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.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Ireland, the Final Installment
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, March 9, 2009
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
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
Sunday, March 8, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, February 23, 2009
France (cont)
The Mount is full of little courtyards and gardens, and I spent quite a bit of time exploring them all. I also took time to walk around the mudflats around the Mount. I don't use this language very often, and I am not entirely sure what exactly I mean by it, but I felt truly blessed during my visit to Mt St Michel. Standing in the shadow of Mt St Michel, humility is unavoidable--and so is gratitude. Gratitude for the people who designed and created this wonder, and gratitude for the remarkable fortune that brought me here to witness it. In my twenty years I have seen and done quite a lot; I've had such incredible opportunities. So I marveled at my own existence while ambling around the wonders of Mt St Michel.
I left the Mount around 7:00PM to head back to Bayeux for the night (not before having my fill of Normandy's famous buckwheat crepes and fresh brewed cider, though). My train got to Bayeux around 9:30, and during my walk from the train station to the hostel I was truly anxious for the first time all weekend. As I said, I never really got the layout of Bayeux down, so I knew which direction I was going but not exactly how to get there. I'll readily admit that walking by myself then made me a bit nervous, but I didn't encounter a single person between the station and the hostel, so it was unfounded. Once back to my room I showered, briefly scribbled in my journal, and directly fell asleep.The next morning, Saturday, I again woke up really early to catch a train--this time for Caen. I bid good-bye to my first hostel and got onto my train. Once in Caen, I was going to visit the Caen Memorial Museum, which is supposed to be among the best WWII (and specifically D-Day) museums, and I was doing a tour of the D-Day beaches from there. The tour was at 1:00, so I planned to spend the morning in the museum, take the 4 hour long(ish) tour, and then catch a bus to the town of Ouistreham (where my Sunday morning ferry back to the UK was leaving from).
As usual, I'd planned on walking from the Caen train station to the Caen Memorial. It had seemed reasonable on Google Maps. But it was not reasonable. I walked, following signs for the Memorial, for about 40 minutes before I ran into a highway. Deciding it would probably not be prudent to wander alongside a French highway, I backtracked into town and inspected the public transportation options. Via a combination of tram and bus, I made it to the Memorial in about 20 minutes with little difficulty. Should have done that in the first place, but I did make it there eventually.
[I should add here that they drive on the right in France, like in the US. However, I spent the entire weekend looking the wrong way while crossing the street because I expected the cars to be driving on the left. It came as a shock to me that I had become acclimated to UK culture that thoroughly; I kept thinking, "They're driving on the wrong side of the road!" When they were in fact driving on the "right" side.]
I got to the museum around 10:30 or so. I had enough time to see both the excellent WWII exhibit and the Cold War exhibit, but in truth I could easily have spent a couple more hours there. It was definitely a great museum. They really made an effort to portray the personal effects of the war; nearly every section had at least a few letters from soldiers on display, with representation from every Allied country. I now feel thoroughly enlightened about the French occupation and resistance. The Cold War exhibit was quite good as well, although it was odd to see it from a non-American perspective (one of the informational placards on a display case mentioned "American Hedonism," and I instantly got defensive...against the placard, which did no good). The Cold War part had one display where they showed an American propaganda film about nuclear safety (you know, your typical 1950s idealized white middle class family talking about what a great job the government was doing keeping them safe). I felt vaguely embarrassed. This is not to say the exhibit was one-sided, as it also showcased Soviet propaganda, but I was more fascinated by the presentation of the American stuff.
When 1:00 came around, I was the only one there for the English tour slot, so I essentially got a private tour of the beaches, which was pretty cool. Visiting the D-Day beaches has been a goal of mine for years, so I was thrilled to finally do it.
The first stop was at a beach called Point d'Hoc. Here, 225 US Army Rangers scaled a 100-ft cliff, into German fire, on the morning of June 6th, 1944. They managed to secure the position and control the area for two days before their reinforcements finally arrived. When the reinforcements showed up, only 90 Rangers were left alive. Where we were standing, on top of the bluffs, there were remnants of about half a dozen German gun emplacements, as well as a German bunker and the exploded wreckage of an artillery storage structure. But the massive and numerous bomb craters are the most
stunning feature of the landscape. The ground is all uneven and hilly and studded still with barbed wire, slabs of concrete, and twisted iron. I'd never heard this story about the US Rangers at Point d'Hoc, and was duly impressed and proud of it.Next we went to Omaha Beach. Ironically, it is a calm and peaceful beach, with a wide, flat stretch of sand between the road and the water. On the other side of the road from the beach are the bluffs that the Germans held as Allied forces landed. From the base of those bluffs to the water its 300 m, and I imagine each meter felt like a mile to the American soldiers who fought their way across it that morning. After explaining the mechanics and geography of the landing there to
me, my guide gave me some time to walk around the beach by myself, which I appreciated.I'd gotten lucky with the weather--the bright sun was warm, the blue sky was studded with fluffy white clouds, and the breeze was gentle. All of this made it utterly impossible for me to picture this beach as it was on D-Day. I couldn't get my head around the volume of American blood that soaked this sand that morning. Standing at the water's edge, looking towards the bluffs, I don't understand how anyone could have crossed that distance while navigating not only vicious gunfire but also navigating the various obstacles and mines that littered
the beach. In the first wave of the landing, 90% of the soldiers were killed. It's unfathomable. I picked up a handful of sand and wondered whether this was pilgrimage; it felt like a sacred place to me.We left Omaha Beach and went to the American cemetery. You enter the cemetery through the memorial Wall of the Missing, which has the names of all the US soldiers who were MIA during the Battle of Normandy. Just past that memorial is the cemetery itself, and the first thing I noticed wasn't the rows of white marble crosses but the two flagpoles that were flying the American flag. America owns that land; it was purchased for one symbolic franc from
the French government. It was good to see the US flag flying; it didn't really hit me until then that I'd missed the sight.It's a beautifully well-tended cemetery. My tour guide led me past a few specific markers that had interesting stories behind them; Teddy Roosevelt Jr is buried there, and he was awarded the Medal of Honor for his conduct on D-Day. I didn't even know he fought in WWII. Again I was given some time to myself there. I took some pictures, though I had mixed feelings about taking pictures in a veterans' cemetery. But I think I was sufficiently
respectful. It's a very peaceful place, that cemetery, for which I was thankful. Very green and quiet, with the sea visible in the background.
