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.