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
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
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
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
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