Well, I had jumped off the bus in Clonakilty in a moment of whim, and tomorrow I will have been here three days. The town just keeps getting better the longer I stay.
After a nice bike ride to the beach yesterday afternoon, I relaxed at the hostel for dinner and then headed off to the evening session at An Teach Beag, the local trad pub. The fiddler du jour was one Seamus Creagh, whose wife I had spoken to yesterday morning. The fellows at the Corner House were quite right to put me on to him -- fantastic fiddler. I remembered my tape recorder this time, and got at least some of the session recorded. Including, as usual, them goading me into playing a couple of old-time tunes. There was a piper visiting from Brittany, three fiddles (other than myself), two accordians, a guitar, a singer/flutist, and a very appreciative crowd.
Part of the appreciative crowd were Spanos -- the fellow I met at lunch yesterday -- and a couple of his Greek friends. They've been in town only a couple of weeks, and it was their first taste of Irish music. They seemed to like it. Spanos was insistent that I stop by again today, and he'll give me a free place to crash for the night. Which sounds pretty good to me. The hostel was full of loud, drunken surfers last night, and not a good place to sleep. If I can couch surf with one of the Greek fellows tonight, that would be far preferable. Spanos himself turns out to be a lapsed physics PhD student with an interest in the philosophy of science. Naturally, we found no shortage of things to talk about, particularly as we both left academic life for similar reasons of being frustrated with the insularity of the institution.
So I'll stay in Clonakilty again tonight for the Saturday session, and then get on to Skibbereen, I think. There's a Monday session there, they say. Then I meet my next WWOOF host in Bantry on Tuesday afternoon, and shake the road dust from my boots for a couple of weeks.
Well, yesterday I bought a bus ticket to Skibberren, and got on the bus in the early afternoon. I was passing the ride pleasantly enough, when I started seeing signs for Clonakilty. The fellows at the Corner House had told me about a fiddler named Seamus who lives somewhere near Clonakilty. So, while the bus was stopped and letting people on, I made a spontaneous decision and got off.
So now I've been a day in Clonakilty, childhood home of The Big Guy, Michael Collins. No session on Thursday night, so I passed the night quietly at a pub on the outskirts of town -- the local's local. Only one other old fellow in there, with a West Cork accent so think that most of the time I didn't know if he was speaking in English or Irish. It may have been a creole of the two, for all I know. It was as quiet a night in Clonakilty as any could be. I had the entire hostel to myself. I tried giving Seamus a call today, but he wasn't in and I spoke to his wife instead. Seems he should be in town tonight for the Friday session. I'll plan on heading down there tonight to check out the scene.
I decided to blow a bit of money today, since I probably won't be spending any for a couple of weeks. I rented a bicycle for the day and rode out into the countryside to the ring fort outside of town. As luck would have it, it's not open yet. I had a good long think as I looked at the not-very-tall fence surrounding the fort. Figuring that the monks were long-dead and the tourist board was yet on vacation, I climbed the fence, taking care to keep my genitals well clear of the barbed wire, and had a look about. The fort itself is surrounded by a stockade wall of wooden poles, the gate of which was fortunately unlocked. It's a set of tenth century mud and thatch buildings, some of them partially underground. A tour guide would have been informative, but since the resident deer weren't talking, I took a few photos and will read up on the place later.
After nosing about for a bit, I hopped back over the fence and rode my bicycle back along the harbor coast, stopping to fiddle by the seaside for an hour or so. Then, since I was by the sea for the first time in Ireland, I decided to pay for my first sit-down meal -- fresh fish and chips in a local pub. The fellow who waited on me was a Greek guy named Spanos. He's working for a couple of months in County Cork and then will be traveling around Ireland for a bit. He gave me his mobile number and seems pretty keen on going out for a beer later. I'll give him a ring once I figure out the session schedule. A drinking partner can't be a bad thing, and he seems a good guy.
One of the frustrating aspects of keeping this travel journal is that so many more interesting things are happening around me than I can reasonably record. I could easily spend as long writing about each day as I've spent living it. Of course, that would preclude being able to go about living the next day. And so I'm made a little bit sad about all of the pieces that I'll be losing forever. My memory has always been lousy, and photos can only capture certain things, and aren't really my medium, anyway. So I'm left with no choice but to extract the most life possible out of each day, and write down the bits that are still left with me by the end of it.