After the cemetery we went to visit a remarkably well-preserved German gun emplacement and observation post near the Gold Beach (where the British troops landed). It was actually in the middle of farm fields, which was jarring. My guide explained that there were bomb craters here too but they have been filled in and leveled out so that the land can be worked. It was odd to look at the huge concrete-reinforced gun with 
gorgeous beaches and quiet farmland in the background.The last stop was near the village of Arromanches, where the remnants of the artificial harbor built by the British forces are still visible. The harbor was quite a technological achievement, and a crucial objective of the D-Day landings, but I had never heard of it before. Its construction involved towing giant, hollow concrete blocks across the Channel, then sinking the blocks by opening valves that filled them with water. The Allies would never have been able to take Normandy without the use of that harbor.
By the time we got back to the museum, it was 5:30. I thanked my guide for the excellent tour and began making my way back to the city center. I knew what bus stop I needed to go to get the bus to Ouistreham, but on my first attempt I failed to get there. I thought that the bus that left the museum stopped there, but did not realize while reading the map that it only stopped there in one direction--and not in the direction I was travelling. So I had to go to the end of the line, then ride it back about halfway. I'm sure the driver thought I was an idiot.
Nonetheless I made it there in time to get the bus to Ouistreham. I was surprised by how cheap and comfortable that bus was--Ouistreham's about 20 km from Caen, and the bus was less than 2 euros. You can't go a mile for under 2 pounds in London. the only downside was that, although technically I knew where I was going (the stop was Ouistreham port), I had no idea what to look for (and it was already dark) and the stops weren't announced at all; furthermore, you had to request a stop in order to get off. I had to guess, and I was quite proud of myself for guessing right.
From the bus stop I made my way to the hotel I'd booked for the night; Ouistreham didn't have any hostels. Since my ferry was at 8:00AM on a Sunday, it wouldn't have been possible for me to stay in Caen for the night--no buses that early on a Sunday, and I thought a taxi would have been both expensive and difficult to get. So I sprung for a hotel room--a cheap one, but still much more than a hostel would have been. I was pleased to see that it was quite literally next door to the ferry terminal, though, so the convenience/peace of mind was worth the extra money. My room was small but clean and cozy, and the en suite bathroom seemed like an extravagant luxury after two nights in a hostel. I had not had dinner, but I decided I was far more tired than hungry. I simply didn't have the energy to walk into Ouistreham and try to find a restaurant. Exhausted, I feel asleep directly after showering.
I checked out shortly after seven the next morning and checked in for the ferry. I treated myself to French espresso one last time there in the ferry terminal. The ferry over was OK; I was a bit bored because I finished the novel I'd brought with me by 10:00 (Lady Chatterly's Lover by DH Lawrence; I don't particularly recommend it, though it had its moments). I did some homework and wandered around the ship to kill time. I got a cup of tea and felt quite British, because it wasn't very good tea and that bothered me as much as the bad coffee in London bothers me. The worst part of the ferry, though, was right after we docked. The foot passengers had to wait to disembark after the garage had been emptied, so I was just standing around with my backpack for about a half-hour. The not moving and not knowing why I wasn't moving made me quite anxious and frustrated, and I wished briefly that there was someone with me to assuage my anxiety. I finally got into the ferry terminal at about 1:30--plenty of time before my 2:05 coach back to London, which thankfully was leaving right from the terminal.
It felt odd arriving in London--I was going "home" to a foreign country that just happened to be less foreign than the one I'd left. Weird to be comforted by the familiarity of the Underground signs and British accents. Of course, once I got into the Underground to go home I found out that the line which would take me directly from Victoria to Ealing was suspended due to a signal failure, so my commute was longer and more involved than it should have been. But at least I knew right where I was, and there is something to be said for that.
Thursday I leave for Ireland! My itinerary includes Dublin, Carlow, Kilkenny, Cashel, Galway, Sligo, and Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland. I'm flying from Belfast to London on Sunday March 8.
