I had to get the calendar out for this one. How can almost 3 months have passed? I was just saying to someone yesterday that I haven't time for the blog because we've been so busy doing stuff.

First things first. The rain continued. We haven't had so much of an Irish summer as a Seattle winter. Which I suppose is not far off from a Juneau summer really. Rarely, if ever, have we crept out of the sixties either. Most recently, however, it's been turning nice.

So, where were we?

We celebrated the fourth of July. Guess what happened? It rained. We bought a disposable, one use barbecue, made burgers, and drank Sam Adams. PK also made a terrific Happy 4th sign for me to come home to. Everyone at work offered me a "Happy Independence Day"; when was the last time someone said that to you? Just guessing, but probably 1976...

We went hurling. That's not to say we suffered reverse peristalsis, but rather we attended the Munster hurling championship between counties Waterford and Limerick. Hurling is an incredibly fast-paced sport which looks like a hybrid of lacrosse and field hockey; one of the traditional Irish sports supported by the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA). It's important to note that the players are all "amateurs" in as much as they are not compensated for their efforts. They all have day jobs.

I'd have to say that this match was one of the highlights of our time in Eire to date.

My work colleague, Deishe-boy, is an avid fan of sport in general, but GAA in particular, and hurling most especially. He secured tickets for PK and I to come along with his brother (Deishe-bro) to see the beloved Deishe of Waterford take on the villainous Limerick something or others in Thurles, Tipperary.

It was a typical Irish summer day, warmish and sorta sunny for a bit, followed by this curiously soaking mist. PK and I were prepared; Deishe-boy was not. We were in the standing stands at the end of the field (think behind the end zone). No seats for the wicked! The atmosphere was not in the least dampened by the weather though. While there were separate sections for the opposing teams' fans, supporters from both sides were mixed in amongst each other. Good-spirited ribbing and "giving out" abounded, but nothing nasty. (This is one of the great things about the GAA; love of your team is outweighed by love of the sport. Almost.) Flags waving. Chants and cheers. And absolute, unbridled pandemonium when anyone scored: I have never seen anything like it.

Long story short, Waterford thrubbed the villains, earning the Munster crown. The crowd rushed onto the field and went nuts. Epilogue: Limerick beat Waterford in the All-Ireland semi-finals several weeks later. Ahh well.

We went camping with the lads. And the lads' ladies. And brothers. And sisters. Turns out Engaged Lad is from a rather large family. And where we were camping (in the Knockmealdown Mountains outside of Lismore, County Waterford) was not far from that family's homestead in Tipperary. So ma and pa and a few of the young 'uns still in the nest came by. And a few others were already a part of the party.

The rain more or less relented for the weekend. We escaped with only 2 serious downpours. PK and I made breakfast Saturday morning: sausage and "American pancakes". What Europeans know as pancakes you and I would call crepes. Much fanfare and praise followed, of course.


Wood was burned. Beer was drunk. And a cooler was stolen. About 5am Sunday morning, the lads disturbed my slumber to inform us that someone had unzipped the front door to their camper tent, poked in, and nicked off with the cooler with the Sunday breakfast supplies. Unable to fully awaken, I was unable to join in their blood lust; they calmed down and everyone went back to bed with a great, but bizarre, story to tell.


We ate a fancy French dinner. Engaged Lad and Daddy Lad and Musician Lad all had birthdays within 3 days so we celebrated with a big dinner out. 8 courses and a killer hangover. I introduced the lads to Manhattans. And four bottles of wine into it, a little trigger went off and I was suddenly very inebriated. One minute fine, next minute sloppy drunk. An epic night regardless.


We went to Cork. We were planning on spending a Saturday in Cork shopping; but I secretly made arrangements to stay and whisked PK off to town on Friday night. We ate at our favorite Japanese noodle place (Wagamama), stayed at a nice guest house, shopped at the English Market, and generally had a great time. PK was thrilled.

That's July covered. August will have to wait.

Slainte!

Major league catch-up

Yeah, it’s been 3 weeks since our stuff arrived, and I last wrote. So sue me. Things have been going swimmingly: literally. It’s been raining. A lot. Locals have been saying things like, “I can’t remember a worse June.” It hasn’t been as bad as Britain, where flooding has killed 4 people; but sodden nonetheless.

