Adventures Abroad

…with [none] of the folks from home. So, lads and lassies, it is my final post for 2012! I had intended to write up two more after this, one featuring Corkian Christmas festivities and one featuring a now-unspecified adventure that I didn’t have because I am feeling rather weighed down by end of semester blahs and a decent essay load. The essays are done, and so are the blahs, but with my plane taking off on Sunday, I don’t have enough time for anything but packing! Ergo, here ensues one highly squashed-together post.

As of December 3rd, I had the necessary paperwork to apply for my Italian visa for next semester, and the Italian ambassador was back in the office, so I scheduled a trip to the consulate in Dublin. Instead of taking a direct route, of course, I seem to have circumnavigated all of southern Ireland. On Friday, December 7th, I loaded up my backpack with a few clothes and several tons of essay writing material (think laptop, books, notebooks, more books, a few more notebooks) and veritably staggered to the bus station, where I purchased a ticket to Killarney. It wasn’t a terribly long trip, and, having learned from my trip to Waterford, I had only a few blocks to walk before I reached my bed and breakfast. It was already dark, so I dropped off my backpack and headed out for a walk around town. All the streets were lit up and Christmas cheer was in the air. Unfortunately, so was money.

Killarney's city centre

After nearly an hour of wandering, I was rather resigned to spending €20 on a meal; clearly, Killarney was geared toward tourists who were willing to spend that much. However, before I drained my bank account, I came across a Chinese restaurant serving good food for low prices. I ordered and proceeded to select a table, at which point the hostess protested, “No, no! The sit down menu is this one here!” Oh. Two courses, €25. I told her never mind; I would rather have the takeaway meal. Am I crazy for assuming that crab/sweet corn soup and duck in orange glaze would warrant a sit-down meal? It was the strangest takeaway meal I have ever had, and I ate it sitting in my hotel room, staring at my laptop screen and willing an essay to type itself.

St. Mary's Church, Killarney

I woke up Saturday morning to a grey sky, but, by the time I had enjoyed a full Irish breakfast, courtesy of the hotel kitchen, the weather had cleared. I headed off to St. Mary’s Church for a bit of touring. I was surprised to find that it was chock full, so I stayed outside and changed course, aiming for Killarney National Park instead. I don’t know quite how large the park is, but it is riddled with fun walking paths. These paths cross open fields and dense, rather boggy woods. One can travel around the park in a horse-drawn cart or on horseback, but, if you don’t mind walking, the park trails make for a good hike. I followed the road signs to Ross Castle. The castle loomed through the grey tree trunks, and

A thatched cottage in Killarney National Park. I don't recall the name of the estate.

Ross Castle

ravens croaked from the heights. As I walked around the bend, the horror movie setting was rather ruined by the cars in the parking lot and the children on the castle lawns; nonetheless, it remained an impressive monument by the lake shore.

The castle was built in the 15th century by the O’Donoghues. Like Blarney Castle, it has changed hands several times. Unlike Blarney Castle, however, Ross Castle continued to serve a military purpose up until the 19th century. Between the passing centuries and the erected military barracks, the structure now has little resemblance to its original design. I can’t speak for any close-up view of the design myself since the castle was closed for the winter. So, I continued on around the lake for a ways,

The Governor's Stone Rorschach Test: What do you think? Weird chair? Execution block? Wilderness impressionist art? Holler back and let me know! And in case you're wondering, no, I haven't researched it. I will. Eventually.

coming eventually to a bit of rock called the Governor’s Stone (I think; there was no plaque). I couldn’t decided whether the stone was a cubist execution block or a highly uncomfortable chair. Either way, it was out in the middle of nowhere! I enjoyed taking in the isolated scenery before turning around and heading back into town. I stopped at St. Mary’s Church, this time wholly empty, before eating lunch, picking up my backpack, and returning to the bus station. From there, I headed on to Tralee.

