick while the weather was grand—clear, sunny, and warm (something of an anomaly, we were told).

Saint Patrick, who is reputed to have brought Christianity to Ireland, is said to have fasted and prayed on the summit of this mountain for 40 days, and so it is a tradition that on St. Patrick's day and Reek's Sunday in July, thousands of pilgrims, some barefoot, make the ascent to the summit where there is a small church to pay homage and make offerings. It is hard to imagine making this climb with thousands, though having done other physical challenges in groups, I can see that it could be very uplifting. As it was on this June weekday early in the tourist season, the mountain had plenty of visitors, though the trail was never crowded.

The ascent is strenuous and it can take two hours to reach the top, using hands and feet in many places to climb up the mountain trail of loose scree and rocks. There are walking sticks for let at the visitor center, but it wasn't until we were close to halfway up that it occurred to us we'd be needing them, especially on the descent, which we could see by the manner in which visitors making their way down the mountain were especially challenged not to slip or fall on the eroded trail of gravel. At about the halfway mark I was feeling very fortunate to be strong of legs and fit, and when the next really hard bit of trail came along, I found myself marveling at the many, octogenarians who were climbing this mountain in both directions. I was awed, and they kept me going, as all the while I vowed to keep in shape so that when my children are my age now, I'll be able to keep up.

While we climbed, we only passed one couple who seemed to be at a crossroads, and since we never encountered them again, up or down, they must have decided it wasn't the time for this challenge in their life. We passed one pilgrim descending the mountain in thin socks, his companion walking ahead and waiting in intervals, shepherding him through his journey. All kinds of people in every shape and every fitness level, young and old, met the mountain as we pushed upward. At the hardest points, travelers coming down gave encouragement— "This bit is the hardest." "You don't have far, now."—and we found ourselves doing the same for those traveling behind us. The people who successfully get to the top often don't get there because they came to the mountain fit to climb it, but because something else gave them the inner strength to attempt it. We all climb mountains for different reasons. Often, it's simply for a chance to see what there is to see from a different vantage point, other times it's to overcome a challenge of some kind. Whatever the reason, one thing remains true. When you get stuck and can't find your next foothold, only you can make a move because the mountain isn't going to step aside. Often, it's a step of faith of one kind or another.

The summit of Croagh Patrick offers dramatic views of Clew Bay, dotted with hundreds of little islands, as well as of the landscape inland. At the top, the wind whips around you, evaporating all the sweat of your climb, giving you chills, but you are filled with a sense that all is good, that the world is as it should be. You can't stay long on top or your muscles start to cramp and you know the way down will be more challenging to the knees. So, we built our cairn to commemorate our climb, placing two heath flowers under the top rock, took some pictures, and started down, sun-kissed, wind-whisked, and happy.

After checking into our guest house and hot showers, we enjoyed a great meal and live traditional Irish music at a pub in town.

A Father's Day Moment at Strandhill, Sligo County

The Atlantic rolls in on large sausage curls to meet the sienna beach at Strandhill, a sandy beach west of Sligo town. We ended our day here in bright sunshine and sea breeze. There are many surf shops and surf schools here. Apparently there is a surfcam that can be logged on to where serious surfers can check the waves before heading out for the day. Strandhill is a lively vacation place for all nations of surfers, families with children and dogs, and the elder population as well who lick their soft ice cream cones in proper attire.

I sat on the rocks to watch the waves dotted with novice surfers who, hugging their boards, waited on the swells for the moment to paddle out in front just enough to catch the crest and ride the wave forward rather than be pushed behind it. Timing must be everything, and like the sheep who graze on the edge of every mountain we've climbed so far, a certain boldness must be required as well. No hesitancy. This is the wave; go for it, or sit on your board bobbing like a seabird on holiday, waiting forever for the right moment. Decisions have to be made. Even if you end up diving into the foam on a failed attempt, there will be another wave, another chance. Still, hesitancy is hard to overcome, especially when your motivation is to please or if you are afraid.

In the near distance on the beach in front of me I watched a father with his very young daughter fill a sand bucket with wet sand, turn it over, tamp it down (the daughter's job), and remove the bucket, revealing a mound of standing sand—once, twice…four times—for the beginnings of a castle rampart. This father's day moment was quickly abandoned for a walk, hand in hand, down the sandy beach, the young girl collecting treasures and dropping them into the bucket her father now held in his free hand.

And that's it, really—the moments seized and dropped in the bucket, the waves ridden, the mountains climbed. No hesitancy.