So back to the big move. When the truck pulled into our little cul-de-sac, 15 weeks after its contents had been packed in Seattle, we thought there was no way it was going to make it the last 20 yards down to our house. Indeed a car parked in the road seemed to have the way blocked. We rang the door at the three houses on that side of the road to no avail. As I turned back to the sidewalk, yer man had tried the door on the offending car, opened it, and was pushing it out of the way. My cop neighbour witnessed the whole affair, laughing.

The moving van was a 40 foot straight truck, towing a 20 foot trailer. It originated in Britain and had been making deliveries across Ireland for several days: we were its last stop. The crew was a 17 year old kid and the 30 something driver. Both had incredible cockney accents but were very pleasant. They were also pretty displeased with the job the original movers had done back in Seattle in packing some of the stuff. They’d taped the cardboard directly to the furniture, for instance, leaving sticky glue marks on several things. We also lost some glasses and cups and the like; and several picture frames were cracked or chipped. But all in all, our stuff made it here in pretty good shape.

The unloading was unremarkable for the most part. It did result in an unbelievable amount of packing materials. There was also the incident with the man who owned the car that the mover moved. Shortly before 6 this huge bald guy (think Rob Halford of Judas Priest) shows up looking for whoever moved his car. I told him it was the mover, but asked was there a problem. The problem was how disrespectful it was for a stranger to muck around with his private property. Sure, wasn’t he just in town doing his shopping and if no one was home at the three houses we tried why didn’t we try any of the houses across the street, for they all had his mobile number… and so on. All we could do was apologize and hope he left soon. (Folks from HAL will not be surprised to read that I actually saw L.A.S.T. in my mind’s eye) The mover lost patience before I did. Nothing really came of it except now there’s someone on the street who won’t even acknowledge us as we walk by. Ahh well. We’ve found the Irish on the whole to be a pretty grumpy, but friendly lot. Bound to meet the just grumps eventually.

Getting the truck out was even more interesting than getting it in. Our circle is too tight for it to pull through, so the driver had to break the first rule of backing (don’t) and back the sucker all the way out. A different car was in the way behind this time. The movers went knocking on more doors to no avail. But the old woman who owned the car was in the middle of the circle watching the spectacle. Her daughter put two and two together and told her to get out of the way and the truck snaked out of its hole.

When everyone was gone and the dust began to settle, we celebrated with pizza and champagne.

Things I’m most happy to be reunited with, in no particular order: our good cookware, the butcher block, my hiking boots, our good sheets and duvet, and my Get Fuzzy comic books.

So what’ve we been up to since? Quite a bit, really.

We had a date to see a salsa band at our local that turned out to be a standard dance song cover band. But they had a trombone player. Always redeeming.

We went to see a percussion concert at Christ Church Cathedral. The church is an 18th century Georgian masterpiece with truly remarkable acoustics. The quartet was from Britain and played everything from the standard trap set to marimbas, to Japanese bowls, to invented instruments that I cannot begin to describe.

We climbed the highest peak in County Kilkenny, Brandon Hill. It’s about an hour’s drive from here, and about a 2 hour climb from there to the 1500 foot summit. It’d been threatening to rain the whole trip up, but waited until we got to the summit. Having gained a great view of the surrounding countryside and distant harbours, a gale blew in, pushing the otherwise fine mist into liquid sandpaper. We beat a hasty retreat back down the mountain into the woods for our well-earned midday repast: that Waterford standby of blahs with red-lead.

We raced in a treasure hunt around county Waterford. It was a fundraiser for a school for autistic kids sponsored by a pharmacy where our German friend “Frau Doktor” works. She was on a team of co-workers; PK and I joined her husband, “Grossmann”, and the Daddy Lad. Almost 3 hours of scurrying all over the county, through torrential rain to pubs, graveyards, mountain tops, old churches, copper mines, and beaches in search of clues and answers. We came in second. To Frau Doktor’s team. On a technicality. We were back first in both stages and had the best time overall, but they got some hotly contested bonus points. The winning team earned a half day’s off from work; we won coupons to the pharmacy worth 35 euros each.