The Rose of Tralee was not in town, and I missed the August rose celebration by several months. Nonetheless, I enjoyed walking around the gardens and the various notable churches of the town. I stopped for some afternoon tea and pulled out my laptop to book a room for the evening in Limerick, my next destination. I found nary a room available under €200, so I booked a room in Tralee instead. While I had intended Saturday as my “going-out” night, my essays hadn’t written themselves the evening before. I gritted my teeth, tied myself to the chair, and started typing.

I missed the bus I wanted out of Tralee Sunday morning and purchased a train ticket to Limerick instead, a counterproductive arrangement. Instead of going northwest, the train rolled southeast, back toward Cork. I changed trains at Mallow and ended up standing in the join between two cars, nose to nose with the other passengers in quite a trans-Ireland crush. If I closed my eyes and leaned against the flexible wall, I felt rather as if I were at sea. It was a relief to get off at Limerick Junction! The train to Limerick, in contrast, was almost empty. It was starting to rain when I arrived in Limerick, but I ignored the weather and headed into the city center, following the road signs toward King John’s Castle. Along the way, I stopped at St. Mary’s Cathedral. The cathedral was built in the 12th century and is one of the few really old

Not a great angle, but here's St. Mary's Cathedral in Limerick.

churches in Ireland that still offers services. One might think that its continued functionality would indicate that it was occupied on Sunday. Wrong! The doors were locked and the normal entrances were blocked by construction work. Disappointed, I continued on down the street and around the

Dear Limerick: Yeah, some of us are crazy enough to go travelling in December, and we would be willing to pay a few euro to see the INSIDES of these buildings. So, OPEN YOUR DOORS! This is King John's Castle. It's an imposing building--hard to fit in the camera frame.

corner, hoping that King John’s Castle was open to the public. It was equally locked and barred, and its high walls and narrow windows made it look particularly unassailable. I stopped at a few more sightseeing attractions, but winter appears to be the “Go away!” season in Limerick. By this point, my jeans were wet and my hood, which I in my wisdom left down, had become a portable pond. I was feeling rather resentful toward the city as I trudged back to the train station. At the time, I was composing gloomy limericks about Limerick that I intended to post here, but I fear I’ve forgotten them. Anyway, I took advantage of the powerful hand dryers in the train stations to dry off my backpack, my coat, and my hair before boarding the train to Dublin.

I won’t bore you with details of my time at the Dublin Italian Consulate, although I will say that, if you wish to apply for a visa of any sort, it is much easier to do from within the EU than from without. The process would have taken up to two months in the States, but it only took about two days in Ireland—or maybe a few more since my passport was mailed to me once it was stamped. Anyway, I stayed in the lovely Waterloo House, a bed and breakfast in a Georgian style building. Once I finished visa-ing on Monday, I met up with a friend for lunch at the Queen of Tarts (ahem, the kind the knave stole from Lewis Carroll’s Queen of Hearts, not the other kind). It’s a small tea shop with fabulous meals and even better desserts (think cinnamon cake and lots of chocolate). Then, as it was growing dark, I took a bus back to the train station and returned to Cork.

Here, I’m going to add just a few notes about Corkian Christmas celebrations. While Cork’s Christmas Market isn’t nearly as big as Belfast’s, it is still a lively one. It is open every weekend from the 1st of December until Christmas. From the times I have visited, I gather that the Market has live

My loneliness / is killing me...Britney Spears sing-alike night. Again, sorry it's blurry. My camera doesn't like the dark.

Corkian light fest! It's the pumpkin coach.

performances nearly every night. The first time I stopped by, a group was performing some jazzy Christmas arrangements, but the last time I visited, it was a Britney Spears sound-alike special. There are lights up all around the area, and all of the shop fronts have some lovely (and, let’s face it, some not-so-lovely) Christmas displays.

Some shop Christmas displays. This shop had four windows, so there were four of these. I'm still trying to decide if these window displays were in the lovely or not-so-lovely range.

Gaudy or elegant? I'm not sure. Anyway, same shop, different window.

