"There is in London all that Life Can Afford."

It's been a busy several days here in London.

Last Friday I went to watch Les Miserables with my friend Stacy, who interns with me at Hornsey. It was my first time seeing Les Mis, and it was as intense and beautiful as I'd hoped it would be. That show is a three-hour emotional freight train; it is exhausting to watch because it is so passionate. Jean Valjean is one of the greatest characters I have ever encountered. The show also reinforced my previous belief that Victor Hugo is the French Charles Dickens, and the novel is now on my summer reading list (which is already dangerously ambitious as it includes Ulysses). After the show we walked around Trafalgar Sq and Westminster and talked about how wonderful it was to be in London.

Last Saturday Dad and Sue were scheduled to arrive. My original plans were to go to Westminster Abbey and Shakespeare's Globe during the day and meet them for dinner. But when I woke up I had an e-mail from Dad explaining that he had been bumped from his flight because of over-booking; Sue would arrive on schedule. In his e-mail he sounded quite concerned about Sue landing in London alone and asked me to meet her at the airport at noon. Having landed in Heathrow alone myself, I knew it was an unpleasant experience and was more than happy to go out to Heathrow to meet her.

I think I caught her off guard, because of course originally the plan had not been for me to be at the airport. But she was grateful that I was there and I led her to their hotel in Piccadilly. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and Piccadilly Circus was jammed with people; it was almost impossible to move along the sidewalk. Even I was a bit overwhelmed (I rarely go to Piccadilly anyway and when I do it's never at peak crowd time), and I it was quite jarring for Sue for her first proper sight of London to be a solid mob of tourists. Nonetheless we made it to the (very nice) hotel just fine, and after checking in we set off for a walk.

The ensuing walking tour made me quite proud. I had no idea that I knew London as well as I did. From Piccadilly we went through St. James' Park, where we stopped for a bit to enjoy the sunlight before walking to Buckingham Palace. We then set off towards Sloane Sq (to be entirely fair, I did not at first realize we were going towards Sloane Sq as we left the palace, but it only took me two or three blocks to figure it out). At Sloane Sq we caught the Tube for Westminster, where I led Sue out of the Houses of Parliament exit (my favorite Tube station by far, and probably my favorite place in London). Like everywhere else it was just loaded with tourists--I had not seen London this full of tourists yet, but I suppose the weather is warming up and the off season is slowly melting. We walked over Westminster Bridge to take in the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, then doubled back to pass Westminster Abbey. There was a dinner break in a pub near Westminster (quite a nice pub, too), and then we circled back around to walk up Whitehall St to Trafalgar Sq. I led her past the National Gallery into Leicester Sq, where we stopped for ice cream before winding our way back to Piccadilly via Chinatown. We made plans to meet at Heathrow tomorrow to see Dad off the plane.

After I dropped Sue off at her hotel, it was only about 8:00 and I didn't want to just go home (it was a Saturday night, after all). So I called Stacy, who said she was getting ready to go out and that I could come along, if I was interested. I took the Tube out to Kilburn Park, where she lives. I felt a bit out of place because she and her flatmates were all quite dressed up (ie, dresses) whereas I had not gone home to change and was therefore in jeans. But all I wanted was a pint, really, so I didn't care much. When we finally left, Stacy (and indeed most of the group) didn't actually know where we were going, but it turned out the club her flatmates were headed for was in Piccadilly. Now, I haven't been out a whole lot in London, but I do know that the ONLY people in Piccadilly on a Saturday night are tourists. I could not for the life of me figure out why they wanted to go there. Sure enough, the first club we went to (which was also one of a chain of clubs across London, another thing that irritated/amused me) was so full of people they had suspended the typical free cover. So we went into the next club we came across, which was literally so full of people you couldn't even walk to the bar. We left and went back up to Kilburn to go to the local place they always go to, and I couldn't figure out why we hadn't started there. It was close to their flat, busy but not completely packed, not a bloody tourist destination, and had some independent character. Nonetheless I had an entertaining evening; Stacy's flatmates are a good time.

The next day, Sunday, I went back to Heathrow to meet Dad. It was really great to see him; I missed having people around who know me. I gave Dad a much reduced walking tour than I had given Sue, because I figured during the week he and Sue would revisit together many of the landmarks. But I did take him to the Westminster Tube station and up Whitehall St. We then got some lunch stuff at an M&S Simply Food (Dad was inordinately excited about the grocery store) and took the Tube out to Regent's Park to eat our lunch stuffs and enjoy the sunshine. (The weather has been excellent for quite a while here; it's somewhat eerie, truth be told.) I really enjoyed my afternoon/evening with Dad and Sue and at the end of the day we made plans for dinner and the London Eye Wednesday night.

On Wednesday they met me after my class ended at Gloucester Rd, where I showed them the (admittedly unimpressive) CAPA centre. From there we went over to Westminster to ride the Eye. It was dark by the time we were actually on the Eye, and the city was gorgeous. I probably would not have gone on the Eye had Dad not come, but it was quite an amazing view. A bit creepy, though, considering I am vaguely scared of heights. Afterwards we went to Earl's Court Rd for dinner, where we found an excellent Indian restaurant.

Thursday Dad and Sue came out to Ealing. We had dinner at an Italian place on Haven Green near the Tube station, then made the 20 minute walk over to where I live so they could meet my host family. I was really glad they made the trip out to Ealing to see where I live, and I think that meeting the Martins went well. It was less awkward than it might have been, but then Mrs. Martin is such a talker that I don't imagine there's anyone she's awkward around. Dad and Sue approved of my neighborhood (which is a far cry from the crowded, sort of touristy and busy central London they had mostly been seeing) and of my host family. It's probably a good thing that there wasn't really time or the opportunity for them to see where I work, though--I don't imagine it would have been as assuring as Ealing. I bid them goodbye Thursday night, as their flight back to the US was Friday morning. They said they enjoyed their vacation in London, and I hope that they truly did. I really loved seeing them.

Friday night I stayed in and crashed by 10:00; it was my first night in in probably over a month. Saturday morning I went to St. Paul's Cathedral and was unpleasantly surprised by the pricey admission fee (8 and a half pounds with my ISIC card). I think it was definitely worth the eight pounds--it's tough to put a price on that kind of beauty. St. Paul's is one of the largest non-Gothic churches I've been in, so it was quite a different atmosphere than the rambling, ancient Gothic cathedrals I've grown to love. It was built mostly of marble so was full of light, and the ceilings were elaborately painted and lavishly decorated. It was also huge, on par with Sacre Coeur in Paris. Although you'd think that what with charging an average of ten pounds for admission they'd have raised enough money to put in a lift--the stairs up to the galleries were brutal. Well worth the climb, though. William Blake and Sir Phillip Sidney both have memorials in the crypts, and it was exciting for me to see them. Robert Hooke is also there. I was much more excited about those (relatively) small memorials than I was for the elaborate chambers dedicated to Wellington and Nelson, the great British heroes who rest in St. Paul's.