"An rud is annamh is iontach." What is strange is wonderful.

"An rud is annamh is iontach." This "spoonful of Irish" appeared on the packet of brown sugar I added to my cappuccino today. A bit of serendipity.
Sligo is home to two flat-topped mountains, Benbulben and Knocknarea, that dominate the landscape, which is dotted with prehistoric sites, strange but wonderful stone circles, dolmens, and passage tombs. We drove to the Carrowmore Megalithic Cemetery this morning and wandered through a large field with nearly sixty examples of these rock piles in varying degrees of preservation. There is a wonderful legend explaining their existence that claims the Goddess Beara flew over the area on her way home towards Knocknarea, carrying in her apron stones she intended to use to build enclosures for her animals. Along the way, she had some sort of accident, causing her to spill many of the stones from her apron, which landed below in the configurations of cairns, dolmens, and circles. I'm happy to rely on legends to make sense of the world when I can't puzzle it out for myself, when things are strange, but wonderful.


From Carrowmore we drove a bit further to climb Knocknarea to see the limestone cairn that sits atop its summit. The walk to the top is about thirty minutes and the cairn there is a huge passage tomb that supposedly entombs Queen Maeve, an Irish Iron-Age warrior queen who is said to be buried in full armor standing tall to face her enemies. She certainly would be able to see them coming while waiting for passage to the next life or whatever lies beyond, as the summit of Knocknarea provides vast views of the landscape in every direction well beyond Sligo county. Some people take a stone to place upon her cairn when they get to the top, and we could see a few small offerings of flowers and notes.
Queen Maeve was also reputed to have had some shady dealings involving cows, having been jealous of her husband's white bull. Apparently she wanted to best him and therefore stole a brown bull from Ulster (using military force when the bull's owners refused to give it up). There is, of course, more to the story, but I found it wonderful that as I walked up the mountain, these gentle creatures stood witness.
The walk down is a challenge to the knees and the loose scree makes it hard to keep your footing on the steepest part of the descent, but it was well worth it; strange but wonderful.

Grazing on the Edge of Majesty, the Cliffs of Slieve League

We had a lovely night's sleep at an old plantation house in Ardara. Our room opened onto a rose garden overlooking a valley of sheep grazing on bog-blanketed hillsides. After yet another typically delicious traditional Irish breakfast that keeps us fueled until dinner time, we once again drove over narrow hair-pinned roads through more sheep, this time on the road, to the little town of Teelin. Here, we found the car park for the Slieve League and took the walk atop the cliffs to spectacular vantage points. These are the highest cliffs in all of Europe, and they drop dramatically into the Atlantic Ocean on Ireland's West Donegal coast. The weather today was perfect: clear sky and bright sun, but the wind was brisk and chill, making it difficult to hold the camera steady.

We have seen sheep all over Ireland: in long narrow pastures, clinging to hillsides, along roadsides, and in farmyards. The sheep on Slieve League, however, made me marvel at how adept they are to living right out on the edge of the world, braving the elements, listening to the stories of the winds. They are none the worse for wear and seem quite content to make good use of the landscape for their simple needs. We watched for several minutes as a great big sheep gave himself a full body massage against a rock. There were nursing ewes, right out on the edge of the cliff, parenting with clear-eyed acceptance of the dangers of loose footing at every turn. Yet they are content, seemingly worry free. Granted, the sheep are gated and fenced in specified areas, and no matter how independent and self sufficient they appear to be through my lens, danger doesn't give any one part of God's choir a free pass. The animal kingdom, especially, is wired to sense the loose gravel of life more acutely than we humans. Maybe it is the way the sheep live on the edge in spite of it all that I admire. Perhaps I would do better to step to the edge more often. I might be less rattled by roundabouts and hard to find street signs.

Before coming into Sligo where we'll stay for two nights, we stopped off to see Yeats's final resting spot at Drumcliffe Church where his great-grandfather was a rector. Although Yeats was born and lived for some time in Dublin, Sligo seems to be the Irish touchstone in Yeats's pocket as his writing often mentions the place names of the area and draws upon his memories of time spent here with his grandparents. The church that stands now was built in the early 1800s on the sight of an old monastery founded by St. Columcille in 574. This historical site is where the Drumcliffe High Cross and Round Tower can also be seen. There is a lovely cafe here and an art gallery. In Sligo town, there is a charming statue of Yeats, his clothing tailored with words from his poems and plays.