I had a nice morning in Midleton, and ran into Seamus on the street. He offered my coffee and directed me to visit the Corner House pub in Cork (in which I now sit). I hopped a bus into Cork City and wandered around until I found a hostel for the night. Then I set out, fiddle in hand, in search of adventure.
It didn't take too long to find a bit. After a stopover in an Internet cafe, I headed down to the tourist district in search of street musicians. Cork is a different sort of city than Dublin. It feels younger, grittier, and more my style. Lots of posters up for anarchist meetings and graffiti that say things like "Beat Inflation -- Steal". Pretty okay. And yet, the street music scene was thin, at least on a Wednesday afternoon. I found one fellow playing Pixies covers on an acoustic guitar and asked for a bit of direction. He said that he made his living busking in Cork, but that most of the other buskers were fair-weather weekend warriors. As far as the local law, anywhere was fair game for playing. So I picked a busy-looking spot on the main shopping strip and went to work.
The fiddle, I think, has enormous advantage over the guitar as a busking instrument. For one, it's a bit more novel, particularly given where I am and the style that I plaly. Folks here don't hear a lot of old-time fiddle, and they generally seem to like it. Secondly, the tonal range of a fiddle simply cuts across the background noise much better than a guitar does. Particularly when I play out of cross A tuning (which I do a lot), I can make a good bit of sound, especially if I'm singing at the same time. It of course also helps that I have an unusually loud fiddle.
Anyway, busking went well again. In a bit less than two hours, I had covered the cost of my bus ride into town and my bed for the night. Then the weather (my constant foe in Ireland) turned bad, and it was back to the hostel for a feast of instant rice. Now I'm at the Corner House put, awaiting the evening session. And I've forgotten my tape recorder yet again. Still more moments lost forever...
My time with Patsy ended well, but it has ended. We got most of the finishing touches done on the wall yesterday, and then went out to drink beer and shoot pool at the local to celebrate. Like the rest of the human race, both Patsy and I are more talkative with a few pints in us. We chatted a bit, shot some pool (Irish rules, of course), and then went home. I slept soundly, and then we went to finish a few more things on the wall today. That done, I was ready to move on to a bit more society before my next WWOOF. Patsy was on his way to Middleton to meet a girl, so I hitched a ride with him, said goodbye on Main St., and checked into a hostel for the night. The woman at the hostel saw my fiddle and immediately directed me to the local Tuesday night session at Wallis' Pub. It was another great trad session. The proprieter, a friendly fellow named Seamus, was handing out free pints to the musicians. I took advantage, of course. As usual, folks seemed interested in what I was doing. I scratched along with the Irish tunes, played one old-time tune for them, and generally enjoyed the company of human society. The gents at the session compiled a list of pubs for me to visit up the west coast of Ireland. A concertina player named John Hastings from County Clare wrote down several of his favorite haunts and which nights the sessions happen. I should now have a good musical map of western Ireland. I'll have to make a new one when I get up toward Donegal, but what I've got now is a great start. There was also a dancer at the pub tonight named Mags who did a terrific brush (broom) dance. I made her show me the basic steps so I can dance a few hornpipes and reels later, should I happen upon a good Ceili.
Being in the company of dancers and musicians is a blessing like no other. It constantly opens doors for me that nothing else would.
My sense of time is a complete mess here in Ireland. For starters, I haven't got any sort of watch or clock with me. Time didn't mean much when I was hiking; the available light and the ache in my knees were timekeeper enough. Secondly, I'm so far north that my usualy reckoning of sunrise and sunset havent' caught up. It's a bit after 9:00 at night, and the sun has just set, with enough light left outside by which to read. I haven't yet figured out what time the sunrise happens. Thirdly, it's always cloudy. Today was one of those rare afternoons where the sun shines for a bit, but most days it isn't the case. So to tell the time by the light the way I would at home is to differentiate between shades of grey, taking into account the thickness of the cloud cover. All of this means that I never really have any idea what time it is. Fortunately, it still doesn't matter much.
