Shanti

So I moved to Dunny Cove, a place so obscure that most people in the nearby big city of Clonakilty (pop. 2000) scratch their heads and ask for coordinates.  Then, if they’re driving here, they get lost anyway and call on their mobile phones for directions.  I like this.  Dunny Cove is a tiny sandy beach surrounded by high cliffs and menacing rocks.  There are three houses in the cul de sac; I live in half of the first one, a duplex high on the verge overlooking the cove and icy winter Atlantic.  Pods of whales and dolphins glide pass my doorsteps, silent as shadows in a churchyard.  Basking Sharks loll just off shore. There is magic in Dunny Cove.

My neighbor, in the other half of the duplex is Shanti, a medium sized black and white dog of indeterminate, but undoubtedly splendid, ancestry.  Shanti is sui generis, his own pup in every way from his big soulful eyes to his unique “Queen Anne” shaped forelegs.  Of course, Shanti has a human caregiver, Cathy, my winsome neighbor, but the thing is that Shanti is a guy dog and “mature” like me.  He seems genuinely happy to have the friendship of another old dog. (Of course, it may just be he enjoys the treats I slip him.)  And, Shanti is an ancient soul, peaceful as his name and exemplary in his love of all creation.  So we walk together, greeting neighbors, canine, bovine, equine, and human with friendly smiles, sniffs, and kisses.  Shanti refreshes himself from rain puddles and a little roadside seep spring he’s shown me.  Shanti says the spring is holy and has its own resident naiad, a water deity named Trixi.  Trixi is a doggie deity.

Shanti makes a paradise of each moment, looking up from time to time to share the joy with me.  “Isn’t puddle splashing lovely?  Did you notice the earthy fragrance of that horse; the bright yellow of the Gorse?” So Shanti coaxes me into his magical world of spirits, scents, and sensations; a place otherwise lost to my numb human observation.

Shanti and I like to walk to Beala Cusheen a neighboring cove where he searches out Pepper Dulse (Osmunia pinnatifida), a kelp, which he eats with gusto.   Pepper Dulse, is very high in minerals and has culinary uses as a spice, but in moderation.  Fresh from the shore it tastes salty and spicy.  Shanti has a jones for Pepper Dulse, but eats it only after first vigorously shaking the sand and little sea creatures from it. Shanti is a nearly a Jain so assiduously does he avoid killing. This too endears Shanti.

Speaking of seaweed, I’ve just purchased Prannie Rhatigan’s Irish Seaweed Kitchen, a wonderfully illustrated cookbook singing the praises of Ireland’s abundant shoreline.  All Irish seaweeds are quite edible and may be used in salads and soups, as spices and more.  An Irish seaweed you might find in your neighborhood health food store is Carrageen from which one may easily make Carrageen Jelly, a wonderful dessert served with lemon and honey.  My friend Cally introduced me to Carrageen Jelly just a few weeks ago.  It’s like ice cream from the sea and is good for you!  How often in a lifetime does that happen? Once I purchase my Vita Mix blender I’ll have seaweed in my daily smoothie and soups. 

So it goes.  Life is abundant in West Cork on the edge of the Irish speaking sea.  May every earthly blessing find its way to your doorstep in this the season of moon and stars.

Thanksgiving Remembered

The origins of Thanksgiving are various and disputed by people who enjoy disputation.  It is probably older than its traditional inception date of 1621 by the Pilgrims in Massachusetts Bay Colony.  Scholars think the Pilgrims brought this festival from the Netherlands where, by the way, Thanksgiving is also still celebrated.  Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving a month earlier than other North Americans, but that’s because winter comes earlier among the ice farmers; you’ve got to cook the turkey before it freezes to death in the yard.   But, no mind, Thanksgiving is a harvest festival which is now completely secular and ecumenical.  The Pilgrims invited the indigenous Native Americans to feast with them in a gesture which, had it been followed, might have changed the face of American history for the better.

The tradition is one of open commensality. Much like the early Christians, Americans celebrate by breaking bread with newcomers, strangers, and people of diverse heritage.  In my own family, my Aunt Isabel’s Jewish hairdresser and bookie, “Aunt Agnes,” was always present on Thanksgiving.  My grandmother’s lesbian cousin, Dr. Esther, was also with us on many Thanksgivings.   I recall her as a tall kindly lady in trousers who was said to be the first woman physician licensed in the State of Nebraska.  Dr. Esther cured my warts without pain or surgery, prescribing mineral oil and mysterious pills which I now believe to have been a placebo.  Thanksgiving was always a time of open doors, open hearts, and full stomachs.

In my memory, my tiny Grandmother Moran presided over the kitchen with her daughters busily fussing over food preparation and presentation.  Everyone drank eggnog which, when spiked with rum and/or brandy becomes a “Tom & Jerry.” Grandma Moran didn’t tolerate liquor in her house so my uncles all brought flasks to spike their drinks on the back porch.  Granddad Moran did not use alcohol, but seemed to turn a blind eye on the back porch.  Boys will be boys.

Thanksgiving, like Passover among Reform Jews, is a time when you may seek out single people, lonely people, and invite them into your family.  Some, like my Aunt Agnes, become family thereafter.  It is also a time when family feuds are set aside, sometimes settled; peace is made.  We celebrated Thanksgiving with my mother’s whitebread Protestant family and were the only Catholics in the crowd.  Catholics weren’t quite proper in America of the 1950s, before John F. Kennedy was elected President.  My grandfather said grace before we began eating and my Uncle Joe winked at me across the table while others bowed their heads in prayer. 

For the meal itself, Grandfather Moran carved the turkey and we passed the food around the table family style. The turkey’s derriere was always called “The Pope’s Nose,” but not spitefully.  Even my Catholic father chuckled at the old jibe.  Granddad always proclaimed that “south end” of the turkey the best part and kept it for himself.   I hated canned cranberries which looked like they’d taste wonderful, but didn’t.  Everyone poured oceans of gravy over their turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes.  Good manners required that you comment favorably on the “flaky” crust of my grandmother’s pies over which one layered vanilla ice cream and whipped cream.  High cholesterol hadn’t been invented yet, so folks could yet eat sinfully without apology or self-recrimination.  Obesity was called “fat” and that’s what any number of my family members were.  Heart attack was considered a natural cause of death, the express train to the bosom of Abraham.

