Thoor Ballylee and Coole Park

William Butler Yeats lived in this tower with his wife and children between 1918 and 1929.


Frenchclass: can you decipher this? Do not cheat with a translator! I could get the gist of it, except for certain vocabulary that we haven't covered, possibly from the "Norman castle of Thoor Ballylee" chapter, which is probably a second year topic. Perhaps Madame Professeur will decipher it in class next year. *



There are four levels, sort of, in the tower. This bridge was blown up during the civil war in Ireland, which began after the Easter Rising of 1916.

The civil war brought action to this part of County Galway. Look how close the bridge is to the house...

This is the first floor, with fireplace and living area.

The tower's origins are not known, but are said to be of Norman origin, built in the 16th century. It certainly looks like it was built for defense, with tiny windows all over the place just large enough to shoot arrows from.

The snug bedroom, again, with fireplace.


Adorable castle-y door.


This would have been a child's dream playhouse, with all of the miniature spaces and corridors that lead to windows and hiding places. It would not have been a dream for the parents of small children. Here is the spiralling stone staircase of dizzying, serious head injury potential:


I would hate to have been the one to haul firewood to each room, but I would have been first to volunteer to clean the roof. Check out the view:


These are my adorable friends. They are sweet and impossibly youthful.


What is Coole Park? It is the homesite of Lady Gregory, Yeats' patron and friend. It's just a few kilometers (and miles) from Thoor Ballylee. The home was torn down as a result of backlash against large landholders, but the site is still there. There is a giftshop and teashop in the old stables, and gardens to wander.



This is the autograph tree, where Lady Gregory encouraged her visitors to carve their initials in the bark of a Copper Beech, behind us.


Can you make out W...B...Y?

Yeah, me neither, from this photograph.

This is George Bernard Shaw's, and you can definitely see a large "G" and a "B" and kind of the "S". Luckily, he made these letters large.


The group of writers which passed in and through Lady Gregory's life read like a list of the greatest writers of the era: J.M. Synge, Sean O'Casey, George Moore, Shaw, Yeats, Tennyson, and the like. What an incredible gathering.

The experience of visiting the land where Yeats walked, where he wrote, was difficult to describe. Inspiring? Yes, but that is not even close.

Yeats came from a family that was Anglo-Irish, meaning Protestant. He established the Abbey Theater with Lady Gregory.

There is so much to read, so much to learn!

The Wild Swans at Coole

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold,
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still

----- Yeats

* The text reads as follows: "En Irlande, nombre histoires sont cachées dans les ruines conquises par le lierre, dans les châteaux effondrés, dans les tours décapitees, gris vestiges d'une grandeur passée parmi lesquels errent des chouettes inquiètes et des fontomes inapaisés. Thoor Ballylee résiste à la'assaut du temps, fière et orgueilleuse, préservant dans ses murs des souvenirs envoûtants. C'est au-delà d'un vieux pont traversant la rivière que le poete William Butler Yeats a connu etre 1918 et 1928 les moments les plus heureux de sa vie sentimentale et artistique. Thoor Ballylee devient pour le poète un lieu d'epanouissement, mais aussi le symbole puissant de son enracinement, de son amour irrévocable pour son..."

Baile na Coiribe

Student housing is located in a place called Corrib Village (Baile na Coiribe in Irish) on the edge of campus. There are dozens of buildings like this one, each group with a courtyard and painted in its very own pastel shade. These are available for self-catering over the summer. I've heard so many different languages while walking around through the village.


The walk up to the back gate is bordered by dense forest. You can see why the gates are closed at 11 pm and why you might not want to find yourself here alone at dark.


La Cuisine:


When I take a shower, this is what I see. I can look at the River Corrib and whoever happens to be walking by on the river path.


My room is small so I decided I could store my giganto suitcase here:


The river path heads north about a mile before it ends at a game field. Along the way there are put-in points for boats. I've gone for runs along this course and usually there are rowing teams out along with some people in a motorboat following behind, screaming at them with a bullhorn.

Tomorrow is the first field trip, to Coole Park, once the home of William Butler Yeats, and Thoor Ballylee, the tower home that Yeats bought and restored in order to live there from 1919 - 1929.



Under my window ledge the waters race,
Otters below and moor-hens on the top,
Run for a mile undimmed in Heaven's face,
Then darkening through 'dark' Raftery's 'cellar' drop,
Run underground, rise in a rocky place
In Coole demesne, and there to finish up
Spread to a lake and drop into a hole.
What's water but the generated soul?'