Today being Sunday, it was a relaxing day off. I woke up late, had a leisurely breakfast of bread and cereal, and took the bicycle into town a few miles away. Not that there's much to the town -- a few pubs and a couple of general stores -- but it was something to aim for, anyway. I bought a few food supplies for dinner, and took a leisurely ride back as the sun decided to make an appearance from behind the clouds. Then it was a bit of fiddling on the porch, a snack, a nap, some tea, and more fiddling. For dinner, I made a heart attack in a pan -- sausages, onions, potatoes, and tomatoes fried in butter. Delicious -- I'll probably be dead by morning. I feel like my caloric requirements are still on overdrive. And since my host is a fellow who survives almost entirely by the providence of his juicer, drastic measures were called for.
My peat fire from last night burned so well that there were still hot hoals in the stove when I opened it to build tonight's fire, which has already warmed up the cabin nicely. I've also trimmed the wicks in the lamps and gotten them burning better, so everything in my world tonight is light and warmth. I'll have a bit of bread and cheese before bed, and then read a bit more about the lore of Slievenamon. Tomorrow will be a longer day of stonework, so it would be well if I were rested.
Sitting in the bunkhouse tonight drinking dandelion coffee and writing this by lamp light, basking in the warmth of my first turf fire. Setting up a peat fire is something of a cross between a wood fire and a coal fire, but the smell is unlike either. In any case, it's putting out a good bit of heat, and the stovetop is warm enough to keep my coffee hot but not boiling if I set it in just the right place.
The stone work today was all right. I got to chisel a few blocks, much easier than the flimsy soapstone carving that I did in my art school days. But most of the day was spent laying mortar and limestone blocks for the top of the wall. We were at it for most of the day and only got about half done, but the half we finished looks good. Patsy seems to be at his best while working. He's a perfectionist, and as his livelihood rests largely on his reputation as such, it comes through in his work. "I won't build a bad wall," he told me, "and I won't make a bad basket." I've never been a perfectionist about anything in my life, so it's good practice to be forced to work with someone who is. We spent about five hours to set six blocks. Mad but true. And the irony is that he's getting paid by the job, not by the hour. But, as I said, what he's really dealing in is a long-term investment in his reputation as a craftsman.
So I'm not sure how long I'll stay here. Maybe through the end of the week, maybe not. Patsy seems indifferent to my being here or not, so the decision really rests upon my comfort level balanced against my alternative opportunities for adventure. I am quite taken with the property here -- with the exception of the electric lights in the main house, it's basically 19th century living. On the other hand, after nearly a week alone in the mountains, I could do with a bit of company. My mentor, although a good fellow, simply isn't much of a talker. Ordinarily, neither am I, but circumstance find me wanting a bit more right now. I'll at least plan on staying until Monday so we can finish the limestone work. After that, I may consider departing a bit early.
I pulled a book of the shelf tonight called "Romantic Slievenamon in History, Folklore, and Song". Patsy says he found it in an abandoned house nearby. It's a fairly old book -- printed in 1953 -- containing local lore about Slievenamon, the nearby mountain here in southern Tipperary. It's a great volume -- at once cultural history and cultural artifact. Part of the story is wrapped up in the name of the mountain itself -- in Irish, "Slievenamon" can be interpreted as "mountain of the fairies", "mountain of the fair women", or simply "mountain of women". The tale is that the great chieftan Finn had decided to marry, and declared a contest. On a particular morning, all of Finn's aspiring brides were to line up at the foot of the mountain, and she who reached the summit first would be the one he would wed. But Finn secretly had his eye on one particular lass, who was sadly lame. The night before the contest, Finn carried his beloved to the top of the mountain, and left her there to await victory, much to the surprise of the swift-footed women who crested the hill the next day. Hence, Slievenamon -- the mountain of fair women. Or so one version of the story goes.
I'm now at the home of Patsy Cahill, a basket maker in southern Tipperary. I'll spend a few days here doing odd jobs for him before moving on to Cork. Patsy is sort of an odd job himself. He lives in a thatch roofed house near Grangemokler, where he's got willow trees, chickens, ducks, dogs, cats, mules, and a garden. He's not much of a talker and very heard to read, but seems to be a good man. He's been taking in WWOOFers for about 12 years now, so I suppose I'm probably so much dust in the wind to him. Nonetheless, I've very glad to be here, and not just because I'll have a bed. The property is beautiful. The house is a 300-year-old stone and mud building with a thatched roof, heated by a peat-burning stove. The stove also provides the hot water for the taps and the radiators -- no bath in the house. There are also a couple of out buildings, and a wooden bunkhouse where I'll be staying. No electricity in the bunkhouse, but there is running water and a peat stove. I don't feel like messing with the stove tonight, and will count on blankets to keep me warm.
