Random pictures

Sheep!  I found myself taking so many pictures of sheep.  They were everywhere we went. 
Here they are on the road next to our rented cottage.

 



Newborn lamb nursing.  On one of our hikes up the hill, we got to watch a teenage sheep farmer lure a mama sheep into his a truck by holding her bleating newborn lamb in front of her as he slowly led her to the road.  She followed the sounds of her baby until both were safe on the truck bed.  We asked him how old the lamb was, and he said about 20 minutes.
 It was an unusually cold spring, and the lad's father told us they risked losing lots of lambs born up in the mountains if they did not get them inside quickly after birth.

The only head shot of me from the trip. 
I just have to say that this is not a glam shot. 

 

Jim at the beach near Keel.  The sound of the waves on shore made me homesick for California.

One evening I bought fish from a local seafood market.  The woman who served me said her husband and father were both professional fisherman, and this was a same-day catch.  She recommended the Turbot and the Brill, species I had never heard of here in the States.  She said don't do anything fancy to prepare the fillets, just fry in butter.  Oh my, it was delicious!

Having grown up in the San Francisco Bay Area, I have always considered myself to be a judge of good seafood; I miss it dearly living in the Midwest.  And this was the best! 

Jim, Aaron and Ben with a random donkey

 

Stuffed suitcase!
Let it be known that I am not bringing sweaters back for everyone and their dog next time I travel internationally.  I've done it when I've been to Ecuador, Scotland, Peru and now Ireland.  DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH ROOM SWEATERS TAKE UP IN THE SUITCASE?  WELL, DO YOU?  A lot.  Irish wool sweaters are beautiful, but way overpriced at the tourist stores.  One sweater costs about $75.  Just get one at TJ Maxx next time.  We ended up buy like 6 sweaters for family (some had given us money ahead of time, we're not so much spendthrifts).  I think we paid the store owner's rent for the month.  I'll buy you all scarves or jewelry next time.

 

 

Cigarettes sold at the London, Heathrow Airport. 
I wish tobacco products in the U.S. would come with such prominent warnings.

 

Pictogram at the London, Heathrow Airport. 
As we walked by, Jim said, "Hey, that man has airplanes coming out of his head," 
Ben simply said, "Antler Man."

 

Coal Mine Museum and a Flat Tire

On the second day of our stay in Ireland, Saturday, the pouring rain put a damper on our plans for some hiking.  We decided to visit an old coal mine that was a 2-hour drive away, since Ben was studying geology at college and expressed an interest.  It was my turn to drive.  I gripped the steering wheel tensely as I tried to stay in the center of my lane on the narrow, winding Irish roads.  All three of my passengers complained about my driving-- they said I hugged the shoulder too tightly.  I was doing the best I could, but not adjusting well to driving on the left side of the road.  Funny, I had done it years ago in Scotland without much difficulty, but I suspect my eyesight wasn't that keen in 2013.  I finally got eyeglasses a month ago in March 2014 and can see roads and signs a lot better now.  No wonder the Irish rental car companies charge Americans such outrageous insurance costs.

And then there were the confounded Roundabouts!  In Ireland there are very few normal left turns at intersections.  Instead there are these circular roads with spoke roads coming out.  You drive around in this circle until you see the road you want and then you take a risk and follow the spoke.  Roundabouts are actually more efficient than timed traffic lights common in the US, and certainly genius compared to Michigan Lefts.  Even so, I was quite white-knuckled driving around them, always worried that I'd take the wrong spoke or that I'd turn into the wrong lane to see traffic barreling down at me.  It's easy for an American to become flustered with roundabouts.


Well, we got into the town of Boyle, and with all the traffic and roundabouts and I hit a curb rather hard, which pissed me off because I did not want fulfill the stereotype of the "woman driver" with my male heckling passengers.  I just knew what they were really thinking.  My passengers scolded me for hugging the edge of the road too tightly of course, but I continued on driving and eventually got us to the Arigna Mining Experience. 

After lunch at the coffee shop we took the tour, guided by a retired miner --  a real subject matter expert.  The mine began operations in the 1700's and finally closed its doors in 1990.  I regret we probably came across as ignorant, arrogant Americans.  The truth was, Jim, Ben and I hardly understood a word our guide said.  Prior to coming there, we had believed we were somewhat proficient at deciphering Irish dialects, but the Roscommon Coal Miner accent was too unfamiliar.  I suspect it would be a similar experience if an Irishman learned New York City speech and then was transported to a Mississippi Bayou. 

14 year-old Aaron however, understood it all.  You see, prior to going to Ireland I had advised him to watch some Irish videos on YouTube so that he could become familiar with the accent.  He took my advice to heart and apparently had become proficient at Irish speech.  I should have done the same, and spent some time on Irish Youtube instead of watching reruns of Deep Space Nine on Netflix.  Chief O'Brien's speech did me no good at Arigna.

Despite the language barrier, we learned one thing for sure:  You drill 18 meters in one direction and then 18 meters in the other.  Our guide repeated that phrase several times, very slowly, as if that was the key to understanding the entire mining operation.  We nodded politely every time he said it.  Despite the Tower of Babel experience, we had a lot of fun on the tour (we love rocks and caves in the Bakaitis family!)

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When we arrive back to the car we notice that the front drivers-side tire is low.  Thanks to me hitting the curb back there in Boyle.  We head back to the town and put air in the tire.  However, by the time we get there, the tire is flat.  Really, really flat.  We try filling it with air, but it won't hold.  Rain is pouring down and the temperature is dropping as dusk approaches. 

We find no spare tire in the trunk. Instead, there is this tire repair kit thing that blows air and latex into the tire. "Here," Jim says, handing me a compactly folded piece of paper, "would you please read the instructions and tell me how this thing works?"