We took driving lessons. We are both still on provisional licenses, the moral equivalent of learner permits, and have yet to be assigned driving test times. We thought we should get some formal instruction and insight into passing the test. Turns out I would’ve failed; PK might not have fared any better. We both have to relearn how to clutch when approaching a stop. And despite having a convex mirror, we must check our blind spot. I’m feeling pretty good about it; PK’s feeling less confident.

We had the boss over for dinner. And her daughter. My boss lives in England and commutes during the week to Waterford. For the past two weeks she’s brought her 15 year old daughter along for some work experience. We made them homemade guacamole, herbed pork loin with smashed chipotle sweet potatoes on spring greens, and PK’s famous banana gooey cake.

I went into the hospital today for some tests on me gut: not much improvement there to be honest. Should know more by Tuesday. So fasting all day yesterday: fun! Hard to imagine that some people do this of their own accord. No figuring.

Sun’s out. Gnocchi's done. And so am I.

Slainte.

Whew: it's all here

Sunday evening and all is well. The truck with our stuff arrived yesterday afternoon at about 3.30pm. 3 hours later it was backing back out of the circle, void of our belongings. Some damage: the insurance may have paid for itself. But nothing too major or heartbreaking. The kitchen is unpacked and put away, as are our clothes, and the living room is half way there.

Pixie has already re-discovered her bed and put it to good use.

I'll relate the whole story later, replete with pictures. But I'm feeling a bit knackered at the moment and am anxious to get in the shower.

Slainte.

Waiting waiting waiting

Hi y'all. The moving van was scheduled to arrive yesterday: it's now 1:30pm the next day (Saturday) and no van. We can't really go anywhere or do much except wait. So wait we must. I've been hogging the computer so PK is getting really bored. She's going to try out watching "hangover TV": one of the channels shows these really silly sitcoms from the past and ridiculous reality shows all day Saturday and calls it hangover TV. Pretty funny until America's Next Top Model comes on.

Big Brother is back in the news again. Another racist tirade or some such nonsense. We've been continuing to watch Springwatch: reality TV at its best. They added a camera on a hen harrier nest this week. Incredible stuff. There was also a mad rabbit attacking a baby owl that had fallen on the ground.

And that's our television viewing habits: guess I'm bored too.

I'll let you know when the van gets here and what our stuff looks like.

Till then, slainte.

Saturday Speakeasy

Yo. Blowing fog today. Wind and fog. Very San Francisco. Wind has stirred up the ubiquitous scent of dairy product production, that is to say, manure. A frequent reminder that we no longer live in the city...

My four day week shortened to three days after another strange stomach bug: between headaches and funky belly it seems I've been ill more the last 5 months than the last 5 years.

We've been watching Spring Watch on BBC2 this week. Each autumn and spring BBC devotes an hour a night for three weeks to check in on how spring is getting on. This year they're on a farm in Devon and on the Scottish island of Islay (pronounced eye-la), home of some truly wonderful single malt whiskies and wildlife. Including a Golden Eagle aerie. If you check out the website, you'll get to see lots of the wildlife we've been following this week. In our garden Spring Watch, the local birds have found the feeder again. Greenfinches, gold finches, chaffinches, and blue tits have been busy picking at our wares. Nice bit o' colour.

In case you missed it, Ireland held national elections last week, with the incumbent party coming out on top. Not enough on top to be able to go into government solo, so the horse trading has begun. Bertie Ahern, the Taoiseach (pronounced TEE-shock) or Prime Minister, is in for a third time: unprecedented in the Republic's history. All the more so given the fact that he's up to his ears in financial scandal. Despite all the hub-bub, people vote for him because he's such a likable guy. In several polls asking which candidate would you rather share a pint with, Bertie thrashes the competition. Hence his popularity and electoral success. We've actually had pints in his favourite pub and haunt, Fagan's in Dublin. If you've ever heard us tell the story of Desmond the retired cop and "Polly, the most beautiful girl in the world," then you know about Fagan's. Great craic.

We're busy on a tidying day: preparing for the imminent arrival of our stuff, scheduled for this coming Friday. Finally! Fingers crossed that it actually happens. PK is particularly excited for the rest of our wardrobes arriving. She's been in one suitcase worth of clothes since March, and is, well, restless. I'm excited for the butcher block and real cookware. And me hiking boots.

Speaking of, PK is busy tidying without me so I will sign off.

Till next time, Slainte.

Welcome back birdies and birders!