On a more sober note, my grandfather has been diagnosed with lung cancer and will be going in for surgery this Thursday. So far the outlook is quite optimistic, as they have caught it early, it's localized, and he does not have symptoms; the doctors are confident that surgery alone should take care of it and they expect him to recover relatively easily. Nonetheless I'm worried and wish I was able to be there with my grandparents this weekend. Please keep him in your thoughts and/or prayers.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
La Belle France
I just got back from my holiday in the Normandy region of France, and it was pretty awesome.
Last Wednesday (the 18th [Elizabeth's 21st!]), CAPA hosted a cream tea. So of course my European Gov't and Politics professor decided we should end class an hour and a half early so we could go. It was good fun, and there were tasty pastries along with solid tea. One of my classmates told me this was her first time drinking tea in Britain; I was stunned, since I have now got up to an average of about three cups a day. Anyway.
I left directly from the cream tea for Victoria Coach station (coach is what the Brits call long-distance buses). My coach left for Poole, on the southern coast of England, at 6:00PM. It was nearly a three-hour trip, and I got to Poole shortly before 9:00PM. My initial plan had been to walk from the bus stop to the ferry terminal--I had Google mapped it, and it was a bit over a mile. From the directions I had, I had guessed at a half hour's walk. My ferry didn't leave until 11:00, so I had plenty of time, even if I got a bit lost.
But...it was well after dark, and I was in a strange city. And it looked like a fairly sketchy city. I sort of replayed in my head all of the various discussions I'd had with my friends from Pitt about travelling alone--I'd spent a lot of time insisting that I was cautious and intelligent about things. I could almost hear Christina lecturing me about walking alone at night; she would tell me I was being stupid if she were here. So I got a taxi instead, and decided that the 4 pounds was worth the safety. Of course, it meant I had an hour and a half to kill inside the decidedly dull ferry terminal, but there are worse things.
As far as methods of travel go, the ferry wasn't bad at all. If it weren't so slow, it would be preferable to flying. I actually managed to sleep most of the way, and I can never sleep on airplanes. The ferry was also the beginning of listening to French; everything was naturally said in both English and French. I could pick out a few words of the French, not many. We arrived in Cherbourg at just a little past 7:00AM local time, Thursday morning. Well-rested would be a stretch, but I'd gotten enough sleep to function.
The sun wasn't up yet as I made my way from the ferry terminal to the train station. The way was well-marked, but it was about a 40 minute walk. I'd expected this, having looked it up beforehand, but my backpack was quite heavy by the time the train station was in sight. I'd bought my ticket in advance and tried to print it from the automated ticket machines, but they did not like my debit card for some reason. So I gathered my courage and my old broken French and approached the ticket counter. It went quite smoothly, although my accent was terrible; the woman behind the counter and I could communicate OK. She printed my ticket for Bayeux and my set of tickets to Pontorson as well. My train to Bayeux didn't leave for another hour, so I went into Cherbourg to explore--i.e., to find an ATM and some food.
Not much was open in Cherbourg, but I did find an ATM. I also found, by literally following my nose, an open patissiere where I obtained an excellent pastry. Breakfast of champions. While wandering I found a fruit stall also and bought an orange to supplement my sugary carbohydrates (and yes, I know that fruit is also just sugar, but it made me feel a bit better than just eating a pastry).
The train from Cherbourg to Bayeux was great. It was more comfortable than the British trains, and the countryside was gorgeous. It was an overcast, foggy morning, but the rolling fields of Normandy were beautiful covered in fog. Being out of the city was fantastic. I got to Bayeux around 11:00AM, and had a ten minute walk to the town centre from the train station.
Bayeux is a little dot of a town amidst the countryside. It's been around for centuries, and its medieval history is quite evident just by looking at it. All of the streets are very narrow and winding. There's a stunning old cathedral and several half-timbered houses. In addition to its medieval history, Bayeux has a lot of WWII history as well--it was a town of some significance during the Battle of Normandy, and it's quite close to the beaches. In fact Bayeux smells like the sea.
When I got there it was too early to check into my hostel, so I went to go look at the famous Bayeux Tapestry. This tapestry is nearly 1000 years old. It is a 70 m (about 230 ft or 76 yards) strip of cloth with wool embroidery, and it tells the story--in detail--of William the Conqueror's
victory at the 1066 Battle of Hastings. Its condition is quite remarkable; it's been impressively well-preserved. I appreciated its significance, and its great condition, but I didn't find it all that thrilling. Still, one can't go to Bayeux and not visit the Tapestry.
By this point my backpack was definitely uncomfortable, and I set out for the hostel. Although there were several signs directing me to the hostel, I still had a hard time finding it. Truthfully I found Bayeux quite hard to navigate. Normally my sense of direction is decent, but I never quite got Bayeux figured out. Anyway, I did eventually find it. I greeted the man at the desk in French, and he responded with, "English?"
"American."
"I'm British, so let's go on to English then." And we carried on in English. On the one hand it is probably good that he spoke English, because I definitely would not have caught all of the information he gave me if he gave it in French. But it was a bit disappointing, on my trip out of England, to run into a Brit first thing (not that I don't adore the British!). The hostel was quite cool--it was housed in a 15th century building, and my room was located up a winding stone staircase and behind a heavy wooden door. It was a double room (a room with two twin beds), but there was no one else there. I was right next to the showers. I thought it was cozy, and I felt secure leaving my backpack there as I went out to explore the rest of Bayeux unburdened.