After getting our tire inflated and treated with latex, we find out that the only tire vendor in town closes at 5pm on Saturday.  It is now 5:30. The only thing to do is to try to make it back to our cottage on Achill Isle.  We bow our heads as a family and offer a prayer that the tire will carry us home.  At first the prayer seems to go unheard, as the air doesn't stay long.  We call Enterprise Car Rental, who advises us to drive to Knock airport where, they say, we can exchange our rental car.  We arrive at Knock airport only to find that all of the car rental booths are closed.

It is now very dark and wet, our tire is flat again, and there are no hotels in sight.  We are in the middle of nowhere.  I am contemplating how it's going to be to spend a cold night in a car in the rural Irish Countryside, and what we are going to do the next morning.  I am not seeing the fun in this.

I am almost in tears by now.  I feel terrible.  "I am sorry," I say, "This is my fault.  I was a bad driver." (It takes a lot for me to admit I am a bad driver.  Ever!)

"Mom," says Ben, "None of us cares that we have a flat tire.  We're on vacation.  This is just another adventure.  It's just all the Tourist Experience... Don't worry. ..." 

"Yeah Mom," Aaron chimes in.  "It's OK.  We love you, Mom."  With that kind of optimism, my kids must be Irish.

We stop at a gas station, and Jim gets an inspiration to buy three cheap latex tire spray things.  He fills the tire up with more air and latex and we head off again towards our cottage.  He somehow knows the tire is sturdy enough to make it home.  We stop a few more times during our journey home to repeat the procedure.  Driving 40 mph (64 kph) or less the whole way, we arrive back to our cottage around 11pm.

Our prayer was answered, not by having the tire fixed, but by enlightening Jim's mind to know what to do.

The Deserted Village at Slievemore and the Old Keel Cemetery

For some reason I had it in my mind that this place was called the "abandoned village," but "deserted village" sounds so much more mysterious and lyrical.  In recent history, the stone cottages at Slievemore were used as summer homes so families could take their cattle up the mountain to graze.  (The proper term is ""Booleying".)  A few old-timers on the island can even remember when they were used for such.  However archeological evidence suggests that some of the structures up on the mountain have been there from at least the Medieval times. 

It was a very soothing to walk around the dismembered stone homes.  There is beauty as well as intelligence in piled up rocks.  There really is!

Window

Our family likes to pick up rocks.  Through the years we've amassed quite a collection of geodes, petrified wood, small fossils such as trilobites, Native American arrowheads and stone tools.  It seems like we bring rocks home from any family outing.  So it was quite a delight to us to find an entire village make of rocks!  The photo ops were endless! 



Ben, Aaron and Jim in decapitated stone residence.
Ben is ready to pose for a magazine cover

The boys' patience soon ran thin with my requests for pictures...

 

So I resorted to photographing sheep.  At least they didn't run away.

 

Well, some of them did run away...



 So, I finally put down my cell phone camera and just enjoyed the serenity of the place.

 

 

And my husband's habit of bringing souvenir rocks home... Well, I don't want to tattle over the Internet or get the customs folks suspicious.  Let's just say that my mother-in-law's home now displays an interesting keepsake from the Island.

 

 

 

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The Old Keel cemetery was full of familiar surnames we recognized from Jim's family tree - Corrigan, Kilbane, Mylott, Burke, and of course - CALVEY, his maternal grandmother's surname. 

 

 

 

There is a certain reverence one feels when walking through cemeteries.  There is a connection between the dead and living. 

 

Many of the tombstones in the Old Keel cemetery are disintegrated so badly that you can't decipher the names.   I think the tombstones of Jim's ancestors probably are among some of those.  The names and dates are all cataloged on the Internet though.  It is these old, unreadable stones that fascinated me most of all.  Not quite forgotten memorials.  As in the Deserted Village at Slievemore, stones remind us of the past.

 

 

 

We gained a gem of information about his great-great-great grandmother's surname.  John Richard Calvey (b.1844) was the guy that immigrated to Cleveland from Achill Isle in the 1860's.  Oral family tradition was that his mother's name was Maude McMannon.  However, Jim and I could find no evidence that any McMannons ever lived in the area: no McMannons in the cemetery, and none in the vital records.  But... we did find was the surname McManamon in abundance!  I took the liberty of changing Maude's surname to McManamon on Jim's digital family tree at www.familysearch.net.  I hope that grandma Maude is smiling there on the other side, satisfied that we finally got her name right! 

 

When doing Family History work, sometimes you just have to be there, walk the roads your ancestors walked in order for things to finally make sense.

What? No Shamrock shakes?

In the United States on St. Patrick's day, one can find green Guinness beer at the bar, green soda pop at the grocery store, a green river in Chicago, and of course green shakes at McDonald's.  Something about green liquids must make some of us feel like we're Irish. The citizens of Ireland however, need no such validation.



No shamrock shakes in Ireland

Instead of Shamrock Shakes during the month of March, we saw that McDonalds sells Easter McFlurries.  We never actually bought one because every time we drove by a McDonald's there was a long line at the drive-thru.  Some things are the same in both countries.

McDonald's in the States wouldn't dare use a Christian holiday like Easter for marketing; they might offend some of their agnostic or other non-Christian patrons.  But Ireland is very much a Christian nation, with about 85% of the nation identifying with Roman Catholicism. So they can use the word "Easter" without fear of driving away customers.



Easter McFlurry!


The blatant Christianity of Ireland is refreshing, and very much reflected in the personalities of the people.  They are very welcoming, helpful and friendly, and seem to practice the golden rule.