Lights on campus

So, folks, this is the last of my blog posts from Ireland. I hope to return to the forum in mid-January, when I will begin my adventures in Italy. Thanks for reading; I hope it was as enjoyable as the writing was. As I sit in the Dublin airport typing away on this post, I am grateful for my months here in Ireland. My entire semester has been grand, and I would love to return one day. While I am ready to go home for Christmas, I would also like a little more time here. I have seen a lot, done a lot, and fallen in love with the culture and the land. As for the weather…Well, let’s just say that Ireland had a parting shot to boot me out the door. As I was packing, I discovered mildew on my boots. Thanks a lot, Ireland! So it goes…

...and happy New Year!

P.S. Before I sign off entirely, can I get some good luck wishes? Some go n-eirie leat‘s? I am currently experiencing one of the ultimate joys of travelling: the rescheduled flight. My 9:00 a.m. flight to Newark doesn’t leave until 7:00 p.m. tonight, which means that I will be home nearly 24 hours after I should be. This is putting a kink in my Christmas plans. I might not mind so much if I had gotten more sleep recently…Well, I hope others are having better travel luck!

It was raining in Waterford. Ha. Ha. Ha. Unfortunately, I can’t blame the name for calling down the rain since it is an Anglicization of the Norse vedrafjordr, or “ram’s fjord.” I also can’t blame the Irish name, Port Láirge, which officially means Lárag’s Port but sounds suspiciously like a reversal of longphort (a port in Ireland for—what do you know?—Viking long ships). Anyway, now I think I know why the old woman from Wexford tried to kill her husband…But I’ll come back to that later.

I caught the 4:40 bus out of Cork on Friday evening and arrived in Waterford in the dark. Since I didn’t know where my hotel was (and I had conveniently chosen one 5.6 kilometres from the bus station), I hailed a taxi cab and arrived at the Ramada Viking Hotel relatively dry and warm. Friday night was thoroughly uneventful, unless one counts my first hot bath of the semester as an event.

Medieval wall

Saturday was far more exciting in the tourism department. I walked the 5.6 kilometres back to the city centre, and along the way I had the chance to truly appreciate Waterford’s history. It is the oldest town in Ireland and was founded by the Vikings in the 9th century, though some will claim that it was founded in the 2nd century or in prehistoric times. While most of the cities around here have remnants of some sort of medieval wall and, of course, old churches, Waterford’s wall is predominantly intact and includes some watchtowers perched right beside the main road. Not only that, it is one of the few cities in which traces of the Vikings are present, obvious, and in side-by-side existence with Middle Ages architecture. One such example of Viking construction is Reginald’s Tower, which sits right at a busy intersection and has become a Viking museum.

Since Reginald’s Tower was closed for the lunch by the time I schlepped into town, I headed over to the Medieval Museum instead. The tour started in the underground dinery (and winery) intended for monks in the neighboring

Dinery

Because everyone needs a midden heap. This was in the dinery.

Christ Church and then led to the third floor. The museum was complete with city layouts through the ages, wax figures modeling medieval garb (and what a shock it gave me to turn around and find myself face-to-face with a king!), charter books and royal decrees printed on vellum, swords, medieval art, bishops’ raiments worked in cloth-of-gold…The list goes on. I don’t want to bore you with descriptions of museum interiors, so I will cut it off with two notes. For some reason, the museum felt it necessary to display the wax heads of three rebels on pikes. Three highly realistic heads. Historical? Yes. Aesthetically pleasing? On the vomitous end of the spectrum. Second, Waterford has a long record of rebellious attitude. For instance, it was really the only city in Ireland to successfully resist Oliver Cromwell. The man besieged Waterford fruitlessly and was eventually forced to withdraw in 1649. Don’t get too excited, though; the city fell to his deputy in the same year.