I wanted to go into the cathedral, but it was closed to visitors for rennovations, so I contented myself with taking lots of pictures of the exterior. I had an uneventful but pleasant afternoon. Bayeux is a gorgeous town and I really enjoyed walking around, taking pictures, and enjoying its peaceful atmosphere. After eating lunch I got the best espresso I'd had since leaving the States. Whatever the British may say about the French, the French have at least mastered coffee, something the Brits have yet to do.
Around sunset I went back to the hostel and inquired about dinner. From what I could see in the town there wasn't much open late, certainly not much I could afford. But the hostel served dinner for 10 euros, so I asked for a spot. Still a bit expensive, but better than any prices in town, and I was too exhausted to think about cooking for myself (there was a kitchen the guests could use). I was quite glad I chose to have dinner there; the food was amazing and there was more of it than anyone could reasonably eat (there were something like four or five courses served). Also, it was served in a big common dining room--there were probably about thirty people there, most of them rambunctious French teenagers. They were quite friendly to me. During the course of dinner, one of the staff members came up to me and asked me my room number and told me he had put another girl in my room. It took me several minutes to process this, because he said it all in French and the dining room was incredibly loud. But I got the gist eventually. When I went back up to my room, I was sort of accosted by a couple of French girls, who began speaking to me in rapid French. I responded rather haltingly, and they immediately switched to English, anxious to tell me all about how they thought this hostel was like a horror movie because the building was so old. I wondered whether one of them was my new roommate, but it wasn't so. When I got into my room, the new girl was in there and introduced herself in French--her name was Richelle. I reciprocated in French, and she said immediately, "English?"
"American."
"Great, I'm Canadian." Apparently my accent was really, really bad--not surprising, considering it hadn't been much good even when I was actively studying the language three years ago. Richelle was quite friendly; she was from Vancouver, in her third year at uni, and was spending the year studying in Lyon. She was just in Normandy for the weekend. She was a lit and French major.
I was in bed by 10:00, mostly because I was exhausted, but also because I had an early train Friday morning. Friday morning I went to Pontorson, to go to Mt St Michel. This involved an
hour and a half train ride followed by a twenty-minute bus ride from the train station out to Mt St Michel. But the travel went smoothly. En route I befriended a middle aged Australian woman, who wanted my opinion on President Obama, among other things.
Mt St Michel is difficult to describe for several reasons. First, it is kind of geographically/structurally difficult to explain.
Second, it is just too gorgeous for words. So I refer you to my pictures. I spent all day there. Visiting the abbey itself was astounding; I mean, I have now seen my share of neat old
churches, but this was literally fantastic. Nothing inside there was built on a human scale; everything is huge, dramatic, awe-inspiring. 
[Sidenote: As the abbey and the Mt as a whole humbled me, I was reminded of Ayn Rand's Fountainhead--the scene where Roark gets lambasted for building a temple to the human spirit, on a human scale.]
to be continued...
Last Wednesday (the 18th [Elizabeth's 21st!]), CAPA hosted a cream tea. So of course my European Gov't and Politics professor decided we should end class an hour and a half early so we could go. It was good fun, and there were tasty pastries along with solid tea. One of my classmates told me this was her first time drinking tea in Britain; I was stunned, since I have now got up to an average of about three cups a day. Anyway.
I left directly from the cream tea for Victoria Coach station (coach is what the Brits call long-distance buses). My coach left for Poole, on the southern coast of England, at 6:00PM. It was nearly a three-hour trip, and I got to Poole shortly before 9:00PM. My initial plan had been to walk from the bus stop to the ferry terminal--I had Google mapped it, and it was a bit over a mile. From the directions I had, I had guessed at a half hour's walk. My ferry didn't leave until 11:00, so I had plenty of time, even if I got a bit lost.
But...it was well after dark, and I was in a strange city. And it looked like a fairly sketchy city. I sort of replayed in my head all of the various discussions I'd had with my friends from Pitt about travelling alone--I'd spent a lot of time insisting that I was cautious and intelligent about things. I could almost hear Christina lecturing me about walking alone at night; she would tell me I was being stupid if she were here. So I got a taxi instead, and decided that the 4 pounds was worth the safety. Of course, it meant I had an hour and a half to kill inside the decidedly dull ferry terminal, but there are worse things.
As far as methods of travel go, the ferry wasn't bad at all. If it weren't so slow, it would be preferable to flying. I actually managed to sleep most of the way, and I can never sleep on airplanes. The ferry was also the beginning of listening to French; everything was naturally said in both English and French. I could pick out a few words of the French, not many. We arrived in Cherbourg at just a little past 7:00AM local time, Thursday morning. Well-rested would be a stretch, but I'd gotten enough sleep to function.
The sun wasn't up yet as I made my way from the ferry terminal to the train station. The way was well-marked, but it was about a 40 minute walk. I'd expected this, having looked it up beforehand, but my backpack was quite heavy by the time the train station was in sight. I'd bought my ticket in advance and tried to print it from the automated ticket machines, but they did not like my debit card for some reason. So I gathered my courage and my old broken French and approached the ticket counter. It went quite smoothly, although my accent was terrible; the woman behind the counter and I could communicate OK. She printed my ticket for Bayeux and my set of tickets to Pontorson as well. My train to Bayeux didn't leave for another hour, so I went into Cherbourg to explore--i.e., to find an ATM and some food.
