We woke up in Castlebar and wondered what the heck we were supposed to do. A guy we met before we got turf fired and boozed at Matt Malloy's pub told us to go to the Museum of Country Life and also the Foxford Woolen Mills.
Let's get started with the Museum of Country Life. That place was interesting, but I'm pretty sure I need to be treated for depression now. The potato famine killed about one million people in Ireland and another seven million emigrated to the U.S. The current population is only about five million, so this gives you an idea of the magnitude of the problem when the potato crops gave out. It also explains why we have so many darned people of Irish descent in this country. The police department of every sizeable town in this country thanks you, Ireland.
In any event, here you have people with hardly any clothes, straw made furniture (not kidding), and straw made boats (not kidding), straw made belts (not kidding) etc. Basically, the Irish cut down all their trees (burning wood = warmth) and so these poor folks lived in stone built houses with dirt floors and made as much stuff out of straw as possible. The only thing of true value to the Irish was their Catholic faith. Add poverty, starvation and persecution, and the Christian faith blossoms. Add wealth and acceptance and it withers. Ponder that for a while. Have you mulled it over? Accept it, and thank me later.
I suppose if Karl Marx showed up in an Irish village and starting hectoring some poor, straw shoe wearing Irish farmer about religion being the "opiate of the masses" Karl's day would have ended up badly by being strung him up with a noose made of (oh, let's see...) STRAW.
The Museum of Country Life is located at Turlough Park. This happens to be the ancestral home of the Fitzgeralds. I'm told that my wife is some gazillion times removed from the Fitzgeralds, so we might have been stalking the home of one of her forefathers. Here's the Fitzgerald family by the way.
Notice that little squint playfully flying the kite? Well, this little sh*t grew up to be "Fighting Fitzgerald". George was his real name, and George is what the Irish call a "fire eater". What is a fire eater? It means he was a duelist. Grown up Georgie must have taken offense quite easily because he killed a whole bunch of people until his days of easy offense and pistol shooting were stopped by a noose in Castlebar. The peaceful little guy leaning up against dad inherited the estate, and the Fitzgeralds purportedly kept breeding until my wife appears somewhere down the line. I thank you Fitzgeralds! Sometimes the ghost of "Fighting Fitzgerald" arises in my home, and I now understand.
From the front lawn of the Fitzgerald ancestral home, we noticed this:
This kind of thing happens all over Ireland. You are driving about and to your left and right are ruins of old churches, castles, abbeys etc. This is the Round Tower at Turlough Park. It was built in the 900's. Keep in mind that this was the time when the Vikings were raiding Ireland. Here it is perfectly intact. The structure next to it is a church that was built in 1625. Of course, an ancient graveyard surrounds the whole place, so you can't walk up to it or around it without stomping on all sorts of Murphy's, Murrays, O'(add any name here - the Irish have you covered) and Mc (same deal as with "O"). How does McDeWalt sound? O'Barry maybe? No? O'Shutup? I like that one.
The dead and the living have to get along somehow, and its done by playing a game resembling both hop scotch and twister. You do this by estimating from the headstone where the body may be and you JUMP! ~ By this means you may avoid any kind of unintended desecration. It rained on us while we were inspecting this marvel of human engineering, and I didn't find any leprechauns or vikings (other than my wife), so it was off to the Foxford Woolen Mills.
Here's a picture of its dramatic entrance (sarcasm intended) of the Foxford Woolen Mills:
Right now some of the ladies are starting to get that itching feeling that a male rant about shopping is about to occur. You're right. Don't get me wrong, this is a nice place. I'm genuinely happy that my bride got her shopping buzz on (sarcasm not intended). When I conjured up my mental image of these woollen works, I had thoughts of a huge stone building filled with orphaned girls who were learning a trade from the nuns so they wouldn't starve etc. Well, it very well may have been that way in the 19th century, but now it kind of had the feel of an Irish Ikea.