When One Door Closes, Another Opens

Our booking at a pub promising live music in Culdaff, County Donegal, turned out to be a disappointment when we found out the headlined musician had left early for America! Then, in the morning, we were informed that if we didn't want to get stuck on the Inishowen Peninsula we should make tracks early because the roads would be closing for a big car rally. Hence, we didn't quite make it to the northernmost tip of Ireland as we had planned. So, we began our drive to our next destination, Ardara, the tweed center of Donegal, but along the way we detoured to go to Glenveagh National Park, a gorgeous protected area of mountains and loughs covering 16,500 km.

Our drive took us on small narrow country roads past grazing sheep and footed bog blankets—peat that has been dug up (footed) by peat cutters to dry before being sacked and carted off to market. Often we found ourselves behind one of these trucks loaded high past the sides of the truck bed with peat bags and wondered what keeps the peat from tumbling off on the rough roads and hairpin turns. Sheer weight, apparently, keeps the delicate balance of the heap, and the trucks rattle on.

When we arrived at the national park, we decided to take the scenic 4km walk along Lough Beagh from the visitor center to Glenveagh Castle. We skipped the castle tour and instead repeatedly drew deep breaths of amazement as we walked through the extensive castle gardens. Our favorite was the walled garden—a magical display of flowers and vegetables of every hue, height, and texture arranged brilliantly in quadrants within the walls. At the end of our visit, I felt as if I were drunk on some fantastic elixir of rosewater, peonies, lupines and poppies.

When we arrived in Ardara, we put our hands to all manner of sweaters (jumpers), vests, scarves, jackets, socks, and gloves. We talked with lovely shop keeps and the mistress of the Heritage Centre. The people of Ireland love to tell stories!

"If stones could speake"

Our day seemed to be full of roundabouts and turning around to cover the same ground twice due to traveler's mishaps like lost wallets and the misreading of road signs. We've fondly dubbed our GPS Fiona, and when she kindly says "recalculating…" I know I've made a mistake and she is spinning her satellite mind to find a save. The one great thing about a roundabout is that most times you can keep circling until you sort out the right signpost and then come at it again, being mindful, of course, of the traffic flow at all times. Today we left Antrim to visit Derry before heading to Donegal—another beautiful day.

There is an inscription on the information plaque at the Ferryquay Gate when you enter the Walled City of Derry that reads "If stones could speake." The words are part of the foundation stone of St. Columb's Cathedral, Derry's oldest surviving building and obviously refer to the the rich history of the town with two names—Derry and Londonderry—from its founding in the 6th century as a monastery to the more recent history in the 1960s civil rights movement and the Battle of the Bogside. Yet, as I reflect back on our tour of Kilmainham Jail, the ruins of old castles we've seen along the road, even the wee stones we plucked from Whitepark beach, I realize that stones all over this Emerald Isle, whether worked by human hands or by nature or by the spirits, have stories to tell. It is our job to listen.

Today we had the honor to listen to Kevin, one of the Bogside Artists whom we met in the People's Gallery in Free Derry just outside the Walled City. The Bogside district was a battle zone during the 1960s Troubles and has a rich history of struggle. The Bogside Artists grew up in Derry during the Troubles and lived first hand the tragedies and struggles of the working-class revolution for civil rights and freedom. He recounted for us much of the history of the Battle of Bogside and how as grown men, he and the two other artists, came up with the idea of the Bogside Murals to record history and commemorate key events in the Troubles. There are 12 murals throughout a stretch of Rossville St. in Bogside, known as Free Derry. Up close or from the Walled City, these murals, all on gabled sides of housing complexes, are striking and moving. Talking with Kevin was a humbling experience and we walked away awed and hushed. For more information on the Bogside Artists: http://www.bogsideartists.com/

Glittering Views, Chifon Scarves, and Glassine Sands All in a Day in Northern Ireland

After a hearty breakfast, we set off for the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge, part of The National Trust system of protected areas located just east of where we are staying. This morning was picture perfect weather for being out and about. The path from the car park to the bridge is about 1 km, and, although graveled for the most part, it covers the topography of the landscape and is uneven with ups and downs along the ridge and includes steep steps leading to the rope bridge. All along the path are breath taking views of the cliffs, the sea, Carrick Island, Larrybane Bay, Sheep Island, and a limestone quarry, and as you walk, you pass sheep grazing in every pasture along the coastline.