I left St. Paul's and went over to Shakespeare's Globe (which is just across the Millennium Bridge) to buy a ticket for Romeo and Juliet. On April 24th, my last night in London, I will be watching Romeo and Juliet inside Shakespeare's Globe!!! I then went sort of out of my way to Bank station so I had an excuse to take the most useless of the London Underground lines--the Waterloo & City, which only has 2 stops: Bank and Waterloo. At Waterloo I met up with Alan & Rachel, who had to attend a football match in Brentford for class and had gotten a hold of a spare ticket for me. It was a thirty minute train ride to the match. I had a good time; the match ended up being tied at 1-1 and it was fun to watch. Cold, though, and it was off-and-on raining and sleeting. We went over to Rachel's flat after the match and made lots of excellent stromboli for dinner, which we followed with adult ice cream sundaes (ie, ice cream mixed with Bailey's--it's as addictive as crack but much tastier). I had a really great evening eating their food and hanging out with them, but when I got home around midnight I really crashed.

Today the three of us met up to go to Speakers' Corner in Hyde Park. It is a uniquely London phenomenon, Speakers' Corner. Basically, the city has given all of its crazy its own designated place and time. On Sunday, in that corner of Hyde Park, anyone can get on a step ladder and talk about whatever they feel like. It is the best free entertainment. Honestly, I expected there to be more people speaking today because of the whole G20 ruckus, but there were only a few crazy guys on step ladders. All of them were some flavor of religious nut, except for one particularly crazy guy who spent a lot of time giving dating advice on how to chat up German women. I couldn't tell from a couple of the religious nuts whether they were Christian or Jewish (probably they were not truly either); there was one guy wearing trousers that said "Jesus is Lord" but he was holding the Israeli flag and wearing a Star of David. There was also a man wearing the Union Jack like a cape and a baseball cap with plastic horns; a squirrel shared his step ladder with him and he seriously informed his audience, "If you see a squirrel here, don't worry. I'm just visiting." Watching the various speakers get heckled by probably equally crazy spectators was more than half the fun. I don't know whether I've ever felt more sane--but then, I was getting a kick out of listening to crazies, so perhaps I don't actually win there.

We had planned on going to the Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race on the Thames afterwards, but we got coffee and severely lost track of time. We went to where the race was being held anyway, hoping we might catch some action, but all we saw were large crowds of people in various states of drunkenness along the river. I did get to see a new part of London, though, so it was a productive trip.

And now I am gearing up for another week of work, and looking forward to next weekend, when I will be in Paris.

Cymru

The title of this entry is the Welsh name for Wales, and despite its appearance it is pronounced "cum-ree". That's the Welsh for you, though--I think they designed their language specifically to antagonize English speakers. Can't really blame them, given the whole Edward I business.

Wales and its language are both gorgeous. I really enjoyed my weekend there. We left really early Saturday morning. Well, we were supposed to leave at 7:30AM from Gloucester Rd, which involved me getting up at like 5:30 and sprinting my way to the Tube to get to Gloucester Rd on time. Of course we left a half hour late, meaning I could have ambled peacefully to the Tube, but whatever. Our group consisted of about two and a half dozen CAPA students and then about a dozen students from a different study abroad program. The kids from the other program spent the entire weekend being late to things and generally being pains in the ass for our tour guide and for Anderson, the CAPA staff member who came along.

It was my first (and only) CAPA trip outside of England, and I still can't decide whether choosing to make my visit to Wales with CAPA was a good plan. I must admit I enjoyed not having to plan things, and I am fairly sure I saved money by going with CAPA rather than doing it myself. But at nearly every stop I was frustrated by how very little time we had to actually see things. So it's a toss-up, really.

Our first stop was at Caerleon, a town famous for having the best Roman ruins in Britain. The first site we went to was a Roman fort, which consisted mainly of rows of bricks/piles of brick overgrown with grass. It was kind of cool but not overly impressive; mostly I enjoyed the fact that it was right next to a rugby field where small boys were practicing rugby. But the next site was amazing; it was a Roman amphitheater and was remarkably intact. It was a grassy clearing surrounded by the remnants of the stone stands and gates; the shape of the amphitheater was still quite apparent. The weather was beautiful as well, sunny and warm(ish). The ruins were pleasant and impressive; it still felt like an amphitheater. I had a wonderful time. [Interesting tidbit (for me, at any rate): Arthurian legend traditionally places Camelot in Caerleon.]

We piled back on the coach and headed for Caerphilly to see a castle. We were given about an hour for lunch in the town before we were supposed to meet to actually get into the castle (you had to pay to get in, but we were all on a group ticket so we had to go in together). It didn't occur to me at the time (because I had no idea how rushed we were going to be), but I should have just paid the three pounds to go in right away so I could have explored the castle properly. In any event, Alan & Rachel and I had all brought lunches so we found a pile of rocks near the castle's moat and picnicked in the shadow of Caerphilly Castle.

Caerphilly Castle is the best castle I have seen, bar none. Almost every one of its buildings is at least partially intact, and it is huge. Once inside you are free to wander around the ruins at your leisure (unless you are rushed by your tour guide). Again, the remarkably sunny weather made all the difference in the world. It was astoundingly beautiful. Caerphilly has a leaning tower that leans more than the tower in Pisa does. The castle is on a knoll overlooking the quaint town, and is still surrounded by a moat (although I'm sure today's cheerful blue moat is nothing like the filthy muck it was during the castle's heyday). We were able to climb towers and wander ramparts and inspect medieval siege equipment. The castle was fantastic, which was why only having a half-hour to explore freely (after a brief ten-minute overview done by our guide) was so disappointing.

After leaving Caerphilly, we went to the Museum of Welsh Life. Think Greenfield Village in Dearborn, except Welsh. It was a quaint, pretty place, full of sheep, Welsh people, signs only in Welsh, and old Welsh buildings of various ages and types. The land it was on was full of trees--proper woods, which I truly haven't seen since the States. As a result, the Museum of Welsh Life reminded me of home and my lasting impression of it will not be any sort of historical or cultural insight, but rather that it was lovely to be strolling beneath old trees again. I enjoyed the museum, but honestly I'd have preferred to skip it to spend more time in Caerphilly.

