a simple yarn

So, is it a problem that what the Kiddies know about American history comes from ‘National Treasure’? Ehm, perhaps we ought to ‘supplement’ their education…

Warning: Sad Representation of US Tourism Brochure to Follow
In other words, poor attempt at a little Board-Failte-American-style for my Irish friends.

We live 8 miles from Mount Vernon.
Mount Vernon is the home of George Washington.
George Washington was the first president of the United States.
Having the same first name does not make you related.
Having the same job does not make you related.
Contrary to what Son-Alex thinks, George Bush is not related to George Washington.

Living so close, it had to be one of our first Sunday afternoon outings.
Mount Vernon enjoys a beautiful prospect overlooking the Potomac River.
Of course photo is from opposite-non-river-view-side of house.

Being firstly a farmer, George Washington created a unique 16-sided grain-threshing barn.
Toss in grain sheaves.
Let horses walk round and round, trampling sheaves.
Kernels fall through cracks in floor to level below.
Example of good ol’ early American ingenuity.
Wonder if the flour had a faint ‘hoof’ taste?

Couldn’t experience it all in an afternoon.
Good thing we live close.
Good thing we bought an annual pass.

Today is our last day in Ireland.

Bugger.

Indulging in a bit of retrospectivity…

One of my favorite pictures from our first days in Ireland.

Had stumbled upon a hidden inlet, rocks relentlessly battered by waves until rounded and smooth. What a treat as we, too, felt relentlessly battered by new cultural experiences in those early days.
How small the Kiddies seem!

Appropriate, then, to come full circle for another visit to the inlet during our last days on the island.

A few other pictorial indulgences thrown in for good measure…

Off the coast of Wicklow

Glendalough, Co. Wicklow

Apologies, syrupy Hallmark moment ahead…

Ya wanna know the great thing about spring?
The anticipation of lovely garden promises soon to be fulfilled.
(Right, Hallmark prose done)

Had a nice albeit whirlwind holiday in the US acquainting ourselves with new environs. The cottage is very cute, small by American standards, but suits us well.

What got my heart pumping was…(okay, I should probably complete this sentence with ‘… being reunited with my husband after many weeks.’)

But what really got my heart pumping was…the garden.

A veritable Eden filled with blooms and blooms-to-be. Immediately, I found myself anticipating what the remaining months of spring would bring, knowing that some flowers would come and go before I’d return to see them. Sigh. Still, it was satisfying to witness their infancy. Will definitely need to reacquaint myself with local flora. And will also need a bit of study on a new topic…

…grapes.

The last time I visited Washington, DC, I was 12 years old.

Original Smithsonian Institution building

Washington Monument

Gotta confess that Americans do museums and monuments well…

While other places are throwing back their blankets of winter white to reveal the good brown earth again, a stroll around the garden shows the blush of springtime in Ireland.

I do believe that pink is my favourite colour of flower.

And it’s a good thing, too, for ‘the pinks’ are in abundance these days.

Many US states boast the rhododendron as its official flower, yet I confess that I have never seen such gigantic tree-sized specimens until I came here.

And such is the sight that regularly greets me. In due time, the bits of pink and fuchsia and coral will blend into one continuous rosy wall. Really…it’s true! Why, look at an archived photo dug up from last year…

Not to be outdone, other blossoming trees also herald the coming of warmer temperatures and the brightness of longer days.

…off to Cork for a brief Easter holiday with family and friends, a few archive photos from one of my favourite spots in Ireland.

The Rock of Cashel, in Co. Tipperary, served as the traditional seat of the Kings of Munster. The majority of buildings on the current site date from the 12th and 13th centuries. Cashel is reputed to be the site of the conversion to Christianity of the King of Munster by St. Patrick in the 5th century A.D.

Right, I realise I’ve been sounding like the Irish Tourism Board of late, but the Kiddies are out of school which minimises craft time. Sigh. Hope to finish a knitting project while on our mini break!

Hard to capture but yes, there is a second rainbow in the sky.

Wishing you and your family a very joyous Resurrection Sunday!