It was sprinkling a bit when I left the Medieval Museum, so my second stop was at the Chocolate Cafe for a bowl of soup and some tea. Then, I went

Reginald's Tower. Also, take a look at that statue. I was really excited to find him here in Waterford...

on to the Viking Museum in Reginald’s tower. Since the Vikings are not noted for their artistic ability, the collection consisted primarily of pins, arrowheads, swords, and some pottery shards. The tower itself has as much of a story as the artifacts within. In its day, it served not only as a watchtower but also as a royal mint and a prison. During its life as a gaol, it was damned for its discomfort; the government didn’t see fit to update damp, drafty medieval construction for the benefit of criminals. The female prisoners held on the third floor kept warm and stayed cheerful by dancing jigs and reels.To this day, the tower is still a bit drafty despite being equipped with electric lights and heating, and its winding stairs have been resurfaced but not redesigned for the modern human. I had to keep my head low as I climbed, and I nearly brained myself on several eye-height lintels.

Speaking of Waterford rebels, there was a statue of Thomas Francis Meagher on horseback right outside Reginald’s Tower. Alright, Montanans, you should know this one! He was born in Waterford. He became an ardent

See! See! SEE! They know about Butte, Montana here, too! It's a small world. Although one Irish guy I talked to informed me, when he learned where I was from and where I am studying, that a) he didn't like Cork and b) he wouldn't ever want to visit the U.S.A. Um, okay? That's...nice to know? Different strokes for different folks...

Irish nationalist and was originally condemned to death by the English; instead, he was deported to Australia. From there, he made his way to New York City, studied law, worked as a journalist, and joined the U.S. Army to fight in the Civil War. Then, he was appointed governor of…Can you guess? And the answer is: the Montana Territory! Unfortunately, he fell off of a steamboat in Fort Benton and drowned in the Missouri River in 1867.

My last stop for the day was, of course, at Waterford Crystal. The store would have been unmistakable even if I hadn’t seen the name. Glass-fronted and glittering with lights, it stood out for blocks around. Inside was a plethora of beautiful crystal that I might return to buy after I’ve made my first billion. I made one purchase that will hopefully show up at home before Christmas. Then, I headed back to the hotel, stopping for a sandwich at a convenience store since my checkbook was wincing. I felt a bit guilty spending any money on a nice dinner!

Waterford Crystal: Things I want but cannot afford, part 1. This one is priced at about 12,500 euros.

Waterford Crystal: Things I want but cannot afford, part 2. This one had no price posted. I don't want to know. I am still allowed to drool.

The dry weather—and, for that matter, the light rain—was over by Sunday morning, and the monsoon had begun. I headed for the bus station in a taxi. I purchased a ticket to Wexford and then had time for coffee and a pastry before the bus left. When I arrived in Wexford, it was raining, if possible, even harder. In desperation, I stopped at Dunnes to buy a nice, stout umbrella. Then, I went in search of a bed and breakfast where I could perhaps leave my backpack, but forty-five minutes of wandering left me with nothing but swamped shoes and a hot temper. I bought lunch at a bagel shop to get out of the rain and used their bathroom to swap my soggy shoes for dry socks and boots. I left a nice puddle of runoff from my backpack behind!

Dry feet and a slowdown in rainfall improved my mood dramatically, so I enjoyed my walk around Wexford. I don’t think I hit any of the tourist hot spots

Wexford church

there, but I did stop in at several beautiful churches, and I window shopped my way through the city centre. By late afternoon, the rain had lifted completely to be replaced by a grey haze of smoke and condensation, and I wasn’t sorry to leave town on the evening bus. I was sorry to meet up with the monsoon again in Waterford. I should have stayed in the station until the Cork bus left, but I had a brilliant notion that I should see a little more of the city. As a result, my jeans were wet from mid-thigh on down, my boots filled with water, and, in case I was thirsty, the top compartment of my backpack became a rainwater storage unit. I retreated to the station with my tail between my legs and made another trip to the bathroom, this time to pour the lake out of my backpack. My footwear was beyond help.

So, my song for the weekend was “The Old Woman from Wexford.” She was a nasty piece of work, anyhow, but I privately believe that she didn’t attempt to murder her husband to make way for a new man; I think the Wexford weather drove her mad!

Mid-November brought with it our second and last IFSA-Butler sponsored trip, and it was one we’d all been waiting for since we arrived in Ireland. Not only is Belfast one of the top ten cities in Europe to visit (or so they say) but it is a city that seems to exert a pull on everyone in Ireland.