Carrick-a-Rede is actually a Scottish Gaelic name that means the rock in the road. The road here would be the sea route the Atlantic salmon take on their migratory runs, passing by Carrick Island. For hundreds of years the fishermen of the area strung a rope bridge high above the sea from the mainland cliffs on the Causeway Coast to Carrick Island, enabling them to catch the salmon on their runs from the most advantageous fishing places. The bridge functions now as more of a tourist attraction to a beautiful and unique landscape, and while it has become a more substantial structure, it is still primarily wooden planks held by rope spanning a 66 ft. wide distance and 75 ft. depth, the swirling sea and Larrybane bay beneath it. Photos (look for the link on the side bar for mine; this link will continue to update as I add photos, I hope) pale to the true beauty of the place. Whether my gaze was close up on the wildflowers growing on the cliff face or expansive, looking toward the horizon, or even in the middle ground of the rope bridge, I was awed by the opportunity to be a witness to Nature's story. At one point, stepping off the rope bridge just after crossing to Carrick Island, I looked down over the cliff and the sea seemed to be bursting with fireworks in celebration of my arrival as the sun reflected in the water. It was magical.

After crossing back over the rope bridge, we walked along the Causeway Coastal Walk toward the Giant's Causeway where we spent time yesterday. Today, we walked a good chunk, down to Ballintoy Harbor and back to the car park. By mid-day the cerulean sky had pulled up the fleecy covers for a nap and the islands and ruffled coastline wrapped themselves in chiffon scarves against the chill. We made our way back to the car and drove further down the Coastal Route toward Whitepark Bay and explored. The bay has a pristine stretch of sandy beach, the best spot of sand in Northern Ireland, according to our host. Signs posted prohibit swimming due to dangerous conditions and no life guards, but it is a flat, firm, unobstructed beach for walking. And so we did. Not much for the beachcomber here, but we did each manage to bring back a few treasures in our pockets. Despite the cloud cover, the sun persisted and with the receding tide offering up a canvass, the washed beach took on a shimmering glassine quality that held our shadows like paintings.

Aside from stepping in stinging nettles on the side of the road to avoid a close encounter with a motorist, it has been a day of blessings: fresh air, long walks, good company, and Nature's amazing sensibilities!

Driving the Coastal Route up to the Giant's Causeway

We left Dublin early this morning to pick up our car rental at the airport, and I'm happy to report that we survived our first day driving, sitting on the wrong side of the car and occupying the wrong side of the road. Although we had the first leg of the journey on a highway, once we passed Belfast, we got on the scenic coastal road from Carrickfergus all the way north to the Causeway Coast. The scenic route is a narrow two lane road that hugs the coast going in and out of small villages along the way. It is a breathtaking drive, I'm sure, if you are a practiced UK driver, but I was lucky to catch any of the splendor out of the corner of my eyes between roundabouts and hairpin turns that demanded my constant attention to keep within the dotted white line to my right and the non-existent shoulder of the road on the left, a narrow squeeze at best!

We are staying in Northern Ireland, County Antrim, for two nights in a beautifully restored 18th century house full of antiques and Asian art collected by the B&B owners during their travels. There are sheep sleeping on the hillside outside our window, which also offers a magnificent view of the sea. We arrived just in time for tea, and after shaking off the sense of relief of having made it through the first big drive, we got back in the car for a short adventure to see the Giant's Causeway in the glow of the late afternoon, after park hours, when it might be quiet and somewhat solitary. And what a gift! It is hard to describe the utter beauty of nature, especially when it presents itself in an unfamiliar guise. The story of the Giant's Causeway is both truth and fiction: geology, physics, and myth offer explanations worth knowing.

The myth has to do with two quarreling giants, Benandonner, a Scottish giant, and Finn MacCool a somewhat smaller (16 meters or so, I wonder what a large giant's reach is?) Irish giant. Legend goes that they had a running shouting match going on across the sea challenging one another for a test of strength. Finn MacCool took up the challenge and built out a bridge of rocks on which to cross the sea, so the games could begin, but he got so tuckered out from his task that he fell asleep right in the middle of the causeway. His wife, good woman that she was, found him just in the nick of time as Benandonner was crossing the causeway. Once she saw how truly BIG a giant Benandonner was, she took matters into her own hands, dressed her snoozing husband Finn in a baby bonnet and put a blanket over him. When Benandonner crashed up to them, she warned him not to wake Finn's baby. When Benandonner saw the HUGE baby (Finn, really) under the blanket, he high-tailed it back across the causeway in fear of his life. After all, if the baby of Finn MacCool was that large, then how large would his father be? Benandonner didn't want to find out and in his rush, his giant feet splayed the path in the pattern of hexagonal columns that the causeway now embodies. The geology and physics explanation is basically that the Giant's Causeway consists of roughly 40,000 hexagonal basalt columns that were formed by volcanic action. It's a lot more complicated and interesting than that, but the legend is somehow more fun. Sheep dot the highland pastures about the coastline, evoking an Odysseus adventure with the giant cyclops!