Not much was open in Cherbourg, but I did find an ATM. I also found, by literally following my nose, an open patissiere where I obtained an excellent pastry. Breakfast of champions. While wandering I found a fruit stall also and bought an orange to supplement my sugary carbohydrates (and yes, I know that fruit is also just sugar, but it made me feel a bit better than just eating a pastry).
The train from Cherbourg to Bayeux was great. It was more comfortable than the British trains, and the countryside was gorgeous. It was an overcast, foggy morning, but the rolling fields of Normandy were beautiful covered in fog. Being out of the city was fantastic. I got to Bayeux around 11:00AM, and had a ten minute walk to the town centre from the train station.
Bayeux is a little dot of a town amidst the countryside. It's been around for centuries, and its medieval history is quite evident just by looking at it. All of the streets are very narrow and winding. There's a stunning old cathedral and several half-timbered houses. In addition to its medieval history, Bayeux has a lot of WWII history as well--it was a town of some significance during the Battle of Normandy, and it's quite close to the beaches. In fact Bayeux smells like the sea.
When I got there it was too early to check into my hostel, so I went to go look at the famous Bayeux Tapestry. This tapestry is nearly 1000 years old. It is a 70 m (about 230 ft or 76 yards) strip of cloth with wool embroidery, and it tells the story--in detail--of William the Conqueror's
victory at the 1066 Battle of Hastings. Its condition is quite remarkable; it's been impressively well-preserved. I appreciated its significance, and its great condition, but I didn't find it all that thrilling. Still, one can't go to Bayeux and not visit the Tapestry.By this point my backpack was definitely uncomfortable, and I set out for the hostel. Although there were several signs directing me to the hostel, I still had a hard time finding it. Truthfully I found Bayeux quite hard to navigate. Normally my sense of direction is decent, but I never quite got Bayeux figured out. Anyway, I did eventually find it. I greeted the man at the desk in French, and he responded with, "English?"
"American."
"I'm British, so let's go on to English then." And we carried on in English. On the one hand it is probably good that he spoke English, because I definitely would not have caught all of the information he gave me if he gave it in French. But it was a bit disappointing, on my trip out of England, to run into a Brit first thing (not that I don't adore the British!). The hostel was quite cool--it was housed in a 15th century building, and my room was located up a winding stone staircase and behind a heavy wooden door. It was a double room (a room with two twin beds), but there was no one else there. I was right next to the showers. I thought it was cozy, and I felt secure leaving my backpack there as I went out to explore the rest of Bayeux unburdened.
I wanted to go into the cathedral, but it was closed to visitors for rennovations, so I contented myself with taking lots of pictures of the exterior. I had an uneventful but pleasant afternoon. Bayeux is a gorgeous town and I really enjoyed walking around, taking pictures, and enjoying its peaceful atmosphere. After eating lunch I got the best espresso I'd had since leaving the States. Whatever the British may say about the French, the French have at least mastered coffee, something the Brits have yet to do.Around sunset I went back to the hostel and inquired about dinner. From what I could see in the town there wasn't much open late, certainly not much I could afford. But the hostel served dinner for 10 euros, so I asked for a spot. Still a bit expensive, but better than any prices in town, and I was too exhausted to think about cooking for myself (there was a kitchen the guests could use). I was quite glad I chose to have dinner there; the food was amazing and there was more of it than anyone could reasonably eat (there were something like four or five courses served). Also, it was served in a big common dining room--there were probably about thirty people there, most of them rambunctious French teenagers. They were quite friendly to me. During the course of dinner, one of the staff members came up to me and asked me my room number and told me he had put another girl in my room. It took me several minutes to process this, because he said it all in French and the dining room was incredibly loud. But I got the gist eventually. When I went back up to my room, I was sort of accosted by a couple of French girls, who began speaking to me in rapid French. I responded rather haltingly, and they immediately switched to English, anxious to tell me all about how they thought this hostel was like a horror movie because the building was so old. I wondered whether one of them was my new roommate, but it wasn't so. When I got into my room, the new girl was in there and introduced herself in French--her name was Richelle. I reciprocated in French, and she said immediately, "English?"
"American."
"Great, I'm Canadian." Apparently my accent was really, really bad--not surprising, considering it hadn't been much good even when I was actively studying the language three years ago. Richelle was quite friendly; she was from Vancouver, in her third year at uni, and was spending the year studying in Lyon. She was just in Normandy for the weekend. She was a lit and French major.
I was in bed by 10:00, mostly because I was exhausted, but also because I had an early train Friday morning. Friday morning I went to Pontorson, to go to Mt St Michel. This involved an
hour and a half train ride followed by a twenty-minute bus ride from the train station out to Mt St Michel. But the travel went smoothly. En route I befriended a middle aged Australian woman, who wanted my opinion on President Obama, among other things.Mt St Michel is difficult to describe for several reasons. First, it is kind of geographically/structurally difficult to explain.
Second, it is just too gorgeous for words. So I refer you to my pictures. I spent all day there. Visiting the abbey itself was astounding; I mean, I have now seen my share of neat old
churches, but this was literally fantastic. Nothing inside there was built on a human scale; everything is huge, dramatic, awe-inspiring. 