That pull notwithstanding, Belfast is about as far away from Cork as can be. Had we all had iron bums (and bladders) we could have made the bus ride in about five and a half hours; as it was, we left on Thursday morning at 10:30 a.m. and arrived at about 5:30 or 6:00 in the evening—just in time for dinner. I’d had a rough week prior to the trip, so, though I felt chipper but tired when I got on the bus, I had a sore throat when I disembarked. I am learning that those with delicate health should not come to Ireland; this was the beginning of my third cold during the teaching period, and I know quite a few other exchange students who have fared worse. Anyway, my first evening in Belfast was singularly uneventful. I ate, went in search of LemSip to keep the cold at bay (and more than a spoonful of sugar was needed to make that medicine go down), showered, and crawled into bed.

Here, your narrator will leave herself snuffling and snorking about in her sleep for a brief discussion of Northern Irish history. My Celtic Literature class has focused throughout the course on Irish mythology that was first written down in the 8th or 9th century (or maybe even a century or two before that) by Irish monks; however, these stories are much older. How old, we don’t quite know. At any rate, the central text for the course is the Táin Bó Cúailnge (The Cattle Raid of Cooley), which details the conflicts between the Connachtá and the Ulaid (or Ulstermen). At the time, Ireland was divided into cúige, or fifths: Munster, Leinster, Connacht, Ulster, and the now-vanished or mythical Mide. Six of the nine counties of the original Ulster now make up Northern Ireland. Those six counties were deemed predominantly Protestant at the time of the division of Ireland in the 1920s, so they remained under England’s rule while the rest of Ireland became a republic. By predominantly Protestant, of course, I mean that about 47% of the population was Catholic at the time, a concept that more than one politician has failed to grasp.

I intend no disrespect to Irish history when I skip over a millennium of it, but if I don’t cut it short I will rhapsodize for hours about the absolute awesomeness of the antiquity of Irish names and places. All I can say is: A few centuries are a pittance of time here in the grand scheme of things. Now, enough is enough!

LemSip carried me through the night cheerfully enough, and I joined the rest of the group for another “full Irish breakfast,” including the requisite, suspiciously soggy egg-like dish, at the hotel on Friday morning. Then, we headed off on our bus tour around Northern Ireland. Our first stop was at a rope bridge spanning the gap between the mainland and an island. Before you get the incorrect impression that I walked for miles on a swaying rope bridge over the depths of the Atlantic, buffeted by the wind and the rain, know that the bridge was only fifty feet long and

Another bridge to nowhere

the island was merely a spit of rock. Originally intended as a seasonal passage for fishermen, the bridge has now become a tourist trap. Nonetheless, it was windy and rainy, and the chasm beneath was deep. It was a trip best made quickly! Once across, we had time to admire the force of the waves against the cliffs. The ground was boggy, and more than one of us came back with a muddy seat. I stayed dry, but, at one point, I spotted a fellow student zooming toward the edge of the rocks on her backside, trying to stop herself with one hand and holding her expensive camera in the air with the other.

The bus ride was long enough that our second stop was at lunchtime. Afterward, we headed to

A ruin in the mist...or Dunluce Castle

Dunluce Castle. Though it was built in the 1500s and is several centuries younger than Blarney Castle, it is wholly ruined. It is an impressive sight nonetheless, perched on the edge of the cliffs. The sea has carved a hole through the rock beneath the castle; apparently, the kitchen fell off at one point, straight into the water. Bon appetit! Methinks the whole castle will have disintegrated into the sea in 500 years.

Lastly, we stopped at the Giant’s Causeway,  a beach covered with truly extraordinary rocks. An ancient volcanic eruption left clusters of hexagonal basalt columns stretching down into the sea. At least, that’s the scientific explanation. Legend has it that Fionn mac Cumhaill, a contemporary of the Táin Bó Cúailnge, created this causeway and

Yeah, those are some of my group members. I didn't ask their permission to use this photo. What about it? This was my best shot of the stone columns.

built it all the way across to Scotland, where he met a giant.