It was then off to Cardiff for the night. We got to our hotel around 5:00. Rachel and I were roommates and both enjoyed the novelty of the beds in our room. It was naturally quite a cheap hotel, so it had a bunk bed. But not a normal bunk bed, a Welsh bunk bed (I have no idea whether it was particularly Welsh, but I had never seen anything like it before). The bottom bunk was a typical double bed, and the top bunk was a twin bed. However, the two beds were not parallel, but rather perpendicular--the top bunk was positioned sort of across the bottom bunk. I took the top because I found it so novel. Shortly after check-in, the three of us went in search of dinner. A Six Nations rugby match (Wales-Italy) had just concluded when we got to Cardiff, so the main street of the smallish capital was overflowing with drunken rugby supporters (the Welsh are infamous for their enthusiasm for rugby). But we managed to find a relatively quiet pub near Cardiff Castle. The next rugby match of the evening (I think it was Scotland-Ireland) was on inside, but there were fewer and calmer people there than in all the other restaurants/pubs/bars/clubs on the street. We reveled in Cardiff's cheapness; our meals were probably half as much as comparable food in London would have been. I tried a half-pint of Brains, the local Welsh beer, and really liked it--it's the best beer I've ever had, not sour at all, and I'm disappointed that it doesn't really exist outside of Wales (I've checked). Also, it was two pounds a pint, which is pretty amazing. Combined with the remarkable novelty of the name, Brains is an all-round winner when it comes to British alcohol. We lingered after dinner talking and watching some rugby, then left to make our way back to the hotel. It was around 8:30, I think. Part of me would have liked to stay out and find another pub and experience the nightlife of Cardiff (which was surprisingly hopping), but I had been awake for so long at that point that I knew I was too tired to actually enjoy going out. Alan and Rachel wanted to go in for the night, and I happily agreed to head in. Once we got back I knew it was a good decision because we decided to play rummy and near the end I am pretty sure I was actually dozing in and out of sleep.

The next morning we all tucked in at the hotel's included breakfast. It was quite a good breakfast, for a cheap hotel breakfast--there were two types of cereal, a variety of teas and coffees, juice, toast and even croissants. I loaded up on everything (I'm not ashamed to admit that I had both tea and espresso at the same meal). Our first stop of the day was at the cleverly named Big Pit Coal mine (the Welsh name, Pwll Mawr, is much prettier but unpronounceable). I've been down a mine before, the iron mine in Iron Mountain, but I was quite small at the time and I don't remember much except the cold and damp. The coal mine tour was quite cool. There were actually places in the mine where even I had to sort of double over to get through; I very rarely have to duck so it was quite a novel experience for me. The tour confirmed my previous notion that mining in the late 19th century was one of the world's most miserable existences. The worst story we heard was about the children who worked in the mine. Apparently, when the miners' children were about 6 years old they would be brought down into the mines to work as "trappers"--they were stationed near doors which needed to be opened and closed at strategic times to control airflow and allow the movement of coal and equipment through the mine. At this point in the tour, our guide had us all switch off our headlamps (we had on mining helmets with lamps). As you can imagine, it was total darkness, solid black. Our guide pointed out that for a 6 yr old child, this darkness (the kids weren't given candles) would be more than enough to send you running for the nearest exit. To prevent this, the children were actually tied to the doors they operated. And worked 12 hour shifts. And I'm sure when they grew up they became proper coal miners.

Our next stop was much sunnier--lunch in Monmouth, a town that I knew of because of Geoffrey of Monmouth, the medieval historian who wrote A History of Britain (by medieval, I don't mean he studied the medieval period, but that he lived and worked in the medieval period). Alan & Rachel and I got ourselves a nice carvery lunch at a local pub, and I had my final pint of Brains. And then (after several people were late back to the coach for ridiculous reasons) we were off to our final stop.

I was greatly annoyed with the people who were late at the end of lunch because their lateness literally ate away our time at the next stop--Tintern Abbey. Tintern Abbey was my reason for going to Wales. We didn't have enough time scheduled there to begin with, so when I lost ten minutes of that time to people who hadn't even heard of the Abbey until we got there I was apoplectic (or my version of apoplexy, which is to sort of sit quietly and imagine what it would be like to be a person with a temper--not very intimidating, I'm afraid).

The Abbey surpassed my expectations. After a rather whirlwind overview given by our tour guide, I had only 25 minutes in the ruin. 25 minutes! It wasn't even enough time to properly read the Wordsworth poem I'd taken the trouble to copy and bring along ("Lines Composed above Tintern Abbey"). If I'd planned the trip myself, the Abbey would have gotten at least three hours, probably four--enough to slowly amble over every inch of the place, enough to find a quiet spot in there to sit and leisurely read my Wordsworth, enough to write a bit in my journal, and enough to lie down on the grass inside of the Abbey and enjoy the sunshine. I may have to go back--I'm looking into whether it's a feasible day trip (and whether I have enough money).

In spite of being rushed, it was a most serene and impressive place. There was so much of it still intact; in the area that had been the chapel, it truly felt like you were standing in a great cathedral--a cathedral with lush grass underfoot, a ceiling that opened to the heavens, and the blue sky filling the windows. It was incredibly peaceful. The ruins are next to a lovely river in a pretty valley; there can't be many more picturesque places in the world. Of course the town itself is now quite touristy, but inside the ruins you still feel somewhat isolated and thoroughly serene. Or at least I did. The site certainly lived up to being the purpose of my trip. It is one of the greatest sights I've seen.

I departed the ruins reluctantly. But I wasn't the last one back; other people were late for stupid reasons (not late because they were enthralled by the ruins, but late because they had to buy a mug that said Wales on it). This time I was irritated because if I had known we'd be waiting for people to purchase mugs I could have had five more minutes wandering the Abbey. Anyway. From there we went back to London, arriving at Gloucester Rd around 6:30. A busy but beautiful and enjoyable weekend, all things told.

This weekend I'm actually in London--and so are Dad and Sue. I'm pretty excited to see them both, although I think it will be odd to see them in London; it's that whole intersection of two different environments. If either of you read this before you leave, please do bring me some Reese's cups. It would really make my weekend ;)

Ireland, the Final Installment

By 9:30 the snow was gone completely and the sun was out; I decided to make a day trip out to the Cliffs of Moher. There are roughly millions of various tour companies offering day excursions to the cliffs; I opted for one that included a walking tour of the Burren, a region near the Cliffs. At 10:00AM I was boarding the bus to go, and the weather was still clear(ish).

The Cliffs of Moher and the Burren are both in County Clare, another of my ancestral homes (part of my family called the Reddens came from there). And it is a beautiful county, probably my favorite of all the ones I visited. It was dotted with ruined castles and churches and cottages. One of its villages, Doolin, is widely considered the best place in the country for traditional Irish music.