[Sidenote: As the abbey and the Mt as a whole humbled me, I was reminded of Ayn Rand's Fountainhead--the scene where Roark gets lambasted for building a temple to the human spirit, on a human scale.]to be continued...
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Cambridge, among Other Things
Last week at Hornsey was a nice-change: low-key interspersed with moments of success. Mostly. I spent much of the week doing classroom observations of about 15 Yr 8 (so, 12-13 yr olds) girls who had been referred to Behavioural Support for our group work sessions. We began group work with these girls on Friday--Davinia (a Behavioural Support staff member) and I are running them together. Next week is Hornsey's half-term break, and when the girls come back the following week we'll begin meeting about twice a week. The workshops are designed to help the girls understand how to recognize and control their behavior; they have been recommended to us because they have some behavioral difficulties but are not so far gone that they need to be put on Behavioural Support's intensive monitoring system. We're hoping to rein them in before that happens; this is an intervention of sorts. The briefing session went well; they were mostly cooperative and many contributed.
And Jade, one of my most frequent charges, completed her English coursework and was successfully entered for her English GCSEs! Her last assignment was an essay on Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and she willingly sat down to write it while I supervised. Her final essay was almost entirely original (she, along with many of Behavioural Support's students, has a bad habit of plagiarizing. I don't think they beat it to death here the way they do at home, and I have to fight them out of this tendency). It included brief moments of very basic analysis, but even very basic one-sentence analyses are better than plagiarized summary. And she came up with those analyses herself. The following day she even sat down to proofread the essay, with my help, and made the changes without protesting. As a bonus to my ego, Jade told Davinia during a one-to-one check-in session that she enjoyed working with me.
Friday after work I originally intended to get a half-price ticket to Les Mis, but I decided against it because I was exhausted and didn't really think I had time. Nonetheless I did not want to go right home, so I went to wander about Westminster instead because the sun was breaking through the clouds and I knew it'd be gorgeous. And it was.
After taking some pictures, I went over to Westminster Abbey. I still have not been in to see Poet's Corner, and the Abbey was already closed for visitors when I got there late Friday afternoon. However, I was just in time for the choral Evensong service, which is free. I went in. Evensong is a traditional Anglican (Church of England; Episcopalian in the States) service. It's
rather short and usually sung rather than spoken. It consists of a recital of the Lord's Prayer, some spoken prayer by the officiant, a couple of Psalms sung by the choir, two short readings by the officiant, some sung prayer, and closing prayer by the officiant.
It was my first foray into the Abbey. Although Poet's Corner wasn't accessible from where I was, there are dozens of tombs and memorials lining the wall of the Abbey along the way from the door to where the service is--most notably Sir Isaac Newton's. The Abbey itself is beautiful, a solemn and stately sort of beautiful. It truly is, in the most literal and true sense of the word, awesome.
And I won't even bother to attempt to describe how magnificent it was to listen to the male choir's pure singing in that ancient sacred space. Their clear voices were the only music in the
service. Those of you who know me well know that I like Gregorian chant; this was like live Gregorian chant but cooler because they sang in a lovely old form of English--it was Modern English, but with the occasional Middle English word or syntax slipping in (so...an early 16th century version of the psalms, perhaps? sometime thereabouts). I had goosebumps throughout much of the music. It was one of the more remarkable hours of my life.
Saturday I woke up early for a day trip to Cambridge. The train left Kings Cross at 9:15 and I was in Cambridge by 10:05. The train station was a bit more than a mile outside of the town centre, but it was a lovely morning and the twenty-five minute walk was enjoyable. The sun was out, the wind was gentle, and it was warmer than it had been in a while. If Oxford was a literary pilgrimage for me, Cambridge was a scientific one.
As I approached the town centre, I wandered into an open
college purely at random; I just noticed that its gates were open and went into the courtyard. It turned out to be Christ College, where Darwin had studied. There was a plaque of Darwin, showing his familiar old likeness. There was also a very cool, life-size bronze sculpture of a young Darwin on a park bench with a stack of books. I was pretty excited.
Once in the busy town centre, my first stop was at the TI office to get a spot on a walking tour--I haven't yet done a walking tour that wasn't worthwhile. Cambridge, like Oxford, is very dense at its center, with streets barely wide enough for cars and always flooded by pedestrians and cyclists.
Part II of my two-part series on famous academic pubs: the Eagle in Cambridge where Watson and Crick first announced that they had worked out DNA's double helix. They have a plaque on the facade of the pub, and it is literally footsteps away from the old Cavendish lab where they worked. I passed the pub on my way to Trinity College. Once at Trinity, I beelined for the famous Wren Library, where I knew that they were cool manuscripts on display.
The Wren Library (named for the famed Christopher Wren, who designed it) is now one of my favorite places. The atmosphere reminded me more of an old cathedral than a college library. There were large high-set windows, and it was a rather small room by library standards. There was one sort of large aisle flanked by bookshelves and desk areas. Each of the bookshelves was topped with a stately marble bust of everyone from
Socrates to Dryden. Every book on the shelves seemed to be bound in ancient cracking leather. There was a large sculpture of Lord Byron at the end of the library. Along the aisle were large display cases covered in heavy red cloth, which you pull back to view the works on display. The displays did not disappoint; most impressive was the display on Sir Isaac Newton, who had both studied and taught at Trinity. There was a 1st edition of his Principia, with his own hand-written corrections. There were also some letters of his, where his diagrams and calculations were clearly visible. Apart from the Newton stuff, there was a Wittgenstein notebook, a couple of pages of the Winnie the Pooh manuscript (A.A. and Christopher Robin Milne were both Trinity students), a Byron manuscript, a 1st edition Shakespeare, and a nice collection of early illuminated Bibles. Noticeably missing were the John Milton manuscripts that I had heard were on display here; they had been removed (for some very important purpose, I'm sure). The picture here is of Trinity's courtyard; the library had a strict no photo policy.