----- W.B. Yeats 'Coole Park and Ballylee, 1931'

Galway City

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present your American representative in Ireland:


I bought a coffee, checked out of the B&B in Salthill, and promptly spilled some coffee on my shirt. This was how I arrived in Galway city. Uncle Sam would be so proud.

I had several hours before I could check in to student housing in Corrib Village, so I decided to tourist it up and take pictures.

Eyre Square (pronounced "air" like Jane Eyre) is the center of the city. It has a park, Kennedy Park, so named because JFK gave a speech here only months before his assassination.


Walking around is easy. Galway is not too large so that you get lost, but leave it to me to get pretty close.

I wandered the streets near Eyre Square, slowly familiarizing myself concentrically. Streets are not so much laid in a grid system, rather, on an ancient behind-the-city-walls, whatever works kind of way.

These flags display the names of prominant western families of old.

I don't think anyone noticed my coffee shirt. At least, no one pointed and laughed. They might have been laughing on the inside, though.

I predict many Euros will be dropped here:


And, quite possibly sprinkled throughout the shops here:

Céad Mile Fáilte

I arrived in Shannon after a long day and night of flying. I don't think my excitement registers in the photo, but I'm all a-twitter.


This is an odd subject for a picture. I blame jet lag. I don't know what to blame for sharing it with you as I am, sober and fresh from sleep.


It was a quick hour and a half bus trip and ten-minute taxi ride to the bed and breakfast in Salthill. Mine's the third one from the left. It is as adorable inside as it is on the outside.


I took a shower, then a nap. Witness the restorative powers of these basic human activities.


Salthill is a seaside resort town whose heyday was in decades past, but has enjoyed a comeback as it became a suburb of Galway city. Here is Galway Bay, quite handily just across the street from the B&B.


Another view of the bay...


There is a promenade along the bay, along which people of all kinds were strolling and enjoying the pleasant afternoon. I came across a bachelorette party, decked out in "hen party" sashes and sparkly accoutrements, taking pictures of themselves beside the by before climbing back in their limo for more partying. They were adorable.


Maps can be deceiving, because distances look greater than they are. Salthill seemed a distance away from Galway, but it is actually a part of it.

Galway is a beautiful city. There is vibrance and activity, but it is entirely navigable due to its smaller size. It is not as overwhelming as, say, Dublin, but still full of ancient history.

My guidebook quite rightly relates, "The city of Galway is a delight, with its narrow streets, old stone and wooden shopfronts, good restaurants and bustling pubs."

The Future Looks Temperate

That is a-okay with me!

Across the Pond

I'm going to Ireland to study history this summer.



I don't know what it is about an old pile of stones that attracts me.


Galway is the third largest city in Ireland and home to the Lola Rose yarn shop.

“The use of traveling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are.” ----- Samuel Johnson


“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” ----- Mark Twain

Musings

How is your summer going? All ten days so far have been fantastic! It has to do with no homework, with time free for spending with my daughter in an unhurried fashion. This is a big change, a good change.

Also, I've been reading whatever I want to read. A neighbor gave me a book to read called Essential Writings by Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Buddhist monk with a serious way with words.

"Practicing Buddhism is a clever way to enjoy life. Happiness is available. Please help yourself to it. All of us have the capacity of transforming neutral feelings into pleasant feelings, very pleasant feelings that can last a long time. This is what we practice during sitting and walking meditation. If you are happy, all of us will profit from it. Society will profit from it. All living beings will profit from it." (p.93)

Think about traffic for a moment. Not a pleasant thought, is it? But how about ways to transform the experience from unpleasant to, if not pleasant, than at least neutral? There are things we can do to make it so, instead of becoming enraged with something we cannot control.

I like to listen to books on cd, and that helps to give me something to look forward to when I'm in the car. Central Oregon is not the world's biggest traffic jam by any means, but there are still slow drivers and people who pull out in front of us. At times like these, I imagine that the driver has experienced loss. Maybe it's an illness or loss of a loved one, maybe they just lost their job and don't know what they're going to do. Whatever it is, I try to give them the benefit of the doubt, and in doing so, create compassion for their annoying driving. It is not a completely selfless act. In doing so, I notice that I release the feelings of anger that easily well inside. Instead of feeling anger, I choose to feel compassion. It is this that stops me from tailgating or from passing the offending car and then pulling in front to express my irritation. This is healthier for everyone, not to mention safer.