Can't believe it's been over 2 weeks since I last posted anything. If anyone is actually reading this: my apologies for the delay.

We've been keeping busy since Jack and Noodles left: work has been crazy, we've taken a couple of day trips around Southeast, getting some birding in, and PK set up her own blog called "the pollybloggy," check it out. Some of our further adventures have been documented here.

The first trip was to the heritage town of Lismore. The settlement dates back to the 5th century or so, but is today dominated by a 19th century castle. We arrived a little early and had to wait for the visitor center to open. The "award-winning" video was the first of it's kind we've seen in Ireland: that is to say it was worth watching. We learned about the ecclesiastical history of the town and how it eventually came under the control of the British Duke of Devonshire, who still owns the castle and stops by on occasion. Sir Walter Raleigh actually owned the estate at one point, and Robert Boyle, of Boyle's Law (for a fixed mass of ideal gas at fixed temperature, the product of pressure and volume is a constant), was born there. We took a walk along the River Blackwater that brought us to a bohereen, or ancient highway of sorts, and a perplexing tunnel under nothing. Another highlight was the 12th century cathedral. I think PK is planning an entry on this trip though: watch the pollybloggy for more.

Another daytrip, this past weekend, was to Kilkenny, about 45 minutes north of here. Kilkenny is known as the prettiest inland town in Ireland, with much of its medieval heritage in tact, it's castle most famously. Another Norman building that has been appended in the intervening centuries, it has been restored to the 19th century style the Butler family enjoyed. A fabulously wealthy family, their name, and riches, derived from their ancestor's position as butler to the King of England. Cromwell left his typical calling card here as well: the wall that would enclose the site is missing, leaving a three-sided structure. We took a tour of the castle and learned some of its secrets.

The other amazing site in town is St Canice's Cathedral and Round Tower. Amazing stained glass, early Gothic arches, and the tombs of 15th and 16th century lords and ladies decorated with marble effigies of the deceased dressed as befit the time. Important Butlers through the years feature prominently. The tower dates to the mid-ninth century, during the peak of the Viking raids. It is the first such tower we've come across that the visitor can actually climb. However, as the top is open, that kind of visit is limited to fine weather; which we definitely did not enjoy. No tower top visit for us.

PK's lunch, advertised as "roast sandwich of the day", was a slab of beef on bread. Tasty, but a bit uninspired. Having been chilled by the rather unpleasant meteorological changes, an afternoon pint was in order: PK enjoyed the local brew, Smithwicks (pronounced SMITH-ix, available in the US and most every pub in Ireland), and all was well. My ravioli at dinner were tortellini. The tiramisu afterwards helped.

By the way, the English Premier League championships were last weekend: Manchester United versus Chelsea. This is not the recent match where British fans were clubbed and gassed by Greek police in Athens: that was the European championship. The English Championship is thought to be watched by 500,000,000 people: that's almost 10 times the number of British people! The Lads, especially the bachleor lad, are Man Utd fans. At a crowded pub in Waterford, we witnessed a very boring game of soccer, with the wrong team on top after two overtime sessions.

But as promised, we've also been doing a fair bit of birding recently. Sunday the 20th of May was National Dawn Chorus day. For the uninitiated, the dawn chorus is the concert that songbirds regale the waking world with each day. Starting before the sun is up, birds announce that they have made it through another night. Birdwatch Ireland and other like-minded conservation organisations sponsored bird walks across the republic, all starting around 4am. Our local walk went to the woods around Ballyscanlon Lough. The first bird of the day was a cuckoo, at 04:05. And despite the fact that this was a life bird for us, it's voice was unmistakable. The walk lasted about an hour before we moved down the road a ways to Fenor Bog, where our guide had some moth traps set. By 06:30 the sun was up and we headed to Brownstown Head to dig up some reported manx's shearwaters. Alas, no shearwaters, but plenty of other stuff to keep us busy. A fierce wind was blowing for much of the time, so we hunkered down in the sun on the cliff and watched the gannets, guillemots, gulls, terns, and other seabirds stream past. By the time we gave up for the day, about 12:30, we'd ticked 53 species. Considering that the total record list of birds spotted in Ireland is only about 400, that's not a bad day. Besides the cuckoo and gannets, some other favourites (life birds all ~ at least for one of us) included: sandwich tern, sedge warbler, whitethroat (another warbler), chiffchaff, goldcrest, linnet, and redpoll.