Tomorrow I'll be going along with Patsy to help finish a limestone wall he's been building. There's apparently some sort of village council law that says that all new homes have to have a gated stone wall on the front drive, so he makes a bit of money on the side building them. The trick is apparently to lay a cinderblock wall, and then to stack the stone in front of that. Cheaper, faster, and just as sturdy. Hopefully I'll learn a few things about it tomorrow.
For now, a bit of sleep. Since I started hiking, I've been sleeping on a dusk-till-dawn schedule. Not at all like at home, but seems to keep me just as well. I'll probably lose it again as soon as I'm back in the city.
Having a wonderful spot of afternoon tea at the Meadowside B&B in Bunclody, County Wexford, after finishing the Wicklow Way this morning in Clonegal. It was quite a relief to finally reach Clonegal, and then quite a disappointment to find nowhere that served lunch, no hostel, and no bus out of town. So I trudge another 5km to Bunclody, where I should be able to get a bus to either Waterford or Dublin tomorrow. I could even get the Dublin bus tonight, but I'm not sure yet if that's where I need to go. I need to find out where my WWOOF assignment is exactly, and which buses will take me there. I'm hoping the library can help me with that when they open later this evening.
Anyway, I'm fairly pleased with my Wicklow Way trek. I covered a bit over 130 km (about 80 miles) in a bit over five days. Not a fast pace by AT through-hiker standards, but a little faster than I had expected of myself. All of my equipment help up wonderfully -- I mostly stayed warm enough and dry enough, and didn't need to do any on-the-trail repairs of anything. My body mostly held together well, also. Not much muscular soreness at all after the second day. My knees started to be a problem -- I expect they'll hurt yet tomorrow -- but not so much that they slowed my down much. My feet were more of a problem -- some painful blisters, and it looks like I'll be out at least one toenail before all is done. Not sure whether to blame my boots, my socks, or my tender feet.
Some mistakes or miscalculations that I made:
I think someone ought to make a down-low camper's guide to the Wicklow Way. Instead of showing where the B&Bs are, the way my map did, show where the good campsites and abandonded sheds are. That would have helped me out a lot. Finding a flat spot in the pines can be tough, and it would be annoying to get a lousy night's sleep on rough ground only to find that there was a flat, sheltered spot just a half mile further on.
I covered quite a bit of ground today fairly easily -- about 28km. Most of the walk was over pretty level ground, and much of it over paved roads. The bits on the boreen -- an ancient grass road -- were especially nice, except where grazing cattle had turned it into muck. My body is mostly holding up well. No more pain in my hips, shoulders, or legs -- it's like the pack isn't even there any more. My troubles start with my knees. The don't like all of the road walking, particularly the downhill parts. Most of tomorrow's walk will be -- surprise -- downhill on pavement. I found a good walking stick, anyway, and it will be a short trip into Clonegal -- only about 17km. Then I'll have to decide what to do next. Hopefully I can catch a ride into Bunclody to pick up the bus. Otherwise, it will be another 5km walk (which doesn't seem like much by now). I took a detour to resupply in Shillaleagh this afternoon, and met a nice fellow named John who seemed really interested in what I was doing. He apparently works as a road maintenance guy for the county. Anyway, he wanted to talk about all sorts of things that he had seen on American TV news, and what I thought about them. So we chatted about the war in Iraq, Michael Jackson, Martha Stewart, and cowboy movies. He also knows what old-time music is -- seems he saw a band playing it in Roundwood a few weeks back. After we'd talked for 20 minutes or so, he invited me to camp in his yard for the night. I told him I was anxious to press on, but he could give me a lift back to the trail (which saved me an extra couple of kilometers of walking). John says I should look him up if ever I'm back in Shilaleagh, and he'll feed me supper. Unlikely I'll be back, but I'll take him up on it if I am.
Tonight's my last night of camping for a bit, I hope. I'm on Stookeen Hill, and it's cold enough that I can see my breath in the tent. Thankfully, no rain yet, and my bag is warm. Time to try to sleep, I think.