Tomorrow, we'll step out onto the Cerrick-a-rede rope bridge spanning the 75 ft. deep chasm of Larrybane bay! I'm working on how to set up links or feeds to our photos online, but Internet service is slow and iffy at best when there is any, so be patient dear friends.

Pictures and Words into Meaning: The National Gallery, the “ultimate living poet”, and Kilmainham Jail

Dublin, June 14, 2010

The National Gallery, a free public institution, is just large enough a museum not to overwhelm yet intimate enough to get close up and personal with the art works. We saw a number of Dutch Masters represented by still life and genre paintings—flowers, fecund fruit and ripe cheeses on tables overborne with pewter or silver services and drapery, ready to be indulged in, or freshly killed game waiting to be dressed amidst kitchen cutlery, preparations for a meal, and portraits and scenes from everyday life — it seems the Dutch were highly specialized niche artists. Unfortunately, the Caravaggio painting, “The Death of Christ,” was on loan to Rome, a disappointment, but there was a Bruegel, “The Peasant Wedding Celebration,” and a Vermeer, “Lady Writing a Letter, with Her Maid.” What, I wondered, is the maid thinking as she glances out the leaded window, a bemused look on her face, as her mistress sits and writes her epistle? Why is the red wax seal tossed on the marble floor in front of the tapestry draped table? Was the Lady in a fit of frustration? It is such a shame to find out that Vermeer never sold this painting but kept it in his possession, yet his widow was forced to give it and another of Vermeer’s paintings to the local baker in order to afford her daily bread. The Irish painters represented in the Gallery were wonderful — Walter Frederick Osborne, Roderic O’Connor, Paul Henry, and Kitty Wilmer O’Brien, especially—and included a special wing for the paintings of Jack B. Yeats, brother of poet William Butler Yeats (whose birthday, by the way, was yesterday, June 13).

From the Gallery we walked to Merrion Square Gardens, a lovely enclosed secret garden of sorts with lushly and deeply landscaped paths, full of specimen trees and open spaces as well. Here, there is a monument to Oscar Wilde that consists of a life-sized statue of him reclining rakishly on a large rock. There are two pillared pedestals opposite him that contain Oscar Wilde one-liners such as “Thought is not catching,” or “A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing,” engraved in various hand writing on the bases. A short distance from Merrion Square is St. Stephen’s Gardens, a larger, more tourist-attracting park. There, we saw a powerful Famine Memorial Sculpture and we met Mary, the self-proclaimed “ultimate living poet” who she said was sometimes compared to Emily Dickinson. She is also known as a “one woman expedition from Russia” (she originates from the Ukraine) who makes “words into meaning” and who is in a renaissance, living as poet, performance artist, and sculptor. Indeed, she was a second place contender for the design of the Dublin Millennium memorial sculpture on O’Connell Street in the heart of Dublin. Apparently, she and another contender were in dispute with the sculpture that won the commission, feeling that the steel needle that is in place wasn't up to the nuanced spirit of the charge put forth. We had quite an interesting conversation with Mary about poetry, art, and politics—a bit of Dublin color.

Kilmainham Jail was our last hop off the Dublin Bus tour today. It is the site most recommended for anyone interested in Irish history, and we were lucky to have an excellent tour guide who led us through this sobering institution. Over the years of its operation, 140 prisoners were publicly executed in front of its gates. Prisoners included men, women, and children as young as five imprisoned for crimes as petty as not having a rail ticket and stealing bread to common crimes. And then there were the literary prisoners, those writing of opposition. Its most famous prisoners were the 14 men held responsible for the Easter Uprising of 1916 who were executed over nine days in the stone breakers’ yard of the jail. These young men where blindfolded, their hands tied behind them, white paper square targets pinned on to their hearts, and stood in front of sandbags (to catch the bullets so as not to pock the walls?) against the walls of the prison yard for the firing squads. Their deaths changed the course of history. “All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born,” says W.B. Yeats in his poem “Easter 1916.” As one of the archways inside the jail proclaims: “Beware of the risen people.”