This past weekend we again headed for County Waterford headlands looking (unsuccessfully) for manx shearwaters. On a two mile cliff walk near Ardmore, we did get to see a great black-backed gull chick, a small kittiwake colony, and nesting fulmars. However, it wasn't just the wind this time: the skies got angry and soddened us to the bone. It's over 24 hours since we returned and PK's shoes are still wet. Definitely worth the damp, but we were very soggy.

Finally, I just enjoyed a Memorial Day break by writing this blog, after a decent sleep-in. Normal Irish folks don't get the pleasure until next weekend. As I work for a call centre that supports a British product, my calendar is British. Hence the holiday.

Slainte.

Jack and Noodles in Eire 3

The Copper Coast. A stretch of magnificent Irish coast that you've never heard of. Jack and Noodles have now. We drove to Dungarvan, about 30 miles west of here via the major road and then meandered back via the Copper Coast, all in County Waterford.

The Copper Coast is a UNESCO European Geopark, one of 17 designated Geoparks in Europe and is the only one in the Republic of Ireland. 20 miles of spectacular cliffs, deserted coves, and picturesque villages, the Copper Coast gets its name from the 19th Century copper mines that lie at its heart. Locals had known about the high grade copper veins for centuries, but the large scale exploitation of the reserves didn't begin until 1824. Fifty years later, the seams were played out and the mines closed. Some of the mining buildings are still visible at Tankardstown, where some of our Copper Coast photos were taken (for instance, this one or this one).

We also explored one of my most favorite hidden Ireland locations: Dunhill Castle. Or rather, the remains of Dunhill Castle. Dating back to the 16th century, it was demolished by Cromwell's forces in 1649 after a "spirited defense." That really is Cromwell's calling card, the blown up shell of a castle. Everywhere you go in the Irish countryside you can almost read the landscape in these old buildings: "Cromwell was here." The central vaulted ceiling of this castle survived the Lord Protector's onslaught, however, and is really something to see.

We finished our near perfect day at Jack Meade's Under the Bridge Pub, about 10 minutes from Villa Whittebaugh. Meade's dates to 1705 and is exactly what it sounds like, a country cottage pub under a bridge. We enjoyed our pints in the garden, basking in the late afternoon sun. Fantabulous.

PK then whipped up a new favourite recipe, lamb sherry soup and some of her delicious brown soda bread. Jack likey the bread.

The following day was much lower key. PK and Jack turned the living room into an internet cafe of sorts to start the day and then we explored Waterford City by foot. But first we went to a kebab take-away that we've been meaning to try for lunch. Of all things, they didn't have any doner kebab (a gyro-like sandwich that is emblematic of Turkish kebab). But the party was not spoilt: messy deliciousness ensued. We were all a little sick for our efforts. No noodles for Noodles, alas.

Waterford is blessed with a great deal of its medieval walls in tact. In fact, after the city withstood a siege by a pretender to the British crown, King Henry Tudor bestowed upon Waterford the motto: Urbs Intacta Manet Waterfordia, "Waterford remains the untaken city." Even Cromwell was repulsed in 1649. He came back a year later, however, with more men and more guns and finished the job.

The most impressive piece of the wall that stands today is Reginald's Tower, which we went into for the first time with Jack and Noodles. Reginald's real name was Regnall, a Viking lord and son of Ivor the Boneless, who had constructed a fortification there in the 10th century. The tower that stands today was built in the 12th century and expanded in the 15th century. Over the years it has served as defensive fortification, prison, and currency mint. The museum in it today was well done and really interesting; though we were glad to get back into the sun.

After a nap at home we headed back into town for the usual Thursday night with the lads at Downes'. PK and Noodles stayed only for a short while, while Jack and myself proceeded to drink way more than was strictly necessary. Especially given the facts that I was to go back to work and Jack to fly onto Venice the next morning. But some late night fried chicken steadied our stomachs and sure we were grand.

Their visit over too soon, it was time to part ways with Jack and Noodles. So after dropping me at work in our newly repaired car, PK delivered our visitors to the Waterford Regional Airport. We had a great time with them and look forward to seeing more of you here soon.

Slainte.