I reluctantly left the library, but the bright sunlight outside was nice consolation. I went out the back of Trinity College, to the banks of the river Cam. This area was known as "the Backs"--one can stroll along the river and admire the backs of all the college buildings, and they're just as gorgeous as the fronts. Along the river I felt like spring was rushing in; there were small patches of little blooming flowers, and the sun's beams were brilliantly reflecting off of the water. The ground was damp and muddy, but not the dreary sort of winter mud--I was reminded of the Cummings poem where he describes Spring as "mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful." It was a lovely walk; I meandered about the riverbank
until it was time to go back to the TI for my walking tour.
The tour was quite good. A good portion of it was spent in King's College Chapel, Cambridge's most famous building, and for good reason. I've posted a couple of pictures, but they definitely don't do the place justice. It's the textbook example of Perpendicular Gothic architecture, and the fan-vaulted ceiling is the most perfect example anywhere in Britain (the only country where fan-vaulting can be found). The chapel's stained glass is purported to be the finest in England. One of the most striking features of the chapel is the very darkly stained oak organ screen, which stretches across the chapel to separate the antechapel. The gold organ pipes are gorgeous against the oak. As if all of this weren't enough, the Ruebens painting "Adoration of the Magi" adorns the altar. While we were there, the whole place was full of sunlight as well. Truly stunning.
The tour went over a few other colleges, too (there are 31 Cambridge colleges total). All were pretty, but none more impressive than King's or Trinity. We went to Trinity College chapel, which I had not been able to go into on my own earlier. The choir was practicing while we were there, and I have pretty much run out of adjectives for beautiful.
Afterwards, I went to get a late lunch/early dinner before my 5:45 train back to London. I tried to go to the Eagle, but I was in the awkward time slot of post-lunch and pre-dinner, so they weren't serving dinner. I went to the pub next door instead, which was quite good--even if the structure of DNA wasn't announced there. I returned briefly to the river for another look at the Backs before leaving town for the train station.
I think Oxford was cooler, but I also have a stronger attachment to Oxford. Cambridge was certainly prettier and less touristy. The colleges seemed a bit more receptive to visitors. It was also more condensed than Oxford--it was easier to get around to everything on foot than it was in Oxford.
Next weekend, I'm going to visit Normandy. I'm leaving the UK on Wednesday night and taking a ferry across the Channel. Looking at my calendar makes me feel like my semester here is nearly over. When I get back from France, I have just four days before I leave for my ten days in Ireland. Once back from Ireland, I'll have a little over a month before flying back to the States. Surreal.
And Jade, one of my most frequent charges, completed her English coursework and was successfully entered for her English GCSEs! Her last assignment was an essay on Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and she willingly sat down to write it while I supervised. Her final essay was almost entirely original (she, along with many of Behavioural Support's students, has a bad habit of plagiarizing. I don't think they beat it to death here the way they do at home, and I have to fight them out of this tendency). It included brief moments of very basic analysis, but even very basic one-sentence analyses are better than plagiarized summary. And she came up with those analyses herself. The following day she even sat down to proofread the essay, with my help, and made the changes without protesting. As a bonus to my ego, Jade told Davinia during a one-to-one check-in session that she enjoyed working with me.
Friday after work I originally intended to get a half-price ticket to Les Mis, but I decided against it because I was exhausted and didn't really think I had time. Nonetheless I did not want to go right home, so I went to wander about Westminster instead because the sun was breaking through the clouds and I knew it'd be gorgeous. And it was.After taking some pictures, I went over to Westminster Abbey. I still have not been in to see Poet's Corner, and the Abbey was already closed for visitors when I got there late Friday afternoon. However, I was just in time for the choral Evensong service, which is free. I went in. Evensong is a traditional Anglican (Church of England; Episcopalian in the States) service. It's
rather short and usually sung rather than spoken. It consists of a recital of the Lord's Prayer, some spoken prayer by the officiant, a couple of Psalms sung by the choir, two short readings by the officiant, some sung prayer, and closing prayer by the officiant.It was my first foray into the Abbey. Although Poet's Corner wasn't accessible from where I was, there are dozens of tombs and memorials lining the wall of the Abbey along the way from the door to where the service is--most notably Sir Isaac Newton's. The Abbey itself is beautiful, a solemn and stately sort of beautiful. It truly is, in the most literal and true sense of the word, awesome.