Did about 25km today, from Glenmalure to Moyne. It's cold and windy tonight, so I'm holed up in a guest house in Moyne called Jigsaw Cottage. It's really not my style, and I'm wishing I had camped in the barn up the road instead. But my feet and knees are in pretty sad shape, so I caved in to temptation. Anyway, I'll get a bad for the night and breakfast in the morning, and hopefully it will help me to press on in the morning. I ought to get as far as Shillelagh by the end of the day. Quite a bit of that is over asphalt road, so I may try to hitch those parts. It's sort of cheating, but that much road walking will be both uninteresting and painful. I've some new blisters on my feet, but it's the little toe on my right foot that continues to worry me. It didn't really give me any pain today, but it looks even worse -- swollen and blistered all around the nail. If it's not improved by the time I'm done walking, I'll have to get it checked out, I think. Which raises the question of what to do when I'm done walking. I'm thinking to look up a basket weaver in Tipperary who is a WWOOF host. I could probably spend a week there before heading off to County Cork to work at the arts center. In any case, I need to be a bit more careful with my money. I've not been as frugal as I could be. It's been more difficult than I thought to manage it while hiking. The allure of a warm bed or hot meal when it's cold and raining and your feet hurt is hard to resist. Probably best if I get out WWOOFing where there's no money to be spent...
Staying in a warm, dry bed and breakfast last night did wonders for my constitution and walking ability. I had expected to be sore and exhausted today with boots still heavy with bogwater. Instead, I started the day well-rested and with most of my gear dry. I also got my first good Irish breakfast -- coffee, three kinds of meat, an egg, and toast. A perfect fatty start to a day of hiking.
I got a lift from the B&B back to the Wicklow Way to pick up where I left off. The sun was up, I felt good, and I missed the point where the trail turns off of the road. No matter -- I figured it out once I had gotten as far as Laragh, and it was no problem to turn down the road to Glendalough to meet the trail again.
Glendalough, despite the other tourists, was all right. It's hard not to look favorably on a 1000 year old monastary. I took some pictures before trekking back into the mountains.
The rains started again as soon as I started climbing, but after yesterday's wind-and-hail debacle, it didn't seem like much. My feet stayed fairly dry, as did most of the rest of me. I saw a bit more hail, but as it was moving vertically and not horizontally this time, that didn't seem so bad, either. I think 'bad weather' has been completely redefined for me. The occassional peep of sun has been a welcome but unexpected gift.
Anyway, I got some terrific views from the mountains today, and snapped many photos. Still sad about missing all of the good views yesterday, but c'est la vie. I had managed to cover about 24km today when I started having serious pain in the small toe on my right foot. It looked OK, so I taped it up and started looking for a place to camp for the night. Unfortunately, all of the rain means that any remotely flat spots are entirely underwater. I eventually found a not-too-sloped spot in the pines that is far from flat, but just wide enough to squeeze in a tent between the trees. The ground is soft, but the slope is a bit steep for sleeping comfortably. Hopefully I'll catch at least a few winks. It's awfully cold tonight, as well -- some of that hail from earlier today is still lying on the ground as slush.
The toe looks bad. There's a big watery blister-looking thing beginning to encase the nail. Swelling abounds. I really, really hope it's not infection, which would end this hike in a hurry. I'll check it out in the morning to see how things look. It's a long walk to the nearest town if I'm in trouble.
In three days, I've covered about 66km of trail. I'm now a bit more than halfway done. If I can keep this pace, I'll finish in Clonegal on Thursday. Here's hoping...