The first part of the tour, once we got into County Clare, was the Burren. The Burren is a rather mountainous region rich in limestone. Indeed, from a distance the hills of the Burren just look like towering piles of limestone fragments. The fields of the Burren are demarcated by stone fences, and farms dot the landscape. My walking tour was led by a guy named John who had a degrees in Irish heritage and archeology. The tour began on his family's farm, where he still works. His family has been on that land for literally centuries, apparently, and they actually own two mountains (well, large hills really) of the Burren. He gave us rain boots and raincoats (although the sky was cloudy, it wasn't actually raining, but he thought it was worth the precaution) and we strode across the fields of the farm and then into the hills of the Burren. Along the way, he told us about the history of the region and explained how its geography actually made it good farmland. Up in the Burren it was easy to see why people farmed there--while it looked like solid rock from a distance, in the hills it was evident that there was lots of grass around, apparently perfect for grazing cattle. Nonetheless it was a wildly isolated place, a mood only enhanced by the overcast weather and chilly wind. It reminded me strongly of the Badlands, although it looked nothing like that region. But it had the same atmosphere. From the stony hilltops you could see Galway Bay in the distance, and distant shadows of the mountains of Connemara Nat'l park. It was obvious that John loved the place, and I could understand why. If I ever want a quiet hermitage, the Burren would be the place to go. When we finished our walking tour and we went back to the farm to wait for the bus. In the great tradition of Team Lantern I got a slice of apple pie there (the family sells tea and baked goods literally out of their kitchen) with fresh cream. The pie was quite good but substantially different from American apple pie because it lacked cinnamon.

Once back on the bus we headed for the cliffs. At one point we stopped for a photo opportunity, but the snow was falling so thickly you couldn't really see anything. Luckily, when we finally got to the Cliffs of Moher all precipitation had stopped; it was remarkably windy and cold, but dry. The Cliffs themselves were as awesome as I could have hoped. It would have been more enjoyable without the cutting wind, but it was well worth the sight.

From there the bus tour wound through County Clare, up the coast back to Galway. We stopped for lunch in Doolin and had occasional photo stops where we would get off and walk around for a bit and enjoy the scenery. The western coast of Ireland is wild and dramatic, with farmland and ruined castles and rocky sea cliffs. It's a remarkable region and I was enthralled by it.

That night I met Nora and her cousin Hannah for dinner in Galway. It was good to see a friendly face from Pitt. We never really hung out after our Tolkien class ended, so I was quite grateful that she offered to meet me in Galway--it was a kind gesture that I'd had no reason to expect and appreciated immensely. After dinner we went out to a pub with a couple of her friends to hear some music (although not before we went to her room and I spilled tea all over my sweater--I am that awesome). Her friends were a good time and the band playing was brilliant. It was my first time hearing Irish pipes (a variation on the familiar Scottish bagpipes) and I loved the sound. After several days wandering alone in a foreign country it was nice to find myself at a full table.

The next day, Thursday, I debated going on a day tour to Connemara Nat'l Park. But I decided to sleep in and spend the day in Galway instead. As usual the weather alternated between pleasantly sunny (during which I did some reading and writing in the park) and cold and drizzly. Galway is a pretty university town right on the ocean and I enjoyed it. That night I met Nora again for dinner and promised to meet her for a pint when she comes to London in April; she went home after dinner because she wasn't feeling too well. I resolved to go catch some music by myself, but when 9:30 came around I really didn't feel like going out. I went anyway because it was my last night in the Republic of Ireland, but even once I got there I wasn't feeling it. The band came on quite later than they were supposed to, which irritated me further. Once started the music was great, but I hurried my pint along and left after maybe four or five songs.

Friday morning I bid a farewell to Galway and the Republic as I boarded a bus to Derry, a city just across the border in Northern Ireland. It was a fairly epic bus trip--something like five and a half hours. I'd been dreading it, to be honest, but it ended up being one of the best bus trips of my life. The weather was gray and drizzly (shocking, I know) but the bus was half empty and the landscape was gorgeous. Even beneath slate skies Ireland is astonishingly green. I put Sigur Ros on my iPod, spread out across two seats, and spent the gray morning wandering in and out of sleep and watching the green fields of Ireland roll past me. Not a bad use of five hours.

I wondered whether we'd have to go through a border patrol, but as far as I could tell there wasn't even a sign signalling the border between the Republic and Northern Ireland (and I was looking). I got to Derry around 3:30 and went in search of my hostel. It took me forever to walk to it, and I was thoroughly damp from the drizzle by the time I got there. I nearly walked past the hostel, as it was distinguished only by a banner next to the front door saying "Independent Hostel". It looked a bit dubious, but ended up being a comfortable and friendly place. It was essentially a large house that was now being run as a hostel, with two common rooms and a kitchen on the ground floor, two dorm-style rooms and a bathroom on the first floor, and I imagine further rooms/bathrooms on the second floor. I was shown to a bed on the first floor. When I paid for my room I felt very backpacker-esque:
Me: "How much is it for the night?"
Kylie: "That's twelve pounds."
Me: "Can I pay with credit card?"
Kylie: "It's 3% extra."
[I rifle through my wallet and Kylie senses my hesitation.]
Kylie: "You can pay in euro if you want."
Me: "Can I pay in a mixture of pounds and euro?"
Kylie: "Sure, if you want to be awkward about it." And I did. Certainly one of the perks in staying in an independently run hostel (my reservation had been scribbled in a notebook under just my first name, and when she gave me my three pounds in change it was from a large, disheveled heap of money that she dumped out of her purse).

Derry is quite a cool city for a few reasons. First, it has two names: Londonderry and Derry. It's frequently written as Londonderry/Derry, although on bus timetables and things in the North it's always Londonderry, while in the South it's always Derry. A rather startling reminder of its history of political unrest. My hostel was near the Bogside district, which was the Catholic Reublican holdout during the Troubles. There is a famous series of political murals in the Bogside related to the Troubles, and I went over to see them. They were quite astonishing works. In that area there is a large sign welcoming you to "Free Derry" and the Irish flag is flying; even the pavement and streetlights are painted green, white, and orange. After I wandered that area I went across the city (which is conveniently divided by a river) to see the Protestant murals. There were fewer of them and they didn't directly depict the Troubles like the Catholic ones did. In this part of town, the Union Jack was flying and the pavement was red, white, and blue.

To further complicate Derry, its 17th century city walls are still completely intact. They surround what is today just a small area, central Derry (the bus station, my hostel, the Bogside district, and the train station were all outside of the walls). You have to go through gates (now just arches with roads through them) or over the walls (there are stairwells leading up to the walls periodically) to get into central Derry or go across it. I took a walk on top of the walls to get a look at the city and a sense of its history; there are historical markers all over the walls explaining various significant events. Back in my hostel I befriended some French students and a Canadian backpacker. I shared the 10-bed room with the Canadian and with a large group of Spanish guys who all stumbled in (literally) at 4AM raucously drunk.

Saturday morning I began my excursion to the Giant's Causeway in northern County Antrim. It was a bit complicated to get to using public transportation, but I managed to make it there by a bit after 11. The bus to take me from the Causeway to my next hostel didn't come until 4:30, so I had all day there.

My first step was to get rid of my backpack. This proved tricky. The TI wouldn't let me leave it there (which I understood) but suggested I ask the parking lot attendants, who had a small hut near the entrance to the car park. So I went and asked and they said I couldn't leave it with them because of liability issues, but I was welcome to leave it just outside and behind the hut if I wanted. I decided it was worth the risk and ditched it there, again reassuring myself that it contained nothing valuable or irreplacable. And then I set off through the cold, windy, drizzle for the Causeway itself.