And I won't even bother to attempt to describe how magnificent it was to listen to the male choir's pure singing in that ancient sacred space. Their clear voices were the only music in the
service. Those of you who know me well know that I like Gregorian chant; this was like live Gregorian chant but cooler because they sang in a lovely old form of English--it was Modern English, but with the occasional Middle English word or syntax slipping in (so...an early 16th century version of the psalms, perhaps? sometime thereabouts). I had goosebumps throughout much of the music. It was one of the more remarkable hours of my life.Saturday I woke up early for a day trip to Cambridge. The train left Kings Cross at 9:15 and I was in Cambridge by 10:05. The train station was a bit more than a mile outside of the town centre, but it was a lovely morning and the twenty-five minute walk was enjoyable. The sun was out, the wind was gentle, and it was warmer than it had been in a while. If Oxford was a literary pilgrimage for me, Cambridge was a scientific one.
As I approached the town centre, I wandered into an open
college purely at random; I just noticed that its gates were open and went into the courtyard. It turned out to be Christ College, where Darwin had studied. There was a plaque of Darwin, showing his familiar old likeness. There was also a very cool, life-size bronze sculpture of a young Darwin on a park bench with a stack of books. I was pretty excited.Once in the busy town centre, my first stop was at the TI office to get a spot on a walking tour--I haven't yet done a walking tour that wasn't worthwhile. Cambridge, like Oxford, is very dense at its center, with streets barely wide enough for cars and always flooded by pedestrians and cyclists.
Part II of my two-part series on famous academic pubs: the Eagle in Cambridge where Watson and Crick first announced that they had worked out DNA's double helix. They have a plaque on the facade of the pub, and it is literally footsteps away from the old Cavendish lab where they worked. I passed the pub on my way to Trinity College. Once at Trinity, I beelined for the famous Wren Library, where I knew that they were cool manuscripts on display.
The Wren Library (named for the famed Christopher Wren, who designed it) is now one of my favorite places. The atmosphere reminded me more of an old cathedral than a college library. There were large high-set windows, and it was a rather small room by library standards. There was one sort of large aisle flanked by bookshelves and desk areas. Each of the bookshelves was topped with a stately marble bust of everyone from
Socrates to Dryden. Every book on the shelves seemed to be bound in ancient cracking leather. There was a large sculpture of Lord Byron at the end of the library. Along the aisle were large display cases covered in heavy red cloth, which you pull back to view the works on display. The displays did not disappoint; most impressive was the display on Sir Isaac Newton, who had both studied and taught at Trinity. There was a 1st edition of his Principia, with his own hand-written corrections. There were also some letters of his, where his diagrams and calculations were clearly visible. Apart from the Newton stuff, there was a Wittgenstein notebook, a couple of pages of the Winnie the Pooh manuscript (A.A. and Christopher Robin Milne were both Trinity students), a Byron manuscript, a 1st edition Shakespeare, and a nice collection of early illuminated Bibles. Noticeably missing were the John Milton manuscripts that I had heard were on display here; they had been removed (for some very important purpose, I'm sure). The picture here is of Trinity's courtyard; the library had a strict no photo policy.
I reluctantly left the library, but the bright sunlight outside was nice consolation. I went out the back of Trinity College, to the banks of the river Cam. This area was known as "the Backs"--one can stroll along the river and admire the backs of all the college buildings, and they're just as gorgeous as the fronts. Along the river I felt like spring was rushing in; there were small patches of little blooming flowers, and the sun's beams were brilliantly reflecting off of the water. The ground was damp and muddy, but not the dreary sort of winter mud--I was reminded of the Cummings poem where he describes Spring as "mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful." It was a lovely walk; I meandered about the riverbank
until it was time to go back to the TI for my walking tour.The tour was quite good. A good portion of it was spent in King's College Chapel, Cambridge's most famous building, and for good reason. I've posted a couple of pictures, but they definitely don't do the place justice. It's the textbook example of Perpendicular Gothic architecture, and the fan-vaulted ceiling is the most perfect example anywhere in Britain (the only country where fan-vaulting can be found). The chapel's stained glass is purported to be the finest in England. One of the most striking features of the chapel is the very darkly stained oak organ screen, which stretches across the chapel to separate the antechapel. The gold organ pipes are gorgeous against the oak. As if all of this weren't enough, the Ruebens painting "Adoration of the Magi" adorns the altar. While we were there, the whole place was full of sunlight as well. Truly stunning.
The tour went over a few other colleges, too (there are 31 Cambridge colleges total). All were pretty, but none more impressive than King's or Trinity. We went to Trinity College chapel, which I had not been able to go into on my own earlier. The choir was practicing while we were there, and I have pretty much run out of adjectives for beautiful.
Afterwards, I went to get a late lunch/early dinner before my 5:45 train back to London. I tried to go to the Eagle, but I was in the awkward time slot of post-lunch and pre-dinner, so they weren't serving dinner. I went to the pub next door instead, which was quite good--even if the structure of DNA wasn't announced there. I returned briefly to the river for another look at the Backs before leaving town for the train station.
I think Oxford was cooler, but I also have a stronger attachment to Oxford. Cambridge was certainly prettier and less touristy. The colleges seemed a bit more receptive to visitors. It was also more condensed than Oxford--it was easier to get around to everything on foot than it was in Oxford.
Next weekend, I'm going to visit Normandy. I'm leaving the UK on Wednesday night and taking a ferry across the Channel. Looking at my calendar makes me feel like my semester here is nearly over. When I get back from France, I have just four days before I leave for my ten days in Ireland. Once back from Ireland, I'll have a little over a month before flying back to the States. Surreal.
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