I mean, seriously, hexagonal!

Fionn ran home and, at his wife’s ingenious suggestion, disguised himself as a baby and hopped in a cradle. When the giant came knocking at the door, Fionn’s wife showed him the “baby.” The giant was dumbfounded at the size of the “son” and fled, in terror of the father, ripping up the causeway as he went to prevent Fionn from following. Whatever the source, this beach, with its spectacular rocks and high waves, was a grand finish to the day.

We were on our own for dinner back in Belfast, so some friends and I enjoyed a night out at a Lebanese restaurant before paying visits to several different pubs.

The cabbie 'n me. No, it isn't a black cab, but I still think it looks cool.

On Saturday, we were met at the front doors of the hotel by black taxis for a tour of Belfast. The first stop was in the Protestant quarter. There, the walls are painted with murals commemorating the upheaval in the city and serving as a memorial for members of the loyalist Ulster Defense Association and similar organizations. Two, in particular, stand out. One is a memorial of Stevie “Top Gun” McKeag, a brutal assassin who singled out and killed more than twenty victims. As our tour guide said, “One man’s freedom fighter is another man’s terrorist.” The other is a depiction of a masked sniper. Rather like the Mona Lisa’s eyes, his gun barrel follows you as you pass by.

On our way out of the Protestant district, we stopped by the Peace Wall, which is actually one of eighty-eight in Northern Ireland; forty-eight of them are in Belfast. Unlike the Berlin Wall, these walls are designed to separate, not contain. The British built these walls to place a division

If you squint, you can maybe see my name.

between Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods, and the walls will go down when residents wish them to. Recently, the city brought in artists to repaint the walls with peaceful images over which thousands of visitors have written their names and best wishes. Our taxi driver distributed pens, and I, too, had a chance to sign my name on the Peace Wall.

Next, we stopped in the Catholic district at a memorial commemorating those who died in the fighting. Photographs

In memoriam

of fallen IRA members line the walls, and the deaths of civilians and volunteers are recorded in marble. Quite a few on that list of names were murdered by Stevie McKeag.

Finally, we stopped to view one last wall mural. Rather, it was a series of murals, some painted in response to the fighting in Belfast and others depicting humanitarian issues around the world. Then, we returned to the hotel for lunch. It was a sobering tour indeed, and it was a relief to take a break from grim history.

IFSA-Butler arranged an impromptu bus tour for any of us who wished to see more of Belfast. Many disembarked at the Titanic Museum, and only ten of us remained on the bus. We visited

They look like mutant spiders here, but in real life they're massive.

Belfast’s dry docks, even getting a close-up of the two massive cranes that dominate the city skyline: Sampson and Goliath. We drove by the college attended by C. S. Lewis, stopped at the parliament building, and took in a few more murals before returning to the hotel for our last night in Belfast.

That last night concluded with a joyous event: the opening of the Belfast Christmas Market. If you had tickets (or even if you

Like I've said before, my camera doesn't take good night pictures. What I am trying and failing to portray is the crowd and the lights. Happy Christmas! Maybe sometime I'll get my chance to rant about how Christmas starts on November 1st here...

didn’t), you could see a street concert featuring plenty of Christmas carols. There were stands selling Christmas cacti and holly, mulled wine, exotic (think kangaroo, wild boar, and alligator) burgers, waffles, fudge, French soaps, Lapland slippers…I thought I would be rolling, rather than walking, when I left! My friends and I were fortunate in our timing; just as we were preparing to leave, they lit up the trees. Streets all the way around the square were decorated and glowing. I’m surprised any of the houses on the block had power!

Anyway, such an evening of delicious food and foreign goods was a fine conclusion to a fascinating trip. While I wasn’t ready to head back to Cork on Sunday morning, I certainly had a full weekend. I would visit Belfast again in a heartbeat, but it is not a city in which one looks for grandeur. Rather, the city, like its history, is gritty and troubled. Do not go looking for glorious architecture; you will find bitter memories and bloodshed.