The coast here was every bit as spectacular as the western coast had been. The Causeway is difficult to describe; it's a sort of series of large and regularly shaped stones that juts into the ocean from the rocky coast. There's a long and somewhat complicated legend about it being built by giants. This is a tremendously pathetic description and once I get my pictures online you'll see what I'm talking about.

I climbed all over the Causeway itself, and then started walking further down the coast. There were two trails: the lower cliff trail and the upper cliff trail. First I followed the lower one until it ended; then I looped back around to the upper one. By then it was past noon and I was starving, so I went up to the visitor's centre area for lunch. Since I still had a good amount of time after eating, I went back out to the upper cliff trail and resolved to follow it for a while.

It was windy and cold and the trail was muddy, but those two hours of walking were among the more beautiful hours of my life. Once I had been walking for about twenty minutes there was not another human in sight. Even the cliffs of the coast and the Causeway were hard to see, because mist had rolled in. At one point I ventured out near the edge of a cliff and stood there for a while, singing. I couldn't see anyone else in any direction and above the rushing wind I could discern the roar of the waves; my own voice seemed to get completely lost in the wind and the gray and the mist.

Around 3:30 I got back to the visitor's centre. I was tired, cold, and damp but deeply satisfied, and I got tea and a scone while waiting for the bus. That night my hostel was in a village called Ballintoy. By village I mean there were some houses, two pubs, a church, and a hostel along a mile stretch of road. When I arrived I was shocked the bus even stopped there. The bus stop was literally in front of the hostel, which was convenient. When I tried to check in I had to wait for about an hour before being shown to my room because they had been hosting some sort of Irish language class or something and were clearing out a large group of people. But they gave me tea and I got to sit next to the radiator in the kitchen, so it wasn't too bad. I talked to a couple of French backpackers who were also waiting. And it was a really nice hostel--only 11 pounds for the night, and I had the 6-bed room to myself. There was an en suite bathroom in the room and the bed was really comfortable. I got dinner at one of the pubs in town. I was leaving early tomorrow morning to get to Belfast in time for my flight, so I showered that night and organized all of my belongings. When I went to bed my backpack had been carefully repacked and my shoes were resting right beneath the radiator in hopes they would be dry by morning. I slept incredibly soundly.

And...suddenly I found my time in Ireland was rushing to an end. Sunday was largely spent dashing from bus to train to bus to bus to plane. I didn't actually see Belfast at all; I got a bus there and then immediately boarded the airport shuttle. While in the airport waiting for my flight I bought a book by Bill Bryson called The Lost Continent; it was Bryson chronicling, with characteristic wit, his road trip across America. I'd bought it because I wanted something entertaining and I wanted to see whether any of his experiences matched mine from last summer's epic road trip.

But I'd been reading it for about forty minutes maybe when I abruptly set it down. There was nothing wrong with the book; it was hilarious and fun to read. It had just really hit me that I was sitting in the Belfast airport, and I wasn't waiting for a flight home--I was waiting for a flight to London. After ten busy days by myself in a foreign country the thought of London was exhausting and even frustrating. For about ten minutes I grappled with what was only my second attack of intense homesickness. Still, I suppose twice in two months isn't too bad, and it passed.

So there you are--the mostly full story of my adventures in Ireland. And just in time, because I am leaving early tomorrow morning for Wales. I'll do something about pictures at some point, but I have over 500 from Ireland so I don't know when that will be.

Still Ireland

After the mass finished I went in search of Kilkenny Castle. Much to my disappointment the entire road in front of the castle was being ripped up for extensive construction. The castle was open, but there was no possible view of it that did not include construction equipment and chain-link fences. One could only get into the castle by doing the guided tour, and I decided not to fork over the euros. Mainly because my Lonely Planet guide (seriously the best investment ever; I felt like it was my own personal Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy [which you should read if you haven't, because it's bloody hilarious]) informed me that although the castle itself is 12-14th century, it has been modified and is now furnished with Victorian style things. I could tell just by walking into the reception area that it didn't quite have that legit castle atmosphere I sought. Instead I went into the basement of the castle, which housed a free contemporary Irish art gallery. My opinion of the gallery was more or less the same as it is of all the modern/contemporary art galleries I've seen: some of it I really enjoyed, some of it I found ugly but appreciated the artist's skill, and some of it just irritated me (like the men's bathroom sign with graffiti on it that was entitled "Found Graffiti").

After walking around the castle's park a bit, I got lunch. Then I finished up the afternoon by visiting the National Craft Gallery. One part of it was a large shop full of handmade Irish-y things. It was great fun to shop there, but as I was not ridiculously wealthy I did not buy anything. The current exhibit in the gallery was of jewelry made by students who were studying metallurgy/whatever it is aspiring jewelers study. It was quite cool. I followed it up by wandering about the gardens of the old manor house that now houses the administration of the National Craft Gallery.

I had a nice evening in Kilkenny. I got dinner at a pub, then took a nap during the in-between hours. The "in-between hours" is the name I have given to the time in between when you get dinner and when music starts in the pubs; it is usually about two hours. I also spent some time in the common room in my hostel. It was considerably warmer than the rest of the hostel because it had a fireplace. While there I made friends with a Japanese boy called Shin who was studying library information sciences and enjoyed drawing. Around 9:30 I went to a small pub across from the hostel that had advertised live music.

It was a really great night out. It was definitely a local pub, unlike many of Dublin's pubs. It was a Monday night, so there were probably only about 25 people there--5 of whom were playing music. And they didn't have microphones or speakers or anything; it was just a group of older guys sitting around a table in the corner, playing and singing. Occasionally one of their friends would come and stand next to the table and sing a song while they played. It was abundantly clear that they would have been doing the same thing even if the pub had been empty. The music was great, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I tried a different stout, Murphy's, that was not as good as Guinness. I also tried Bulmer's, an Irish hard cider, and it was tasty.

The next morning I got up ridiculously early (6:30) to catch a bus out of Kilkenny. My plan was to go to the small towns of Cahir and Cashel in County Tipperary for the day and catch a bus for Galway in the evening. Getting to Cahir involved changing buses at the town of Clonmel, and my 45 min at Clonmel were the most miserable of my whole trip. The bus station was combined with the rail station, and there was a waiting room, but it was completely exposed to the elements. Since the weather was cold and drizzly (noticed a pattern yet?) it made for a thoroughly unpleasant wait, and there was nowhere within walking distance to get a hot drink.