Ugh. Today was the worst bit of walking that I've done in my life. I woke up on the bank of the Dargle River in Glencree, having walked about 20km from Dublin yesterday. I've no watch and the sky is always cloudy, so I have no idea what time I struck camp and set off. In any case, the rain started immediately. It was cold, but otherwise OK. My hips were quite sore from the previous day of walking, and a felt a bit bad from lack of sleep, but I figured to press on at least as far as Oldbridge today. As I got up further into the Wicklow Mountains, the wind started. Not a soothing breeze, either. This was wind so strong that I had a difficult time keeping my footing as it moved my pack around and tried to push me over. I gritted my teeth and pressed on. By the time I reached the moor on the top of the mountain, it had started to hail and the wind was so strong that the rain and hail were actually painful against the side of my face, even through the waterproof hood of my jacket. It was like being fired upon by millions of tiny Gatlin guns. One step at a time, my legs, hips, and shoulders aching beyond belief, I trudged up an extremely boggy path cut through the very sharp heather and thistle. There was not a single spot of shelter on the whole mountain -- not a rock, not a tree. Eventually, I reached a place where old railroad ties have been lain end to end to form a path across the peat bog. It was about 2 1/2 feet wide, but the wind was so strong that I got blown off the path several times and fell into the bog. My pack drenched and heavy, my boots utterly sodden, after some hours of walking I finally reached a pine stand where I could stop and eat for a bit. I then muddled my way down the other side of the mountain, and after a few wrong turns, found myself in the town of Roundwood, where I decided to seek shelter from the rain and wind at Tólchar House bed and breakfast. For €40, I had a room and a shower and somewhere to spread out my very-drenched equipment to dry. Then it was beef and Guinness stew for dinner and a bit of a nap, then beer and whiskey in the local pub. I met up with some older folks in the the pub who saw my fiddle and insisted on some tunes. I played and we sang for a bit, and I got some drinks out of the deal. I'll turn in tonight, and sleep for a very long time, and then get breakfast and head off toward Glendalough. At least the weather can't possibly get much worse than today -- I'm more worried about my body at this point. I managed to walk 20km today in spite of conditions -- largely because there was nowhere for me to stop on the mountain, anyway. I'll probably take it easy tomorrow and only do 15km or so if the weather is decent. If it's lousy, I may not leave here at all, or may only go as far as Oldbridge.
I've just returned from my first trad music session and my first taste of real Irish hospitality. It stands as one of the great experiences of my life so far. The musicians at M. Hughes were as welcoming as they were talented. I started off the session hiding in the back trying to play inconspicuously, and ended it taking requests for American old-time fiddle tunes and getting invitations to people's homes to listen to and play more tunes. Fantastic. I'll likely look the place up again when I return to Dublin in June, hopefully with some ability to hold my own on the Irish tunes. I think two months won't be nearly long enough, but it's a goal, anyway.
I also did my first busking session today. I met a street musician (whose name I've sadly forgotten) who directed me to Grafton St. as the place to hustle for change. I found a not-already-full section of the street, set down my stool, and set up to busk. For some reason, I always find myself nervous when I play tunes in a new place for the first time. I actually felt shaky as I strung up the bow. But then something happens -- when I start to play, the fiddle takes over. An awful lot of that is due to the quality of the instrument. The tone of the fiddle is so rich and rings so well that I get lost in it as soon as I start playing. It taps into something well below the realm of conscious thought. I busked for almost two hours and didn't make much more than ten euros, but the experience was still a great (and liberating) one. It was enough change for a beer and a sandwich, anyway.
So I find myself a bit sad to be leaving Dublin, but excited to be hiking tomorrow. Now that I've started to get a feel for the city, I have things to which to return in June. If the last 24 hours are a good indicator, this trip will actually be even more magical than I could have hoped.
I had an auspicious start to today. Half asleep, stumbling up the stairs in sandals, I stubbed my toe and split the already-damaged nail on my big toe. It's now being held together with tape. Nothing that a week of hiking won't cure, I'm sure. Ugh.
Anyway, I'm writing this sitting in the Long Room of the Trinity College library, feeling a bit sheepish for having spent €7.50 for the admission. Still, two things make it nearly worthwhile:
1) The detail of the quillwork in the ancient illuminated manuscripts. I can't help but be impressed by this. While today bibles are churned off the presses as just another shrink-wrapped corporate product, the illuminated manuscripts from the 8th century are something quite different. In a transcription process that would take months or years to complete even without ornamentation, it amazes me that the scribes and artists who created the Book of Kells and other similar volumes cared so deeply about their work as to pen incredible ornamental shapes into the very letters of the text itself -- ornament so detailed that even my young eyes have to squint ot see it all. And this done with a feather quill on no-doubt-tempramental calf skin vellum. How many modern priests and preachers would be willing to give up their multi-million dollar crystal cathedrals to undertake such a thing? Even simple martyrdom sems easy by comparison.
2) The smell of the Long Room. Even in a climate-controlled chamber such as this, the smell of 200,000 leather bound volumes of 300 years of age is intense. It's not a musty smell, but more like the smell that one gets when inhaling deeply into a leather jacket. What interests me most about it is this: that smell is, in reality, molecules shed by these volumes and finding their way into my respiratory tract. And there they shall stay, and many other molecules, as well -- on my clothes, in my hair. One molecule at a time, I and other tourists are taking this library away, and leaving traces of our own skin and moisture behind.