After the meal was finished, I always slid down in my chair and crawled under the table to freedom through a forest of legs.  Uncles adjourned to the living room where they dozed and watched tiny footballers gambol on the black and white television.  Mom and the aunts cleared up, did the dishes, laughed, and gossiped.  In later years, Uncle Joe and I escaped to the Elks Club for snooker or, if apprehended, to the front lawn for a game of catch with baseball and glove.  Aunt Isabel’s Pekinese, “Tippy,” surfeited with outlaw tidbits I’d slipped her under the table, was quietly sick and snored teats up on her innocent back in a corner.

Mindful Cycling:

Riding a one-speed bike is skinny dipping a starlit cove in West Cork.  Visualize surfing an endless point break alone under the golden moon of summer.

I am again in the throes of One-Speed Fever, a passion which affects thousands of bikies daily.  Every cyclist is at heart a minimalist and burning deep in that heart is the joy of mindful riding, a meditation.  In that zone respiration is the Creator’s breath filling your lungs with life, stoking the fire of metabolism deep in your belly.  Your legs move, your muscles stretch and contract rhythmically, but you are utterly still; the world rolls beneath you. The Cosmic OM resonates throughout your body, vitalizing both bike and rider.  Visualize a cyclist within a swarming galaxy whose axis is her fontanel. If you’ve got that, you “get” one-speed.

The one-speed idea is a bicycle so spare that nothing is without immediate function.  Here you see no spring forks, iPods, or clusters of electronic doodads.  There are no fancy gear shifters, derailleurs or hydration systems. You don’t need a pulse and blood pressure gadget when you feel every heartbeat throughout your body.  One-speed cyclists fret over whether to retain the rear brake, hardly necessary and always mushier than the crisp snap of the front canti.   Ms. Raleigh has Paul cantilever brakes, front and rear; her front canti is a touring model which would stop a rockslide.  You must learn not to apply it too forcefully.  Although the rear brake is elegant and functional, it comes with its own clutter.  I sometimes forget my helmet. So it goes. 

With a one-speed comes an entirely different cycling reality; a deeper serenity and harmony.  You do walk up many hills and invariably coast downhill, but when was the last time you had such unalloyed joy as coasting down a long hill?  Gravity, usually your master, becomes your friend.  Walking your bike uphill you meet the world at the only pace known to your ancient ancestors. When was the last time you really looked at a horse? A cow? A caterpillar? Walking up Ardfield Hill was how I met May, my Airedale friend who sometimes gives me kisses.  There is nothing more innocent and sincere than May’s kiss.  She’s your pal.

If I’ve infected you, you may come to thank me.  Now we’re dreaming of taking a one-speed tour of coastal Ireland next spring, Ms. Raleigh and me.  Ms. Raleigh likes the idea of becoming a bikini bike again.   Me too!

(If you want to peek at an elegant one-speed, check out Rivendell Bicycle Works “Quickbeam” at http://www.rivbike.com/.  It’s not Ms. Raleigh, but he is an elegant machine; her American cousin.)

Peace.

Beauty Immortal & Mysterious:

Ms. Raleigh started life in the 1970s as a 10-speed club bike composed from the world’s finest tubing, double butted Reynolds 501. “Steel Is Real” is her mantra and Ms. Raleigh is always right. The only way to obtain this kind of frame now is to find one of the rare craftsmen who still builds bicycles by hand.  Rivendell Bicycles in California, http://www.rivbike.com/, sells elegant butted steel frames along with other fine equipment. Take a look; it’s a cyclist’s gazetteer.  As we’ve matured together, Ms. Raleigh and I have become minimalist. (Her only accesories are a shell bead necklace I made for her and a Krishna bell which once announced the whereabouts of my toddlers’ shoes.  My only adornment is Ms. Raleigh.)  By the time we moved to Paris, she had shed all her gear shifting paraphernalia and become a 1-speed, sporting Phil Wood hubs and crank bearing, Paul cantilever brakes, and an old Brooks Professional saddle.  Her crank set is Campagnolo.  She draws appreciative looks from bicycle cognoscenti and envy from her younger, more common cousins. Ms. Raleigh is like Sophia Loren, immortally beautiful and mysterious.

When we rambled into West Cork, some gear selection became necessary.  Ms. Raleigh doesn’t mind a walk, but we both usually prefer a rolling pace.  After meditating, we opted for a 5-speed freewheel, but employ just the lower three gears.  We’re in no hurry; no longer relish careening madly downhill at the mercy of potholes and gravel traps.   This configuration is accommodated by a Campy Nuovo Record derailleur and a rare Campy single downtube shifter.  Notwithstanding gear selection, coastal West Cork presents hills which must be walked.  This is unobjectionable since walking attenuates the pleasures of the moment: scenic vistas, wildlife, and the sweet company of doggies.  Don’t we all really live in the moment anyway?  Dogs are Zen masters of this art.

One of our favorite coastal rides takes us up a long steep grade into Ardfield, the village a couple of klicks above the beach at Red Strand.  So I was walking with Ms. Raleigh up this hill when we first made May’s acquaintance. May is an Airedale who is herself an elegant, long legged beauty.  (Leapin’ Lizards! May looks like the striking great-granddaughter of Little Orphan Annie’s scruffy pal Sandy.) I sealed friendship with May by sharing my sandwich.

Muffin, May’s sidekick, is a silky haired black Scotty. In fine weather May and Muffin spend the day greeting wayfarers on the hill. I met Muffin last week when May introduced me.  Having no sandwich, I found some dog biscuits in Ms. Raleigh’s “candy bar” bike bag.  Muffin was very hungry, but May, true to her good breeding, only ate gently from my hand.   Her curly coat is thick and wonderful; it feels like the fleece of a lamb.  The next time I see this pair I’ll ask for their photograph to post and share.  “Arf,” sez May to all her fans in Blogland.  May scorns paparazzi, but will pose briefly if compensated appropriately.