Cahir was quite a cool stop, though. It had a large ruined castle that oozed atmosphere, and the overcast weather seemed to suit it perfectly. It was only a euro to get in, and I was literally the only visitor there. I had the castle to myself. Once inside the grounds, I had more or less complete freedom to amble around. I was even free to climb up the castle walls and walk around on the ramparts. There were a couple of exhibits inside the castle proper, and some rooms had bare furnishings, but mostly it had been left alone. It was fun exploring. I must admit I even got a bit spooked at times, wandering up and down the tightly spiraling, dimly lit stone staircases alone. The castle itself is situated in the middle of the river that runs through town, and I bet it's beautiful in the springtime. It was well worth the stop and the euro.

From Cahir I went to Cashel to see the Rock of Cashel, a sort of sprawling medieval complex on a large hill. My backpack had been an irritating burden at Cahir Castle so I asked the reception at the Rock if I could leave it anywhere. "Well, you can put it under that staircase there, if you like," said the guy, indicating a wooden staircase in the corner. I was a bit dubious but reasoned that everything important was in my messenger bag anyway; if anyone stole the backpack they would be disappointed and I could easily replace everything. I ditched it. Unfortunately, almost as soon as I stepped outside of the reception area to the ruins proper, rain began coming down in sheets and the wind picked up. My umbrella was nearly worthless; my bag was getting soaked, my shoes and jeans were soaked, and it was cold. It really was a gorgeous place, and I had intended to spend a couple of hours there. I imagine I could have happily done so, but the Irish weather defeated me. I walked around the site quickly, taking what pictures I could. There was a ruined cathedral, a mostly intact chapel, and a nice round tower. There's also a sprawling graveyard on the site, dominated by Celtic crosses. The surrounding countryside was beautiful. The weather was just not even remotely conducive to ambling about medieval ruins. So I retrieved my backpack and walked back into town as quickly as I could, getting soaked on the way. To get to Galway, I had to go back to Cahir then transfer. As I said, I'd planned on spending the whole afternoon in Cashel (there were other heritage sites I thought I'd see apart from the Rock, and it looked like a cute town), but now my whole bus schedule planning was off--I just wanted to be in a room. Luckily a bus for Cahir came by as soon as I got to the bus stop--but once in Cahir I had to wait quite a bit for the next bus to Galway.

I got lunch while I waited and then wandered back to the bus shelter. The shelter did nothing about the wind and not much about the rain either. There was still a half hour to go before the bus came, so I hurried across the street into a pub to warm up. It was only the afternoon, so apart from me and the publican there was only one other person there, an ancient little Irishman with a newspaper splayed out in front of him. I took a seat at the counter and ordered a Bailey's coffee. "Where'd you come from and where are you going?" the publican asked me cheerfully as he set about getting my drink. And we chatted for the next twenty minutes or so, about Ireland and London and the US. He once spent a month in Columbus, OH (he fondly recalled the drinking scene there) and he had been to New York (he confessed he hadn't done much there because he spent most of it drunk). He told me he thought President Obama was a good lad, but that he supposed it would be nice to have a pint with George Bush. I told him how much I enjoyed Ireland and London. When it was time for me to go to my bus, he told me that my drink was on him. I suppose he took pity on my bedraggled state; he wished me luck as I left.

The ride to Galway was a long one and involved changing buses at Limerick. On the bus I watched the weather out of the window and the rain changed to sunshine, which promptly gave way to sleet, which became thick snow, which became hail, which became sunshine, which became driving rain...the awfulness of the weather was absurd. I spend most of my life in places with absolutely terrible weather (Michigan and Pittsburgh, and London's weather is pretty awful too) and I was sort of morbidly fascinated by just how horrible this weather was. But when I got off the bus in Galway it was back to the familiar cold drizzle. My hostel was within a few minutes' walk of the station, right off of Eyre Sq, the city's central park area. After checking into my 8 person room (I was the only one in it), I went out for groceries. That night I stayed in and enjoyed a dinner of soup, bread, cheese, and bread with blackcurrant jam for dessert. It was a satisfying escape from the weather and when I went to bed, I finally felt warm and dry.

Nora, a friend of mine from Pitt (we took a Tolkien & Lewis class together), is studying in Galway this semester. She had invited me to call her when I got to town, so I sent her a text the night I got in telling her I was there and asking whether she'd be free the next night for a pint. She responded by inviting me to come along on a day tour of Connemara National Park with her and her cousin the following morning, which I agreed to. So I got up the next morning, feeling well-rested, and noted happily that the sun was out and the sky appeared clear. I got into the shower, and when I got out I had a text from Nora saying that they weren't going to go because of the weather. Confused, I pulled back my shades again. It was snowing wildly. I agreed to meet up with Nora later in the day, and then went to take advantage of the hostel's free breakfast while coming up with a game plan for the day.

Ireland, part II of a several part series

I am now less tired, though I do not have less homework.

As I walked back to my hostel from the pub, I passed a drunk guy with a guitar doing what I thought must be the worst interpretation ever of Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here." Unfortunately I was wrong--not three blocks later there was a drunker guy with a guitar doing the worst interpretation ever of Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here."

The next morning I went to the bus station to catch a 10:00AM bus to Carlow. I bid a fond farewell to Dublin and was looking forward to going into the countryside after a stressful week in London and two busy days in Dublin. Carlow had won a spot on my itinerary because a portion of my family, the Kinsellas, emigrated from there to the US. Well, I only knew that they were from the county, and I decided that the county's capital was as good a place to stop for a night as any.

It was a nice town, and my only non-hostel night on the trip. Carlow is too small to have a hostel, but they had a plethora of B&Bs. Mine was the Celtic B&B. It took forever to find, not because it was far from the city centre (it was only a ten-minute walk) but because I first went the wrong way out of the city centre looking for it. But I eventually made it there OK and was quite pleased with it. It was only €35 for my en suite room and breakfast, and the room had a nice double bed with a TV, a kettle w/tea, and cheerful lace curtains. If one had to spend more money than a hostel, this was a good way to do it.

I spent the afternoon ambling about the town. It had some wonderful castle ruins, a nice collection of old churches, a gorgeous riverwalk, and a peaceful, well-tended city park. Carlow would be a nice place to call home. I spent a good deal of time resting on the riverbank in the park, thinking about what this area had looked like a century and a half ago. It was odd to think about this being one of my ancestral homes, but it was also comforting. The gentle landscape put me at peace, a peace I had not felt recently in the buzz of my travels and city life. Early evening some drizzling rain set in, and I didn't realize it, but I would not see the sun again until England (you know the weather is terrible when you have to go to England for sunlight). I went into a pub to dodge the rain and to have dinner, and my bowl of Irish stew and potatoes was as hot and hearty a meal as anyone could have hoped for. It was perhaps marginally cheaper than a comparable meal in Dublin would have been, which is to say it was only annoyingly expensive rather than painfully expensive.