This is not to say I am so enlightened and better than you. I didn't used to think this way AT ALL. I used to get mad, and I got even. It was temporarily satisfying to cut off a car who had just cut me off, but it wasn't safe and the feelings didn't last. I remember being a mess after the rapid succession of my brother's death, my father's death, and my own divorce. My mind was not on my driving, and I probably drove too slowly and pulled out in front of people left and right. I was suffering but the rest of the world had no idea. Once I realized this, I expanded that to how I had no idea what other people are experiencing. Duh, but it was pretty profound. If I had no idea, why did I respond to others with aggression and anger? It began to make no sense, and I realized I was putting out negative energy on top of negative energy, and I was ashamed. I might have caused another person pain in the guise of road rage. It was all a great big, unnecessary misunderstanding.

At times of suffering, the last thing anyone needs is hatefulness. Getting flipped the bird in return for an unthinking lane change. I'm grateful for the forgiveness of strangers, and so I try to give back. There is no way to know what another person is going through. Maybe they are just a jerk, and if they are then your compassion at their jerkiness means they get away with it. But maybe they are suffering greatly, and your compassion was sent out and acted as a bit of soothing balm to their painful day, for just a few seconds they had a reprieve. I think they should have the benefit of the doubt. Philo of Alexandria, an ancient philosopher said, "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."

One of the most difficult things I have done is to realize how much time I have spent rushing my daughter instead of being with her. Going places - work, school, errands - are necessary to daily life. These are not bad things. What makes the difference is the way we handle each of these events. I have not always made the best use of patience.

I am grateful for the chance, every day, to try again; to get it right; to do better.
"Our lives are made of days and hours, and each hour is precious. Have we wasted our hours and our days? Are we wasting our lives? These are important questions. Practicing Buddhism is to be alive in each moment." (p.93)

I'm not a Buddhist, I'm Presbyterian (also known as the "frozen chosen"). I don't care much for rigid lines of categorization, so that if I define myself as a Protestant, that means that I do not study Catholic teachings, for example. I think there is much wisdom offered in our religious traditions and I don't see the point in fighting about it.

From road rage to religious tolerance, this blog defies definition!

I am also no optimistic, glass-half-full kind of pollyanna, but I do have hope for the best. Is this naive? Maybe. I used to care about that but I don't think it much matters. What matters more is that a little optimism is better than the alternative.

Unbelievable!

After fishing last weekend, I found two hooks that had been changed off of the line. These were still good, so I gave them to OH to put away. It was getting dark and he already had put away the tackle box, so he put them in his jacket pocket and said, "Don't let me forget these."

I washed his jacket yesterday, and only one hook was in the pocket. The other hook could be in the lawn where my husband walked, in the carpet where he took off his jacket, or in the laundry room stuck in some other piece of laundry. It could be anywhere.

This morning, I got up early to study. I needed to get the blood moving, so I went into the living room to do push-ups and sit-ups. I did ten sit-ups, then rolled over to start doing push-ups, when on the carpet right in front of my face was the other hook! Talk about your one in a million chances.


It was on a part of the floor that we walk every day in socked feet because we take off our shoes in the house. It had been there for TWO FULL DAYS and no one - not even a cat - had stepped on it.

The Longest Weekend

The time: Thursday, 9 pm. Place: An ordinary bathroom.

I was flossing my teeth, which I do occasionally, when a large chunk of white came out and rolled over my tongue. I spit it out into my hand. It was part of my tooth.

It was Thursday night, my daughter was in bed. The dentist's office is closed Friday through Sunday, but never fear, the emergency number will help. Except, it was answered by the babysitter who informed me that the doctors were away brushing up - ha - on their mad dental skillz at a conference out of town. I managed to control my mounting panic to state that I may require emergency care for the part of my tooth that was now in my hand. She laughed a little, and said that had happened to her. There I was, imagining imminent nerve exposure and crippling pain, but instead finding comfort in the babysitter (actually, the children's grandma) who told me it was likely not going to require immediate action but that I should call for an appointment on Monday.

Update: Monday, 9 am.

I have an appointment for a crown this week. I haven't had any pain associated with the cracked tooth, for which I am eternally grateful. And no, there will be no coronation ceremony to cap my falling apart, old teeth. At least I'm not an elephant. When their teeth are ground down to nothing, they die from starvation. I'm not saying I couldn't stand to lose a few pounds, but starvation is a slow way to go. I'm grateful for dentists.


And elephants. Merci.

Ignorant, Illiterate, Uncultured

Shakespeare wrote for the masses. Competition to attract a paying audience was fierce. The theater had to vie with other entertainment options including the horrifying bear-baiting bloodsport down the street.

The cheap seats were standing room only. The action on stage had better be enough to keep these groundlings' minds off their aching feet and instead on the characters in the play.