After nearly a full day of travel, I've finally come to roost at Isaac's Hostel on Frenchman St. in Dublin. I'll spend two nights here before catching the bus to Marlay Park and the Wicklow Way. My immediate task is to stay awake. I may have slept for an hour or two on the plane to Amsterdam, but it was that airplane sort of sleep that is far from satisfying. It wasn't until I had actually checked through the security gate to board my Dublin flight that I really started to get excited about my trip. Too intangible before that. Walking down Talbot St. from the hostel, it started to work on me. I'm in Ireland. A cold, misty rain falling around me, I wandered through a fruit market with old women pushing bunches of bananas, 12 for a euro. They had all sorts of fruit, but for some reason it was the bananas that they dangled in front of the passersby.
I walked down to a camping store to outfit for my hiking trip. Since the airline did me the favor of losing my sleeping pad, I needed a new one, and stove fuel, too. The camping store was an odd experience for me. I had forgotten about the European way of leaving the customer the hell alone until he asks for help. Which I generally like, except that in a store in which the employees don't wear uniforms, you have to sort of guess as to which people actually work there -- they aren't going to go out of their way to reveal themselves. When I finally figured it out, I got fuel and a new sleeping pad. I also wanted information about the Wicklow Way. I had read that there wasn't much good printed information about it, which turned out to be true. The woman at the store asked which part I wanted to hike, and when I said "all of it", she seemed taken aback. "That's a long way! My friends and I have talked about walking it, but none of us have actually done it!" Which seems weird to me, because it's just shy of 80 miles long, which should be doable in about a week without too much trouble. I thought about telling her about the Appalachain Trail through-hikers, but decided not to bother.
The hostel itself is a good time. I'm in a dorm room with seven other travelers of unknown nationality. The common room in the hostel is bustling with card games, most of which apparently involve cheap canned beer. I've no inclination to drink tonight, as I'm struggling to stay awake until dark as it is. It's a good thing that I booked the bed in advance, as there weren't any vacant when I arrived. I assume there must be some elsewhere in town, but the location at Isaac's so near the bus station no doubt keeps it full.
Now it's off to find food and maybe a music session if there are any to be had. And then asleep after dark, for a badly needed rest.
The Elephant Vanishes
Haruki Murakami
For the last week or so, I've been hiding out in Hillsborough, North Carolina. I've completed the move out of my old home in Blacksburg, put everything left that I own into a 10x10 storage unit, packed up the cat and hit the road. My feline partner will remain here while I move on, probably tomorrow. He's adjusting a bit more slowly than I had hoped, but adjusting nonetheless. His new roommate, whom we'll call "Bitey Cat" in order to protect his anonymity, is not particularly pleased to share his abode. Or perhaps he is pleased, and expresses his pleasure by way of pouncing and biting. My own hand has considerably more perforations than it did when I left home. In any case, they seem to be working things out through some sort of incomprehensible cat-diplomacy, and I think I'll feel OK about hitting the road again tomorrow and leaving my best mammalian friend behind. Then it will be a week north of the Mason-Dixon line, followed by a flight across the sea.
One of the prominent images in The Elephant Vanishes is repetition of non-sequiters. I guess you'd call it modern surrealist fiction, if you were the type of person to call things names. It creates a detached sort of chain of events that pretty well depicts the way I was feeling before my move. A losing of the self in a series of events. Hume wrote that the thing that we perceive as the "self" is really nothing more than a bundle of the various sensory perceptions that we've had. So it stands to reason that the more disjointed the perceptions and the greater the size of the gaps in which we forget things, the more disjointed the Self. And I think that's been my problem. I can feel things happening around me, but I don't feel like they're happening to me. They're just happening. While it does have a sort of Taoist aesthetic to it, I don't feel like there's much to tie the bundle of perceptions together. They're like so many loose sticks of memory scattered across a table.
One of my first activities when I get to the Emerald Isle will be a ten day solo backpacking trip through the Wicklow Mountains. It feels like the right start to the trip -- a way to ground myself to the land and to start finding a thread of Self with which to assemble (and add to) the bundle. Or, at the very least, a way to make greater peace with the discontinuity. Here's hoping I have the fortitude to leave the cat behind and start the trip tomorrow. Or will I just be tossing out a few more sticks, to keep the bundle leaner and easier to manage?
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