Driven inside by the setting sun, the rain, and a day's walking (and by the fact that it was a Sunday night in a small town, so there wasn't much in the way of nightlife), I decided to try out Irish TV. Much to my delight there was a Gaelic language channel, and they were of course showing a hurling match. Hurling, for those of you don't know, is a sport a bit like lacrosse. Or maybe not at all like lacrosse, I don't know. The players all carry sticks with a sort of flat paddle area on the end. The ball looks about the size of a baseball, and is either carried on the end of the stick or thrown ahead to the next player. Points are scored by flinging the ball either over a goalpost (think football field goal posts) or under the post, with 1 pt when it goes over the corssbar and 3 points when it goes under. I am sure that watching hurling broadcast in Gaelic has made me a more culturally aware human being. When I had gotten my fill, I turned to my Seamus Heaney Beowulf translation for futher entertainment. It was a pleasant, quiet evening and truly felt like vacation.

In the morning I experienced the breakfast portion of the B&B, and the traditional Irish fry-up is certainly an experience. It consisted of orange juice, tea, lots of soda bread, three pieces of white toast, butter & jam, a fried egg, two sausages, two rashers of bacon, two sort of hashbrown-esque entities, and a fried tomato. There was, at that breakfast table, enough food to feed a small third-world country. Or one hungry American student. It was probably my caloric intake for the next several decades. I finished as much as I could, and it was all tasty. I don't really like sausage much at home, but sausage in the UK and Ireland is way better than any I've ever had in the States.

I left the B&B and the charming town of Carlow behind me and boarded a train to Kilkenny. The Irish rail system was pretty good. It's law that all signs in Ireland have to be in Gaelic, which means that all of them have to be in both Gaelic and English since Gaelic is not widely spoken. I was a bit concerned for a moment on the train when all the announcements were in Gaelic--I waited for the English version, and none came. Several minutes later they did repeat all of the information in English, for which I was grateful. I can't remember now why I first put Kilkenny on my itinerary, but from the very beginning of my planning it had always been on the list. And I was glad it did.

It was sort of drizzling when I got off the train, and I set off for my hostel. Kilkenny reminded of Bayeux more than anything, because it is still very much a medieval town, with narrow winding streets and old buildings. The hostel was more charming than the hostel in Dublin had been, though less modern. There was a very nice kitchen (which I didn't use) and a nice common room with a fireplace. I was in a six-person room with a few Spanish girls who were in and out all day and night. The room was a bit cramped, but I didn't spend time there except to sleep, so I didn't care too much. I claimed a bunk with my backpack and then set off for sightseeing.

My first stop was the towering 13th century cathedral that was on a hill above town. It was everything one would expect from an ancient cathedral, and almost completely empty to boot. Its front lawn was dotted with gravestones so ancient all writing was completely gone; now they just looked like strange stony growths covered in moss. It would be a great place for a B horror movie. Inside it was beautiful and calm, though sombre. I enjoyed it much more than I had enjoyed Christchurch Cathedral, and I donated a euro and lit a candle.

I left the cathedral and followed signs to the Black Abbey. This was a 12th century Dominican Abbey. It looked awesome from the outside, but a sign near the door informed me it was closed to visitors. It was, however, open for mass daily at 1:15PM. It was 1:05. I dithered a bit, since I was in muddy jeans and a bit bedraggled from the drizzle and not Catholic, but once a few other people went in wearing jeans I followed. How often does one get to hear a mass in a 12th century Irish abbey? The inside was stunning and the mass had all of the sober beauty Catholic masses always have. I've always been enthralled by Catholic mass, and although this one had none of the grave music I love so much, it was a great experience nonetheless.

to be continued when I don't have to leave for class

Ireland, Part One

Let me begin by reassuring my family members who are following this that I have neither died nor run off to live in a cottage in rural Ireland (though I was sorely tempted). I am well and safely in London after a rather whirlwind 10 days of Irish wandering.

Before I actually begin chronicling my holiday, I'm going to vent my complaint about Ireland, just to get it over with. Ireland is astonishingly expensive. I'd heard that Ireland was expensive, but I thought, "Well, I've been living in London, and London is expensive. It'll be fine." Ireland is more expensive than London. I didn't think that was possible. Anyway.

The week before I left was not a particularly good week for me. I really didn't have enough time to completely recharge from France. It was midterms, which meant that I had a couple of papers due, which meant that I was staying up until the early hours of the morning doing homework...then leaving home in the early hours of the morning to go to work and deal with unruly teenage girls all day. I was also worrying about my grandfather (who is now at home recovering nicely, I've been assured). My flight to Dublin was on the night of Thursday the 26th, and honestly by the end of work on Thursday I was wishing I'd gotten a Friday morning flight. I was too worn out to be excited, and anxious about making it from work to home (to pick up my bag and change) to the airport on time. I'd only just booked my return flight late on Wednesday. Those four days between France and Ireland were the worst I've had this semester.

Nonetheless, once I was safely in Luton Airport (after an hour's ride home, a 35 min ride to Kings Cross, a 25 min train, and a 5 min shuttle) I began to relax enough to feel excited. I checked my backpack (my faithful black Jansport, serving me well since 2002) and had my messenger bag as a carry-on. I'd dithered quite a bit over luggage while packing and finally settled on this arrangement, because it would allow me to leave the bulk of my stuff in my room while keeping my irreplaceable items (passport, wallet, Oyster card, house key, journal, iPod, etc) with me on my excursions. And that messenger bag was essentially glued to my shoulder the whole ten days.

I flew to Dublin on Ryanair, the UK's cheap airline. And by cheap I mean my flight to Dublin was 5 pounds. On the flight I actually dozed off, so I suppose I was still too tired to be either truly excited or anxious. I've also decided that one of my more irritating qualities is that I can fall asleep on a 50 minute flight but can't for the life of me even doze on a red-eye trans-Atlantic flight.

I landed in Dublin around 9:30, and by 10:30 I was completely in love with Ireland. The immigration officer was friendly--I have never encountered even a polite immigration officer, let alone one that smiled and cheerfully wished you a good holiday. I got some euros at the airport, then caught a city bus to get to the city center. Luckily, the bus driver was as friendly as the immigration officer. I knew the name of the stop for my hostel, but of course had no idea where it actually was. Rather hesitantly I asked the bus driver, and he instantly offered to announce the stop for me. And so he did, and the stop was right across the street from Avalon House, my hostel for the weekend. By the time I checked in and got settled in my room it was after 11, and I was far too exhausted to even think about going out. I was far too exhausted to even begin to comprehend that I was in Ireland. That night I was the only one in the room (a four person room) and I fell right asleep.

Avalon House was a nice hostel--it was quite big and felt much like a college residence hall, which worked fine for me. There was a free breakfast of cereal, toast, orange juice, tea and coffee, a big and well-stocked kitchen, free wireless, and a comfortable lounge. My first morning I had a lot of trouble with my key (they ended up having to change the lock on the door) and the staff were quite helpful and nice about it. I noticed an advertisement at reception for a free walking tour of the city, and I decided that would be an excellent use of my first morning in Dublin.