West Cork is infused with beauty; West Cork, where angels yet sing and Airedales kiss your cheek.

* * * *

NEWS ALERT:  Thursday, November 11^th at 11:11 am EST is New Reality Transmission liftoff, the alternative to Armageddon.  Join us.  http://www.newrealitytransmission.com/

The Met in Cork City & Singing at Pascal O’Brien’s:

Ireland is a place of music and wonder.

I went to the Metropolitan Opera in Cork City a couple of weeks ago, having become a shameless Opera junkie courtesy of The Met’s HD satellite broadcasts.  If you haven’t seen The Met in HD you should give it a try. It may change your attitude toward grand opera. There is a magical, infectious energy to live performance which the high technology of the Met manages to capture and broadcast worldwide by satellite.  If you’re new to opera, see a Mozart or anything Italian, buy some popcorn, and take Kleenex.  They’re mostly heartbreakers.  We saw Das Rheingold starring Bryn Terfel, the Welsh baritone, as Wotan, the henpecked King of the Gods.  My friend Lisa, also Welsh, joined me and we had a smashing good time,  Lisa harmonizing with the Rheine maidens in the opening scenes.  There’s something a little unglued about opera at a movie theater; Lisa plugged right into the spirit of the event with all the legendary enthusiasm of the Welsh Gael.  Opera isn’t church.  It’s living theater!

Later that night we wound up at Pascal O’Brien’s pub in Rosscarbery.  There was live traditional music, Guinness on tap, and great conversation.  Irish Trad incorporates American music which, like me, has come home from the sea; everyone can sing along one way or another. I did.  My friends, Copper Frank and bachelor Paddy O’ (aged > 80) were also there so we had good crack between sets.   Paddy’s motto is “Viagra and Brandy,” God love him.  He kept busy chatting up the ladies at the next table.  I worry that Paddy will blow a gasket, but he soldiers on, mad as a fish for the touch of a woman.

As the weather has cycled through fall toward winter I find myself more occupied with indoor life, cleaning and tuning Ms. Raleigh, cooking, and practicing Yoga.  I’ve been reading Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda, founder of The Self-Realization Fellowship which popularized Yoga in California in the 1920s.  They used to have a mushroom burger stand on old Highway 1 at their ashram in Encinitas.  I never had the courage to stop and try one; was afraid that the strange people in robes and sandals would embarrass me by proselytizing over the counter.  If only I’d been so lucky so long ago! 

I volunteer two days a week at The Children’s Project, a charity store in Clonakilty which features well cataloged used books and an ocean of recycled toys.  Parents and grandparents bring their young charges into a wonderland of unpackaged toys which they may touch and take home for a few pennies.  A surprising number of people patronize the bookstore and return the books for resale later.  Since we’re all volunteers, after the rent everything goes to children’s charities.  I sometimes play my pennywhistle for the little ones who, bless them, are an appreciative audience for my puny, stumbling efforts.

Life is grand in West Cork.

Surfers At Long Strand

Autumn has come to West Cork and stillness creeps over the land.  Dogs stay closer to their doorsteps and farm animals seek shelter on the lee side of hills.  Outings for Ms. Raleigh and me have become less frequent too.  We don’t mind getting caught in the rain, but won’t sally forth into a drizzle.  The sun shone yesterday morning, so we leapt at the chance to take a wander.   The best ride for sheer beauty is along the coast in the direction of Clonakilty.  There are some challenging hills, but the reward is high views of long pristine beaches.

Although the land is settling, the seas have become frisky presenting high dramatic surf conditions; cresting waves crowned with spume come in to pound the rocks.  So it was that we were out and saw a clutch of surfers at Long Strand taking advantage of big surf conditions.  These waves were large and fast moving requiring the surfer to move out smartly or be left behind. 

I watched the surfers and felt a kind of homesickness, nostalgia really, for the land that used to be; old California in the 1950s and 60s.  Huntington Beach was called “Tin Can” and where the San Onofre nuclear power plant stands behind high fences was “The Bone Yard,” a surfer’s dream in Big South conditions.  Small towns dotted Highway 101, places called Palos Verdes, San Pedro, Capistrano, Doheney, Oceanside, and Encinitas. The beaches were little used, particularly in the fall, and the towns were haunted by war veterans trying to recapture the youth they’d lost in Korea’s freezing  mud. 

My favorite café of those years was the now forgotten Noah’s Ark on the bluff just north of Encinitas.  The building looked like an ark washed onto high ground. It had funky African animal cutouts peering over the gunnels.  They made a wonderful clam chowder.  Before McDonald’s, each café had its own unique menu, some of it very good, all of it cooked fresh while you chatted up the waitress. Really, that was more important than the chowder. Do you remember the Dylan line, "Girls faces formed a forward path ..."?  Why is it after all these years I can still recall her smile?

So, we watched the surfers at Long Strand and wandered back to another time and forgotten place; remembering a girl's shy smile.  One boy caught a good wave and rode it like a Hawaiian prince before he kicked out in the wash.  Gulls called and I applauded.  Then we rolled on home to Rosscarbery.

Threshing at Sam's Cross

            Sam’s Cross is between Clonakilty and Rosscarbery, inland and uphill. Surrounded by farms, the crossroad hamlet is a short walk from Michael Collins’ family home, a secular pilgrimage site.  Everyone who knows Irish history visits the family home, says a prayer for the soul of Michael Collins, and heads for “The Four Alls,” the pub at Sams Cross.  Sure if you’re going to pray for a fella in Purgatory, you should wet your throat in his memory too.

            The “Threshing” at Sam’s Cross is an annual horse fair and traditional fall festival.  The Four Alls, is still owned by relatives of The Big Fella.  For The Threshing the pub features live traditional music all day, performers of all ages doing the old songs well and adding to the canon.  The little place was crowded by with smiling faces, children underfoot, young folks puttin’ on the style, and ol’ wans savoring the moment.