The terrible brutalities of human nature held their own against contrived animal fights. The Elizabethan era seamlessly accepted bloodthirsty ancient Roman themes as its onstage entertainment.

Shakespeare is not an elite literary tradition reserved for the educated. It is for everyone who breathes and feels and lives. Human nature is human nature. Some emotions are universal. Love, trust, betrayal, protectiveness, tradition, ritual, sacrifice, celebration.... it's all there. "Titus" and "Much Ado" are two of the more accessible plays, in my opinion.

Come to think of it, "Fiddler on the Roof" is pretty good, too.

Erudition

I've read seven Shakespeare plays in as many weeks, and I have to recommend two of them. "Titus Andronicus" and "Much Ado About Nothing" were my favorites. While not exactly beach books, they are fantastic reads you can get through in about two hours. I have the Pelican paperback versions. These are easier to carry around than a honkin' volume.

Lady Beatrice

I liked "Titus" a lot because it was the easiest to read. I understood it right away, which was not always the case with the other plays. I think the setting - ancient Rome - had a lot to do with my comfort level. I dig that era.

"Much Ado" was great because it was easily understood, and so I didn't have to work at reading it. One of the lovers was frustrating to read about because he was such a gullible ninny. Anyway. Check it out.

Southern Oregon is Shakespeare Country

Last summer for my husband's birthday, I presented him with tickets to two plays at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland. He was really not excited about it. I was patient with him because he had never been to the OSF, and therefore had no precedent upon which to base his silly emotional response.

Of the two plays in question, only one was Shakespeare: "Coriolanus". The other was Thornton Wilder's classic, "Our Town".

Since it was his birthday, it was his choice on how we spent our time when not otherwise engaged in culturally bettering ourselves. For my husband, that usually means going to unpopulated places for physical exercise. The more competitive, the better.

What else would you want to do in Southern Oregon in August, when the temperature tops 102 degrees??? We also had only a few extra hours.

Right. A hike it is! (was?)

View from the top, back to Ashland:

Can you feel the heat? Look at that sky! It was toasty.

We found a hike of reasonable distance and drove to the trailhead. It turned out to have been the location of a recent forest fire. I can imagine how quickly the fire swept over the top of the hill, pushed by winds. The clearing offered great views of Ashland, which is beautiful any time of year.

Does this man look 30???

It was a beautiful hike, through cool forests and open, grassy meadows until it reached the peak here, at (I forget the name of) this hill. It was open (as you can plainly see) and offered beautiful views of the valley below.

Here's the man...

"Do something funny! Strike a pose!" I requested, always looking to add interest to benign photographic situations. He complied, offering up a very 'Lewis & Clark discover the Pacific' kind of thing:


Might I add, if you haven't been to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, you are quite simply missing out on an amazing experience. It isn't hard to understand the language. Besides, you will be mesmerized by the set and costumes and acting that pulls you into the story without needing to be an English major.

Trust a man who, though skeptical at first, thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Forty Stone and Six Months Ago

Last year, OC turned eight years old. She wanted to have cupcakes, and she wanted to make them.

The mixer is carbon dated to be 1.2 million years old. It weighs just over forty stone. That would be, forty Stonehenge-sized stones.

Speaking of stone, this is Pampered Chef stoneware. VERY easy to crack, but cooks up a nice batch of cupcakes. You don't have to take my word for it. Let's ask a qualified expert...


"How are the cupcakes, OC?"


"These cupcakes – much like my mama – rock!!!"

Hey, I'm just the messenger.

Feline Psychology

This is Rum.


Note the greenish blob on the floor in front of her. This is an old sock filled with nepeta, commonly known as catnip. This herb makes Rum behave in very un-Rum behavior, such as exhibit mirth, joy, and playfulness.

Run has earned the nickname "Crabby Patty", and through a careful program of desensitization, she now receives kisses to the top of her head without vocal protestation. She has her limits, but this is considered progress within the context of the Rum/human relationship.

A Person Who Knits

I learned to knit about three years ago. In that time, I've made several scarves and many, many hats. I've even made a wrap.


But this, this is an Alice Starmore sweater pattern. It was begun six months ago, and it still looks like this:


When a pattern is so complicated and with new stitches I've never done before, it requires my undivided attention. I have ripped out many times. That's okay, but what is problematic is the rate of growth of my daughter. It's not her fault, but she is putting the pressure on to get this done before she grows out of it before it exists.

I aspire to be a knitter of sweaters and socks. These, to me, will be the pinnacle of knitting accomplishment.