Conor, the tour guide, was awesome. He came to the hostel at 10:40, and I was the only one there for the tour. He walked with me over to City Hall, where there was a large crowd and a few other tour guides. Conor and his fellow tour guides worked for an organization that provided free walking tours of many major European cities, on the philosophy that everyone should be able to get the most of their travels, regardless of budget. It's a sweet deal for student travelers, and for the tour guides--they work on a tips-only basis, and most of them probably make decent money for a morning's tour.

So the tour officially departed from City Hall, with a group of about twenty people. There followed three entertaining hours of walking around central Dublin and trying to absorb at least some of the city's vast and complicated history. I fell in love with Dublin completely. It's a gorgeous city, big enough to be exciting and busy, but small enough to feel welcoming and accessible. Less overwhelming than London or Paris or New York. And, of course, its literary history and significance is a big selling point for me, too. Particularly because Dublin really honors and celebrates its literary tradition--there are memorials all over the city not only honoring the writers, but events that happened in their works (you can't escape the shadow of Ulysses anywhere in the city, and I am a bit disappointed in myself for not making a point of reading it before going).

After the tour, I meandered my way back to my hostel, grabbing a sandwich for lunch as I walked. I decided to put off all of my sight-seeing until tomorrow, because everything I wanted to see closed at 5, and by the time I actually got to anywhere today it would be almost four. So rather than try to rush anywhere, I just took my time and enjoying being in Dublin. The weather was actually decent, if a bit chilly. Food there is ridiculously expensive, so I stopped and got some groceries so I could cook dinner in the hostel both nights.

Friday night I went on a literary pub crawl, and it was a spectacularly good time. At the end of it I clearly remember thinking that I couldn't recall the last time I'd enjoyed an evening so much. It was led by two actors who gave various short performances throughout the night, from works by Beckett, Joyce, Wilde, Behan, and Heaney (and I think a few others). The performances were interspersed with entertaining historical anecdotes concerning the pubs we went to and the writers' lives. The actors were thoroughly talented and knowledgeable, and quite friendly. I very nearly won the quiz at the end, but lost by a question to an Irishman from Kilkenny. I ordered my first Guinness with no small amount of trepidation; I expected it to be on par with the British ale I'd tried, and figured I'd just choke down a pint to say I'd had Guinness in Dublin. But much to my surprise it was quite good, and I enjoyed not only my first pint, but all the subsequent pints I had on my travels in Ireland.

Saturday I woke up early-ish to begin my full day of sightseeing. First I went in search of Oscar Wilde's house and the statue of him, and was pleased with the memorial. It was a statue of him sprawled out on a rock, smirking wryly. I went to the National Library, which had an excellent exhibit on Yeats. While there I went to the Family History Centre, but although I had names and counties my information wasn't specific enough to come up with anything else (you need to know the parishes, apparently, in order to really track anyone down). My next stop was the National Museum, which seemed to be roughly the same genre as the British Museum, but smaller and Irish. They had a really great collection of Celtic artifacts, and some disturbingly gross mummified bodies that had been recovered from bogs. In the interest of accuracy I should say they had partial bodies recovered from bogs. There were also excellent exhibits of Viking and medieval artifacts. I left the museum and went to Trinity College to see the Book of Kells.

The Book of Kells is among the most famous early medieval manuscripts, because of its wonderful condition (it was lost for some centuries in a bog, which preserved it nicely) and its spectacular illumination. It is a manuscript of the four Gospels. I was irritated by the admission price to see it--8 euros--but not irritated enough to pass on seeing it. There was a nice exhibit leading up to the Book, and the Book itself was just as fascinating as I could have hoped for, but I still felt like Trinity was robbing people. As an added and unexpected bonus, the ticket also got you into the Long Room of the Trinity College library. It had an exhibition on detective fiction, which I could not have cared less about. But what I cared very much about was that this room provided the inspiration for the look of the Jedi Library in Star Wars Episode III (I maintain that Revenge of the Sith is a fantastic movie, and will be happy to debate anyone on this point). I enjoyed pretending like I was wandering the Jedi Archives (no shame).

I stopped by City Hall and Christchurch Cathedral on my way to the Dublin Writers' Museum. City Hall was an impressive and beautiful building, but I must admit that Christchurch Cathedral didn't do much for me. It was pretty, but not nearly as stunning as Westminster Abbey or even the college chapels in Oxford and Cambridge. It had crypts you could go into, which were kind of cool--mostly only because they were really old, though, and I enjoyed feeling the weight of time. The Writers' Museum was a far more rewarding stop for me.

It was a bit of a hike to the museum from where I was in Dublin, maybe a 25 minute walk, but it was up O'Connell St, Dublin's main thoroughfare. It is a beautiful street, lined with stately memorials to various Irish heroes (there's a lovely statue of Joyce off to one side of the street), with a gorgeous bridge over the river Liffey. I walked up and down that street several times throughout my couple of days in Dublin and never tired of it.

The Writers' Museum was an excellent little museum. It was not as extensive as I hoped, but the audiotour was really great and it covered all the big names in good detail. The memorabilia was good, with notebooks, manuscripts, first editions, letters, etc. What I liked most about it was the way it chronicled the history of Irish literature--it started with oral Irish folklore and traced the development of Irish literature through the 20th century.

By this time it was nearly five, and I was tired. I made my way back to my hostel, detouring to find the bus station along the way and buy my ticket for Sunday. After cooking dinner, I rested for a bit before going out for another pub tour--this time, I did a musical one. I felt a bit touristy, doing two pub tours, but I figured it was a good, safe way for me to get a taste of the pub scene and better than just aimlessly wandering into random pubs.

I was quite glad I did go for the musical pub crawl. There were only seven in the tour group, which the two musicians who led the tour chalked up to the big rugby match (Ireland-England); apparently there are normally upwards of 50 people. Aside from myself, there were four girls from New Zealand (all of whom were currently living in Ireland) and a couple from Greece. At each stop the musicians played a few traditional songs, described how the instruments are used in Irish music, and a bit about the music's history. They were clearly quite passionate about music, and they were very down to earth--very genuine. They also provided tips for distinguishing authentic trad sessions from touristy gimmicks. At one point, they asked everyone in the group to share a song. A couple of the New Zealand girls sang a traditional Maori song, and I spent a couple minutes trying to avoid singing anything. But after some persistent cajoling from one of the musicians, and hearing them talk about how music should be shared (indeed, they opened every song they played with a story about where they got it from), I surprised myself by giving in. I don't know much in the way of American folk music, so I sang a short Simon and Garfunkel song I know pretty well, which I figured was close enough to American folk. I apologized for having a terrible singing voice, and one of them explained that it has nothing to do with whether you can actually sing and everything to do with interacting with the people around you. They finished with a couple of reels, and as I walked back to my hostel it occurred to me that there are probably very few things more enjoyable than listening to traditional Irish music played live by passionate musicians to a small group in a pub in Dublin.

This will be continued at a later date, when I am less tired and have less homework.