            Ms. Raleigh and I came by the back road from Rosscarbery and rolled in to minor applause from friends who’d arrived before us.  “Here comes Preacher Frank on his push bike!”  It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, almost hot, and we sat outside and talked about the weather, the upcoming winter, and, of course, horses.  I met an old guy who told me he’s once turned down an offer to sell him a nearby cottage and acre of land for 90 Irish “Punt” (Pounds).  Another old guy, “Joe” came with the two old women who are his perennial companions.  He calls them his girlfriends and there was considerable speculation about that family’s domestic arrangements after Joe left. Joe isn’t clear about his age, but knows he’s well past 90, a figure confirmed by other adults there.  Joe was born not far from Sam’s Cross, worked in Birmingham for 50 years, and came home.  His doctor has forbidden “the black stuff” (Guinness Stout), and Joe complies, though God knows why.  He just comes along for the good crack and to give the ladies an outing.  When I walked up to pay my respects, Joe reached out with his right hand and said “Welcome back home.”  We shook hands and chatted about his life and mine.

            Sam’s Cross is a farming community and nobody paid any attention while a stallion mounted a mare just outside the patio.  The pre-teen boys holding both horses by halters were too busy talking about their own stuff to bother noticing the horses.   The horses, of course, could care less.  People were more interested in their conversation and the music.  Still, city boy that I am, I wanted to stand up and applaud.  Life rolls on in Sam’s Cross.

            Ms. Raleigh and I left The Four Alls reluctantly, but the sun was low on the horizon and we needed to get home in daylight.   Because of the hour, we decided to take the most direct route home and came across a group of road bowlers enjoying West Cork’s own favorite sport.  Contestants bowl between villages, each rolling a steel ball about the size of a Navel Orange.  The person who makes the tour with the fewest tosses is the winner.  There are, of course, songs celebrating the prowess of road bowlers who defended the honor of their own village pub.  The group I encountered was quite young, so the old game is in no jeopardy of slipping into memory.  Ms. Raleigh and I waited respectfully at the side of the road while they bowled through in high spirits.

            Home in Rosscarbery, I cleaned Ms. Raleigh and kipped in with book.  Life is good. Life rolls on.

Shank’s Mare in Cork City

Cork City, like Amsterdam, was built up from marshy coastal lowland. The modern city retains that history in its many bridges and streets which wander, still following their ancient water channels. Notably, St. Patrick’s Street, a major shopping artery, is a former canal which winds its way across the old city. Unlike Amsterdam, Cork has not yet adopted the bicycle as its primary means of transportation. There is a network of city busses and, of course, taxis and other automobile traffic. The Irish government encourages cycling by offering tax free purchase of bicycles coupled with interest free loans. If they built a network of bike paths in Cork, I think the initiative would take wing. Cork is a compact city and flat in and around the civic center. Right now, touring the city by kick scooter would be very viable. I wished I’d brought my trusty Xootr, King of the Sidewalk.

Cork is also a beautiful city with an attractive mix of colorful traditional store fronts and modern shopping malls. The public buildings are well maintained and inviting. You feel a sense of civic pride in Cork. It is a shoppers’ city with upmarket department stores and specialty shops. Cork has a French Quarter featuring restaurants and shops which reflect Ireland’s traditional links with Catholic France. Cork is blessed with sunshine much of the year and this makes outdoor dining and socializing inviting, as in Paris.

There is, of course, a tourist trail including St. Finbarr’s Cathedral, Shandon Tower, The Butter Exchange, University College, and Cork City Gaol. The jail has in its day welcomed some famous patriots, among them my personal favorite Countess Constance Markiewicz, the fire-eating freedom fighter who led the brigade at Steven’s Green in the Easter Monday Rising. Sentenced to death, she was reprieved because of her gender and social class. The English lived to regret this decision. There is a wonderful studio portrait of this great lady dressed in the full length skirts and hat of the early 20th Century, but accessorized by a Broom Handle “Bolo” Mauser in her lap. I wish I’d purchased that photo when I first saw it. Like the photo of Michael Collins with his bicycle, this of Countess Markiewicz is iconic.

I went to Cork with a mission. Although I’d visited previously, I had never before gone on campus at University College Cork. Like most city universities, UCC has leached into its surrounding neighborhoods with offices and some classrooms in its periphery. The central campus, however, is surrounded by the River Lee and is a quiet island of learning and beauty. It is lovely and the kind of place in which everyone should find intellectual refuge at some point in their lifetime. They have a vigorous adult education program and I registered for an evening course in Humanitarian Studies.

There was an adult learning fair in progress at Cork City Hall and there I learned of the variety and depth of intellectual activity year-round in Cork. I also took a brochure for Cork’s Culture Night in which 62 different cultural venues open their doors without charge to the public. This is Cork’s equivalent of Paris’ Nuit Blanche. I plan to take in some rare screenings of Irish Language Film with English sub-titles, visit the Synagogue, and The English Market, maybe more!

When I finished my Cork City walk, I tumbled back on the bus for Rosscarbery, Rosscarbery of the Swans. It felt good to be heading home.

I divorced California in 2003:

Bros Befo’ Hos

Disneypark and surly crowd
Surly-er choo-choo crowd herders
Gentelleros hoscos
Backfarting Lexus jalopy

Old Vera Street
Are you still Mexicano? No?
Latino? No! Hispanic! No!
Hey, ol’ vato! Viva Atzlan?

No se.

Californicated.
Again

No space birthplace
Bros befo’ hos

Adios Lost Angels

Street Begging for Amnesty International

The other day I spent the morning in front of O’Donovan’s Hotel in Clonakilty begging change to support Amnesty International. I was surprised by the randomness of generosity. A young woman who looked in need herself gave 5 Euros, a seedy looking old man stopped and rummaged in his wallet to make a contribution. Smiling, he shuffled off into the Pearce Street crowd. People were sweet, stopping and talking about human rights, world hunger, and prisoners of conscience. They were more sad than indignant or judgmental. I felt spiritually nourished; some of their goodness infused me.