For those of you who don't know, I had a huge meltdown at Ikea in Sacramento once. I'll admit that it came very nearly close to what you might see out of a three year old in need of a nap. I believe Fighting Fitzgerald was there as well, and the net result was a whole push cart of stuff being abandoned right there in the aisle right next to where they sell those meatballs. There is just something about that angular, austere Swedish furnishing and its ever-present threat of hours of cluelessness and near tool-throwing that will occur after I've bought Sweden in a box that just gets me going. More to the point - their furniture sucks. Can't we all just agree that it is ugly?
In any event, I was starting to feel an Ikea rant coming on, but I mellowed because I was on vacation, and my wife was really happy. So, I sat my butt down on some chair I'm not sure I was supposed to sit on and put on that bored look on my face that we husbands get when these things happen. I did see some yarn being made into a blanket through a glass window in a door. That was the only "milling" I saw. That's close to my mental image, right?
Travel Shopping Rule #1 - If it isn't made in the place where you are, it doesn't count!!! My love found some ceramic owls which she thought she might buy for the girls. When I inquired as to whether she was safely within the parameters of Travel Shopping Rule #1, she turned them over and you can guess what we saw ... come on ... play along ... it was ... it was ... "Republic of China"! A clear violation. Chinese ceramic owls do not count as an Irish gift, and China is not a republic! I insisted on their disqualification on both grounds, and my bride ultimately found something much more Irishy. You are welcome, love.
Now for the part of the day where we drive for three hours, right? You've been waiting for that I know. We got in the car for some more left-hand side of the road torture and drove up to Ballina, over to Bangor and then South to Ballycroy National Park. A strange thing happened on the way ... I saw trees. It was explained to me at the Park that some genius in the government got the notion that Ireland should be returned to its natural, forested state. Sounds good except it kills off the bogs. Here's what the bogs look like:
At Ballycroy, you have the strange situation where the bogs (which flourished because all the trees were cut) are protected against the government's own efforts to reforest Ireland. I guess you just have to choose one form of "natural" over another. In any event, you could tramp right out in the patch of brown just ahead in the picture, dig up some turf, and burn it in your fireplace once it has dried out. It will take over a thousand years to regenerate, but you could do it. However, I don't recommend this as a suitable home heating fuel. If you want the inside of your house to smell like you just lit up some coals in a hibachi on your living room floor, burn turf. See ... I've learned from my Irish correction suffered earlier in my trip ... I did not refer to the turf as "peat".
While walking on this path in the drizzle, I had a Heathcliff moment. For those of you who remember high school English class, you may have had to read about that brooding hunk "Heathcliff". This guy was dreamed up by one of those Bronte sisters in her novel "Wuthering Heights". So, here I am in the exact same environment as "Wuthering Heights", my wife is next to me, she's pretty, I'm a jerk like Heathcliff and all that is left for me to do is take off my shirt embrace my wife and let the rain wash us clean. Very romantic! Well, it didn't go down like that because I was cold and wet. I did take my first opportunity to go all red neck and pee on the bog. On behalf of the people of America, I apologize to you Ireland for peeing on your bogs - not only my own but the pee of any other American as well. But Ireland, you must know that I have the bladder of a squirrel, and it just seemed like the right thing to do at the moment. But yeah, I'm sorry.
We left Ballycroy and made our way to a cool pub called Grainne Uaile in Newport. Here it is:
We were very happy to get to Newport, and this pub was nice. Here's my problem, and you knew there was going to be a problem, right? The atmosphere inside looked Irish, but I was besieged by the french language. The family next to us was French, so I spent most of my time picking at my food and wondering, "What the f**ck are those people saying?" None of my business, of course. Not their fault either. I imagine if I was French I'd probably speak french as well. I guess I would have to. More disturbing than the french, however, was the Spanish language music I heard. Damn right!! Frickin Spanish music in an Irish pub. That sh*t ain't right! Do we really have to bring Mexico to Ireland! I left very confused.
Oh well, we dried out, paid for our food and left what was otherwise a very cool pub. It was County Mayo's pub of the year in 2006. Just look at the picture! We closed out our trip by returning to Breaffy House in Castlebar. All in all, this was our best day so far. I'm writing this weeks after we've returned, but the memories make me happy. That is how I know that we had fun, and that is how you judge a vacation.
No comments:
Post a Comment