As Irish Language Week comes to a close…

…I wonder the future of the Irish language.

Is Gaeilge becoming obsolete?
Is it merely an academic exercise dreaded by students across the island?
Are the Gaeltachts reduced to being tourist attractions?

I confess I do not know.
But the signs of the times seem to point to a diminished need to understand and speak the language. That’s sad, I think.

Looking eastward, though, I’m encouraged by Wales and their fierce national pride reflected in a seemingly healthy Welsh language. So it is possible.

Well, ironically being only a non-Irish-speaking-blow-in, it’s my sincere hope that the Gaeilgeoir* does not become an antiquated notion.

*English = Irish speaker, learner of Irish

And I’m not talking about the pastel kind.

Walking home from the school bus stop brings me by the farm of Salt-Of-The-Earth-Neighbour-Sean. I was distracted from my morning chat over the fence by miniature noises. Bleatings, to be more precise.

Two lovely lads (or lasses…or one of each…I’m not sure) cautiously peek their heads from behind their mother, first among many to announce their presence in the animal world. Lambing season. Feeling like an observer of a James Herriot tale, I am delighted to now notice more frequently wee dots of fleece in nearby fields.

But, no camera. Geesh! I come back later, camera in hand, to find Mother-Ewe stuck in the fencing…

Apologies, Cultural Pronunciation Diversion Ahead:
When telling Farmer-Sean’s-Wife-Mary of the ewe’s predicament, I found myself pleasantly distracted by her lovely Irish pronunciation of ewe. Not ‘yew,’ as I would have been used to hearing, but rather ‘yo.’ Yo? Wonder where that originated? Hmm…

Anyway, Mary said she’d be down later, as busy farm wives have a full day’s work, so I go to see if I can shift her myself…the ewe, not Mary. Before releasing Mum, I can’t resist a few close-ups.

Is it my imagination or is this lamb smiling?

And I’m sure that’s a laugh!

Happy Leap Year!

Warning: Completely fibre-less-cuz-eternal-twisted-rib-on-a-never-ending-jumper-doesn’t-make-for-exciting-reading cultural observation to follow…

Have you ever seen something repeatedly only to have it take on new meaning with the addition of one small thing? I’ve driven over these road hazard warnings for months now. An unmistakable message, right?

But seeing this…

…yes, that hearse sitting there…it’s with irony of the ‘noir’ kind that I realise these warnings are posted outside the cemetery. Huh, never noticed that before…

Here’s a mathematical equation I’m wrestling with:
Sit (Knit + Weave + Spin) + Winter Weather + Home Baking = Unwanted Kilos

I don’t like to exercise. By that I mean, I don’t fancy going to the gym and running with futility on a machine. Would rather take a bullet. But, get me out walking, digging, hauling, tugging, shifting, moving, sweating—I’m okay with that. It’s called synergy. If, in doing chores, I inadvertently get my heart rate up and do a few arm reps, righty-o, that’s great. So, taking a synergy approach to this…

I walk the children to the bus stop each morning.

View of The Lodge on the journey home.

I live in a lovely Irish valley.

I don’t have to rush to the job commute.

The weather is getting noticeably brighter.

Beautiful, but oh so prickly, gorse

Why not take the long-way-scenic route home?

And why not take my camera along?

Thing to do today: supermarket, errands, collect kids, dodge sheep in the road…

While modern Dubliners seemingly want to shift away from the stereotypical imagery of ‘The Quiet Man,’ leprechauns and old gents in tweedy flat caps, I seem to bump into them with regularity.

Why, just last week I found myself swinging the car into a side lane to accommodate a farmer and his herd. Like a scene from ‘Babe,’ he came sauntering down the narrow lane with its towering hedgerows on either side. In front of him ran the group of woolly wonders, while he ambled behind—stick in hand, tweedy flat cap on head, faithful sheepdog alongside.

Kicking myself for leaving the camera at home.

But not to worry, sheep in the road are rather a common sight these days. Surely then, the leprechauns are lurking nearby…