One of the volunteers, Beth, is an American teaching in Prague, Czechoslovakia. She was on vacation with two friends. That night I met the same three friends on the village square where I was listening to an Irish band perform Irish and American folk music; Janis Joplin finding her way into the Traditional Irish lexicon. They invited me to join them in O’Brien’s for a jar. Rather than decline with a speech about Buddhist abstinence, I went along. The pub scene was humorous because there was a crowd and live band in there too. At least three of us have hearing problems, so we shouted and laughed about the perils of what is euphemistically called “maturity.” I had a very good time, enjoyed my pint, but woke the next day feeling vaguely diminished. Even in good company intoxicants aren’t worth the bother.

Beth’s professional website, www.beth-lazroe, hits a harmonic chord with me. She presents a photo study and accompanying essay about hyper-sexualized street advertizing in Prague. Her complaint was mine in Paris. Innocent pedestrians are indiscriminately assaulted daily; constantly presented with glossy, overblown imagery of essentially nude models accessorized to suggest bondage or other degradation. We’re sleaze attacked whenever we venture outside our doors. Commercial “speech” is a race into the abyss and Beth’s website takes serious issue with this. So do I. The Irish don’t take free speech that far and I’m glad.

In Clonakilty I stopped at The Children’s Project, a thrift store, to shop for a book. When I came out, two men were admiring Ms. Raleigh. They asked knowledgeable questions and complimented her beauty and spare functionality. That made Ms. Raleigh’s day. She rolled home very full or herself and frisky. Sometimes I think Shinto has a point; there is sprit within all things.
On the way home I noticed an alcoholic sitting on a forlorn bench at a viewpoint on Clonakilty Bay. He drinks in solitude, a lonely drunk surrounded by every earthly beauty. I wondered if there is a way to reach out to him. I thought of two old friends’ drunken deaths. West Cork feels like paradise to me, yet for him it’s hell.

If tears could build a stairway
And memories make a lane,
I’d walk right down to Hades
And bring you back again.

It’s doggerel, I know, but the verse comes to me when I think of friends' lives lost to substance abuse.

The Rosscarbery Festival’s adult feature that night was a walking tour of the village. We visited the Anglican Cathedral, the Catholic Church, both “Saint Fachtna’s”, the ruin of the ancient abbey, and the tombs of Irish patriots O’Donovan Rossa and Michael Collins. Rossa’s is overgrown and hidden beneath ivy and bracken. Also on the tour were Rossa’s birthplace, a house where Tom Barry once lived, and the R.I.C. Barracks, site of a famous IRA assault in the War of Independence. Rosscarbery is rich in revolutionary history; the stories still fresh enough that our guide, an older man, embellished them with local recollections and genealogy. His references to the R.I.C. were without rancor, but the atrocities of the Black & Tans still roused anger. He knew the names and families of the victims of the Black & Tan reprisal for the barracks attack - a Black & Tan tossed a bomb into the Festival Day crowd, indiscriminately killing and maiming civilian non-combatants. Our tour ended with an IRA daring escape story which had taken place in the alley just behind the village square.

On the square a live band was playing kids’ music to an enthusiastic crowd of dancers and wannadancers. The young people looked fresh and more wholesome than they’d probably like to know. I watched for awhile, and then went home to sleep. Obla di, obla dah.

Glandore, Union Hall & Drombeg Ring

I asked a fella directions and he said, “Ah, Glandore!” with a soft smile. “Now, Glandore is special, like that place in the Gene Kelly movie, 'Brigadoon,' just a page or two behind today.” Busy care-filled today. And indeed, Glandore is lovely. Set on the side of a hill overlooking a small boat Harbor, you can hear young sailors calling and laughing on the water below. There are picnic tables in a grassy sloped park, clean restrooms, several tempting pubs, sailboat rental, and an up-market hotel. And, to pass the time when the rain slides through, I found art galleries and antiques stores, each selling Irish nautical collectables and little bits of old Erin. I love the sepia postcards and photos. Someone once called old photos “Instant Ancestors.” They well might be, you never know. One merchant had a street sale in front of his store. I paid a little too much for a copy of Tristan Jones’ Adrift to add to my growing stack of readings. Tris’ yarns a great yarn, not strictly true, mind you, but worth the candle. You feel like you’re swapping stories with an old friend over a jar.

Union Hall is a working fishing village across the bay from Glandore. To get there we cycled over two bridges, one of them a narrow span with a passing bulge in the middle, like gopher snake after a pleasant repast. A playful wind puffed to blow us into the harbor, but wasn’t serious about it, just funning. Ms. Raleigh and I rolled along to the quay at Union Hall. There I watched families launch kayaks and ate my bag lunch. The mid-day sun was warm and a nap would have done nicely, but Ms. Raleigh was tugging me to roll on.

Going home, it rained lightly when we paused at Drombeg Stone Circle, but visitors didn’t seem to notice. They walk reverently and take photos of each other standing outside, almost never inside, the ring. The site is an instinctive holy place. People leave wildflowers and coins on the low center stone. It’s a portal to the old wans. The only traffic we met was two girls on bikes who flew past us on the long downhill run into Roury. They called a greeting and I prayed that they didn’t hit pot holes or loose gravel. Ms. Raleigh and I worked our way down the hill, still listening as the brook sang us home. She never hurries downhill.

After supper there was a dog show at the Rosscarbery Festival. I saw my new friends Star, a Boxer, and Reese, a Standard Poodle. Children milled about with puppies and dogs. Reese is friendly, but not fawning. My Shepherd pal Toby wasn’t in attendance. I’ll speak with him about it the next time we see each other. I am acquainted with more dogs than humans.

A Meditation:

                                                    Mother May I

                                                   Greet all creation with loving-kindness,
                                                   Share their joy and sorrow,
                                                   Find serenity, and
                                                   Practice peace.

                                                          ~ ~ ~

                                                   Love everything
                                                        Crave nothing
                                                             Find peace, and
                                                                  Cease



 

Coppinger’s Court, Drombeg Stone Circle

This ride became an intermittent walk with two or three sharp climbs for which I elected to stroll beside Ms. Raleigh. We two enjoy a walk in the country. Little streams accompanied us much of the trip and sang to us as we walked along. I ate blackberries from the roadside brambles. (A Blackberry Digression: Ripe blackberries almost drop into your hand. If you have to tug, the blackberry will be bitter and you may get stuck by a thorn. It seems to me there’s a greater life lesson in this observation.)
The lane is lightly traveled by automobiles, having its own serenity. At the top of the first hill there is a long view down the valley to Coppinger’s Court, a fortified great house, a kind of half-castle. It reminded me of the United States government buildings of the Viet Nam era, i.e., built to be impregnable in time of civil unrest; Nixon era paranoia in every stone. Trying two roads to get as close as possible to Coppinger’s Court, I discovered that the second, a turn just past the bridge at the hamlet of Roury, brought us to within a stone’s throw of the ruin. Crows scold from its ramparts.

Built by Sir Walter Coppinger, a Viking’s descendant, in the early 17th Century, the stronghold wasn’t long occupied. Coppinger meant to establish a market town and build a canal to the sea. To his grief, the Irish did not welcome his plan or his heavy-handed rule. Coppinger’s Court proved an insufficient fortress and was ransacked in the 1641 rising. All that remains of Coppinger’s ambitions is his ruined great house, accreting legend and accepting the judgment of gravity.

At Drombeg there is a Megalithic stone circle which marks the winter solstice by alignment with the setting sun. (It aligns southwest!) What makes Drombeg unique are the accompanying settlement foundations. These are remnants of two houses which between them contain an oven, well, fireplace, and cooking sink. Hot stones were immersed in the sink to boil water and cook food, perhaps the first Irish Stew.

Looking up from Drombeg I was struck the view to the Atlantic. The old ones had aesthetic appreciation too; they enjoyed a windswept hilltop overlooking the great green sea. Granted the sparsity of the prehistoric human population, it’s likely that the residents of Drombeg are the ancient ancestors of many modern Irish, particularly those from West Cork. This thought came as I wandered among the stones – my people once lived here. Were they calling across time, “Look up, Frankie dear, don’t we have a lovely ocean view?” It would be grand to camp out at Drombeg Ring on a starry night, listening to the old ones stories.

In my rambles today I met Brian, a self-furloughed steelworker from California. Brian is humping a backpack by bus and Shank’s Mare around Ireland. He told me of his joy in the singing pubs and the fine welcome he’s received from young and old alike. I don’t doubt it; this is Ireland of the mille failte and Brian is an open, smiling young man.  Brian says he’ll come back to West Cork and, God willing, he will and be glad he did. I suggested that if he missed his connection to Killarney he should stay in Clonakilty for the night. He’ll find singing and good company there. Slán leat Brian!

Voices in the Air

Today I woke with a purpose – I wanted to cycle up to Clonakilty and find “Desert,” my grandfather’s birthplace; the home of his parents, Padraic and Julia. Although there are other routes from Rosscarbery to Clonakilty, I wanted to get the feel of the most direct one, the N-71, by bicycle. As it turns out, his ride is prosaic with automobile traffic and only a single longing view of the sea as you leave Rosscarbery. On the way up the hill I lost my topo road map, providing additional incentive to stay on the main road.


A Footnote: Jimmy Hoffa may still be cycling around West Cork, a labyrinth of country roads and cow paths, many without road sign or, too often, conflicting signs. Ireland treasures its chaotic signage; fingerposts disagreeing with one another about direction and distance. We Irish enjoy a difference of opinion. Another phenomenon, signposts without signs, suggests that road signs are harvested by tourists wishing to take a little bit of Erin back home to Ballydogshyte. May their lost souls wander the Inferno’s unmarked byways for eternity!

Rosscarbery to Clonakilty, a distance of about 20 kilometers, took me an hour to ride. Essentially one rides up one side of the peninsula and down the other, dodging cars and roadside flotsam. Cyclists know that man is the dirtiest animal. One pile I dodged contained soiled undergarments, his and hers, surrounded by empty beer containers. One does wish the inamorati would tidy up. Of course, I visualized a scene from the following gray dawn, “Oh Jesus Christ, where’d I leave me knickers!” But I digress, I’m in search of roots.

As I rode through sleepy Clonakilty, a crowd of smiling churchgoers milled outside their stone pile, spilling into the street. I thought about telling of the sinful behavior I’d detected just a couple of klicks down the N-71, but couldn’t think of an opener.  Try, “Oh, hello, do you know what people were doing on the roadside last night not far from here? Drinking too!” So instead, I sang a cheery cyclists “good morning” as I dodged and weaved among the still god-struck. On I went to Desert, a place without church or pub, where people have the decency to close the door and sleep late on Sunday.

Desert is a left turn off the Ring Road which circles the north side of Clonakilty Bay. I walked up the steep narrow lane to a handful of homes, no more than a dozen, all of which were clearly of 20th Century construction. One, a bright blue stucco semi-detached bungalow of 1,000 square feet, was for sale for 295,000 Euros.  ('ll put it on my Visa.)  There is no village store, pub, church, or graveyard, just a sleepy hamlet overlooking Clonakilty Bay.

Rolling back down the hill, I turned in to the “Desert B&B and Campground”. The owner, a mature woman, was chatty, but said she didn’t know of any Morans in the neighborhood. “Moran is a County Galway name. I don’t think there are any Morans here.” (I’m here!) When I told her my great-grandmother’s surname was Buckley she softened,

Well now, Buckley’s a good West Cork name. (Thank you, Grandma Julie, for redeeming me.) Maybe they were from Desert Serges, down by Ahiohill. If they were, there should be baptismal records down in Skibbereen. Protestants sent their records up to Dublin and those records were lost in the War of Independence. Catholic records stayed down here.

I thought about the improvidence of the Protestants in trusting their records to the central government; trusting anything to any government. Get on your bicycles, kids, grab your birth records, and roll on out of Dub before the gunfight!

While I was in the neighborhood I rode on out to Ring, a lovely village on the edge of Clonakilty Bay. Ring is near Virgin Mary’s Point. Donkey’s years ago some naughty sailors saw the Blessed Virgin praying on the strand and laughed at and made fun of her piety. She cursed them and, what luck, they all drowned in a storm! Like many European miracle stories, this one is pre-Christian, but Mary got stuck with it as Christian proselytizers poured old wine into their new bottle. I can’t feature gentle Mary cursing anyone, even godless sailors and old cyclists (motor- or bi-).

Ring has a lovely pub, Kitty Mack’s Beer Garden, just across the street from the ruins of an old police barracks, grassy lawn, and little estuary. In the estuary a pair of swans fed while gently brushing each other’s sides. I saw their old souls, reincarnated lovers, finally at peace; Tristan and Isolde.

As I watched Tristan nuzzle Isolde a group of touring cyclists spilled out of Kitty Mack’s startling me from my reverie. They looked like bizarre Amazonian insects in their brightly colored Spandex costumes, aerodynamic crash helmets, and impenetrable sunglasses. They greeted each other with buff bonhomie and began streaming toward Clonakilty, discreetly followed by a sag wagon hauling a big bike trailer. I heard my mother’s voice urging me to introduce myself, “Be social, Frankie, join in.” I ignored mom; ate a handful of raisins and nuts instead. Later they passed me in their sag wagon on the N-71, no doubt keeping their legs fresh for their tour around Rosscarbery and stops at Nolan’s and O’Brien’s on North Square. If I’d hitched a ride, I could have caught up on the trends in cycling fashion. Sorry mom, I’m a loner. I ride in tennis shoes and jeans cut off just below my knees. I sing old songs and talk to doggies and farm animals. I ask swans for their blessing and hear voices in the air.

It rained on the way home to Rosscarbery. It kept my motor cool. My newsboy’s cap is oiled canvas. Rain runs off.

Castle Freke in the Mist

I first noticed Castle Freke from Galley Head; a crenellated ruin in the mist. The castle stands on the shoulder of a hill shielded by wetlands and a pond, overlooking the sea. Large windows tell that Castle Freke is a folly and not truly martial. It is ornamental, like modern knighthood. Can you imagine Sir Paul McCartney in armed combat with Sir Elton John?

Curiosity got to me and I cycled over to investigate. “Freke” was the surname of the Earls of Carbery, the 10th and last of whom renounced the name and title, styling himself “Mr. Carbery.” He abandoned the castle, immigrating to South Africa to fly his airplane in the Indian Summer of colonialism’s good old days. When I learned this I thought of Robert Redford’s role as Dennis Finch-Hatton in Out of Africa. Mr. Carbery was cut from the same cloth, I suspect.

The castle itself is off limits, posted because of timber harvesting in the nearby forest. The Castle Freke Forest Recreation Area is the true gem in any case. I rode along the paved byway bisecting the grounds, taking note of walking trails and spots for further exploration.

At Castle Freke Nature Area there are four forest walking paths featuring seeping wells, a high cross view to Galley Head and The Long Strand, and wonderful solitude. I listened to the stream, cows lowing, and distant dogs calling encouragement to their people. I thought I might catch glimpses of unicorns, fairies, and forest spirits. In this I wasn’t entirely disappointed.

A breeze stirred ancient oaks and
Voices murmured in the air.
In forest keep a naiad smiled as
I paused beside Her holy well.

The heart knows its home.

When you visit Castle Freke, take the High Cross trail and admire the flora. You hike through unspoiled forest of oak, ash, sycamore, and two varieties of pine. Wild flowers are joined by more exotic cousins whose ancestors were imported to amuse the Lords Carbery and their ladies. Now they all spill on the forest floor, blooming in shade and sun. The High Cross itself is a memorial left by the 9th Lady Carbery to her husband in the early 20th Century. It is said to be the highest cross in Ireland. Standing on its plinth you can see a beach panorama with Galley Head in the far distance. Pause as you walk down; listen to the breakers and dogs calling on the beach below. Children’s laughter carries up on the wind.

The Recreation Area also includes the cross-roads hamlet of Rathberry, a picture postcard community with a laughing brook running through it. You can cross the brook by a footbridge to visit The Sprigging School, built by a Lady Carbery to teach the local girls the then employable crafts of needlework. Also nearby is Lady Carbery’s Well, her gift to the community. It is still maintained and I refilled my water bottle in its spring, offering a prayer for her generous soul.

The post office and general store includes a little a little museum and, if wanted, a toilet. I stopped for lunch at the Sprigging School where I shared a sandwich with a nice Shepherd doggie. I was sitting on the ground with my back against a gate when I felt a friendly nose touch my right hand. She was black and white with a nice booty on her right hind foot. Since I had a sliced children sandwich, she happily joined me. I wish I knew her name. She was a very sweet doggie.

There’s a grassy cliff between The Long Strand and Little Island Strand where I can recline to read while listening to the surf below. It’s a wonderful spot to can catch the late afternoon sun. I thought I was alone, but after I remounted Ms. Raleigh I saw a courting couple, also on bikes, at the other end of the overlook. They greeted me warmly as the Irish do, commenting on the fine weather.

Behind the sand dune at Little Island Strand there’s a roadside acre of land for sale, presently occupied by a pair of friendly horses. A “For Sale” sign on the gate gave me a flutter. I daydreamed of having an apiary and farm stand selling honey and wildflower seeds. I’d plant some tomatoes and wildflowers. The horses have a fine view of a distant farmhouse standing in the ruins of a Norman Castle and, overlaid beyond, Castle Freke. It is too lovely a spot to clog up with human habitation. In my dream, bees and wildflowers share with the horses.

Rosscarbery of the Swans

I assembled Mr. Raleigh in the parking lot at The Celtic Ross Hotel, adjusting the saddle, double checking her quick release hubs and brakes. We were itchy to roll. The Ross in Rosscarbery is a cyclist’s friend. They offer food, shelter, and free public Internet access. The staff is welcoming, even to old bicycle hobos like me. There is a pub and restaurant with table service on the patio in fine weather. The Ross is a venue for big weddings. If you enjoy seeing people puttin’ on the style, their veranda is an excellent perch; young men looking like James Bond, the young women like garden flowers in a summer breeze. You can hear me humming Chuck Berry’s tune, “C’est la vie say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell.” The kids are grand!
Our test ride produced a flat tire and walk back from Rosscarbery Quay, but read on. Serendipity - this turned into good fortune. While in Bantry the following day I found Nigel’s Bike Shop. Nigel stocks wider tires for my good old bike’s 27” rims. With these 1.25” tires I do not need an all terrain bike, what the French call a VTT for “velo tout terrain”. Irish roads are mostly paved, not cobbled, and more bike friendly than the cobblestones of Paris. With wider tires inflated to 80 psi Ms. Raleigh takes the Irish roads very well indeed. So we rambled out for our first spin, a round trip from Rosscarbery to Galley Head Lighthouse along the coast.

Bees buzzed in the planta genesta, blackberries, and roadside wildflowers. Cows mooed sweet greetings and horses paused their meditations to look up and nicker hello. From a stone bridge I watched a Gray Heron foraging in the rushes just a couple of meters away. I stopped to pass the time of day with two or three dogs out socializing un-chaperoned. One, a portly gentleman poodle, came up while I was reading on a rock at Long Strand Beach. He leaned into me, accepting a scratch, and then walked off to elevate his leg against a pile of seaweed which was only slightly taller than long. Hey, where trees are rare and fire hydrants unknown, a fellow has to make do.

Just before Galley Head lighthouse the road winds through a farm built into the ruin of Dundready Castle, an ancient site, 10th Century I think. Dundready guards a narrow spot on the peninsula overlooking a cove. If stones could talk, this old warrior would tell bloody sagas of Viking raiders ransacking for food, women, and plunder, the “good things” in Viking life.

I headed home. The road was nearly empty, the beaches held only occasional family clutches with their heads bowed, looking for sea shells. I imagined them as 10th Century monks at prayer walking along the strand incanting “Protect us, oh Lord, from the wrath of the Northman.” No dragon ship bobbed off shore. On this bank holiday afternoon the beach is tranquil.

As I arrived at The Celtic Ross a wedding party spilled out onto the patio. I ordered fresh mussels from their starters menu which, washed down with chilled house white, was a nice light evening meal. As the sun was declining I sat on their veranda, smug in the knowledge that Rosscarbery is the next parish to paradise.

Rosscarbery of the Swans

Whiskey on the veranda and
Sun warmed swans laze on the lagoon.
Lonesome skyway calls as castellated ramparts
Gauge goose flights heading home.

If by some divine indulgence
I kenned my days and
They were few, I’d spend two
Sipping whiskey on the veranda

In Rosscarbery,
Rosscarbery of the Swans.

Cork Airport

Cork Airport and alone; I’m an old lifer pardoned out the prison door without a living soul to meet him. Collecting two checked bags and Ms. Raleigh, my good old bike, in baggage claim, my known future is compassed by a reservation at Thrifty Rent-a-Car and booked accommodation at Castle Salem, a Bed & Breakfast just outside Rosscarbery, wherever that is.

As I whoosh out the airport door, a leaf of yellowed newspaper lifts and flies off on the wind. Why am I here? It could have been Brittany or Oregon or Atlantic City, but I’m in Ireland on the rugged Atlantic rim of Europe. I’m free. A Dylan lyric echoes, “Are birds free from the chains of the skyway?” Ireland is the last exit before Tir na nOg, the land of the eternally young. Ireland feels young, I’ll give it that. I’m going into the West.

I drive southwest on Route N-71 feeling anxious.

Castle Salem grew on me, but my first impression enhanced a premonition of self-made calamity. The castle is two kilometers down a lonely country lane too narrow for two way traffic. Overgrown hedges scraped the sides of my car; potholes played hell with its suspension. My hostess, Mrs. Michael Daly, met me in at the door wearing an apron and dusting her hands. Yikes! I’d fallen through a crack in time! The castle reeked Ireland of the 1950s; heavy oak furniture and framed photos of Catholic clerical celebrities. A titanic pay telephone presided in the lobby. There were handmade signs reminding guests not to smoke in the rooms nor drink tap water. Rover, The Castle Salem Official Dog, greets you on his back, requesting politely that you give his tummy a rub. I obliged, we became pals; my day improved. Dogs are magical, aren’t they?

Outside my window a lovelorn bull moaned for liberty to gambol among his heifers, his unrequited true love no doubt nearby. Still, Castle Salem was blessedly quiet, the bed comfortable, and the shower hot. Margaret Daly’s home cooked breakfast was a delight and her small conversation natural and perceptive. She is a good woman, raised six children. Michael, her husband, is now fragile and poorly. Mrs. D. tends to Michael first. Her sons work the surrounding farm. In the six days I stayed at Castle Salem I became fond of Mrs. Daly. She waved goodbye from her doorway as I drove down the lane for the last time.

Castle Salem: Sometimes known as Benduff’s Castle, it has been in the Daly family since its purchase by Michael Daly’s father in 1895. The castle consists of a Norman Keep, built by “Black Catherine” Fitzgerald, wife of Florence McCarthy Rea in c. 1470, and a conjoining “L” shaped Dutch Style house. Major Apollo Morris, a soldier in Cromwell’s army, received the castle in 1641 as plunder when Cromwell raped Ireland. William Morris, Apollo’s son, added the house in 1682 on the occasion of his marriage. He also replaced the keep’s ramparts with a slate roof and begat six children. William was a busy man.

William Morris gave up his military career and public sinecures to become a Quaker. His grandson, another William, was a correspondent with and friend of William Penn, founder of Pennsylvania. Penn visited William at Castle Salem. There is a small Quaker graveyard near Castle Salem which dates from the first William’s conversion and was used for over a century by Quakers from as far away as Cork City.

Michael and Margaret Daly have been good stewards of Castle Salem. Without government support, they restored the castle’s Slate roof and plank flooring, making structural repairs as they found need. You may have a tour for the asking and appreciate the advances which have been made in indoor plumbing. The castle’s convenience looks a little drafty and vulnerable to the slings and arrows so to speak.

I wondered why Castle Salem has not attracted more attention. Its Quaker connection and graveyard are unique; the story of the William Morris’ conversion from Cromwellian butcher to man of peace thought provoking. There’s a story here.