Toast & Tracy's Epic Ireland Adventure
August, 2006
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Day 
Two
Travelling with a dozen family members can be a bit overwhelming. It's not just the logistical nightmare of getting everyone to meet at certain agreed upon times and arranging transportation. It's the social gravity, if you will, the pull of the group that makes doing things en masse the default choice. In order to keep your sanity -- and the family peace -- it's best to break out on your own with some regularity. With this in mind, Tracy and I got up Thursday morning, scarfed down a quick breakfast at the B & B, took the car and headed off for the city of Sligo, just the two of us. Pulling out onto the road, I turned to Tracy with my most serious demeanor and said "Remember: Driving on the left."
Tracy's one wish while up in this neck of the woods was to see Yeats' grave, which is outside a small old church just a few miles north of Sligo. While she had made a point of reading some Yeats prior to our trip, I was unfamiliar with him, beyond knowing he was in the category of "Famous Poets". Still, I figured, what the hell, famous local celebrity. How could we pass up such an opportunity?
The church and graveyard were peaceful and not at all crowded. Yeats' grave was one among a hundred or so. It had no special ornamentation. It was presented to the visitor without fanfare. The only thing that made it stand out was the man's own verse, a moody little snippet that stuck with me well after we'd departed.
Interesting thing about grave plots in Ireland that you'll note from the picture: All the graves we saw, here and elsewhere, had these bordered gravel pits over the plot. We never did think to ask any of the locals what their purpose was.
Outside the churchyard, there was a neat little monument to Yeats featuring a brass statue of the poet perched at the head of his poem "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven":
HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with the golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams beneath your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams...
("Note to self," I thought, "Pick up a book of this guy's stuff before heading home. Seems pretty cool...")
Here's Tracy, having a quiet moment with her boy W.B.
Having enjoyed our spiritual communion with one of poetry's greats, we decided to stop by Sligo for an hour or so before heading back down the coast. As we pulled out of the church parking lot, I turned to Tracy with my most serious demeanor and said "Remember: Driving on the left."
Sligo seemed like a nice enough little 'burg. Like all the cities we visited, it had a small river running right through its center. The shopfronts were all vividly painted, as per the dictates of Ireland's Bureau of Tourism. (I made that up.) We poked around a bit, bought some postcards, and took in the atmosphere. Unfortunately, as we were expected back at the farm early that afternoon, we didn't really have any time to explore the city.
We did, however, have time for a Guinness. The Left Bank -- a bar appropriately named both for it's physical location and for the political leanings of the patron shown here -- had a selection of tables outside on the pedestrian-only side of the river which were perfect for people watching.
As we sat there, I made a confession to Tracy: "You know, I don't know why, but I assumed Irish people would be... chubbier than this."
It was true. I figured all the beer, all the starchy potatoes and meat dishes, they'd be a pudgy people. This mental image was buttressed by my composite memories of Irish cops I'd met or seen back in New England, who tended towards the, um, stocky side. But no. The Irish whom I'd met so far were a skinny people. Huh. Go figure.
(No sooner did I share this observation than a very large local woman - gut protruding proudly between t-shirt and sagging jeans - wandered by, loudly arguing with her companion. A warning, I took it, against making easy, premature generalizations.)
Walking around Sligo, I kept waiting for The Feeling to truly hit. (I'mInIreland!) But it demured, dancing around in the background of my consciousness. We'd been more or less constantly busy since our arrival, and while we were certainly enjoying ourselves, I was too mentally unsettled for the country to zero in on me and make its presence truly felt. Sooner or later, I figured.
In any event, after this all-to-brief dalliance, it was time to head back to Templeboy. We said our farewells to Sligo and jumped back in the car. As we pulled onto the main street, driving past the dapper Yeats statue that graces the center of town, I turned to Tracy with my most serious demeanor and said "Remember: Driving on the left."
Now's a good time to discuss one of the most fascinating aspects of the region of Ireland we visited: The cars.
Never having been in Europe before, I was shocked to see so many unfamiliar nameplates, as well as familiar nameplates on unfamiliar models. Everywhere we turned there were tinier and tinier cars zipping about -- fitting, of course, considering the roads -- in a variety of strange configurations. To get an idea of the size of these things, start with the popular Mini Cooper and work your way smaller. Each was more compact and truncated than the next, culminating in the most surprising entrant of all in the Tiny Car Sweepstakes, the Ford "Ka2". The Ka2 looks exactly like the "Speck" that was featured, as a joke, in that car rental commercial a few years back. Only it's real.
Looking at all these cute little utilitarian people movers, I wondered why manufacturers refused to believe there was a market for them in America. Then I remembered that it's because we're, you know, Americans.
(Sigh)
As we headed back to Templeboy, Tracy was concerned that we were running a little late. Alas -- (sniffs, wipes tear) -- we had no cell phone to call ahead to the farm and let people know we wouldn't be there at precisely 2:00 PM as planned. We had decided, prior to departing, to leave our cell phones at home, assuming that they either wouldn't work at all or would be prohibitively expensive to operate. This left us, for the first time in what seemed an eternity, out of touch. Unreachable. Disconnected. Off the telecom grid, as it were. It was excellent.
We arrived at the farm around 2:10 PM. Shockingly late by my standards but, as I alluded to in an earlier post, Ireland had a mellowing effect on me. Turned out not to matter in any event, as almost no one else had arrived. The plan had been to meet at 2:00 PM so that Tom could give the family a tour but when we arrived, no Tom, no most of the family. We waited until around 3:00 PM, at which point Tom's sister Mary decided to take matters into her own hands, escorting myself, Tracy, my Mom, and my aunt Loretta around the premises in lieu of her tardy sibling.
Now, it's entirely possible that as you've been reading this, you've conjured an image of Tom's "family farm" as some New England-ish affair: A "farm" in the sense of an old farm house on a parcel of land that was once used for actual farming but is now valued for its quaint, picturesque nature and that features maybe a rooster or two wandering around.
Nuh uh. This is the real deal. Four hundred acres filled with sheep and cattle, diligently worked by Tom's family. A 24x7 operation of the meat-producing variety. Let's take a look around, then.
Pictured at left is a sampling -- a mere fraction -- of the sheep we encountered. The family raises them not for wool production, the efficiencies of which are beyond the capacity of a family farm, but rather for lamb production. These animals spend their lives grazing, boinking, and pumping out baby sheep, which are then sold to be turned into lamb chops. It struck me as a mildly gruesome proposition, but the more I thought about it, it was no worse than any number of things we do to livestock in the name of sating our appetites. I mean, FSM, feeling sorry for 'em just 'cause they're babies? The plaintive baaaaa'ing must've been making me soft.
You've noticed the yellow dye on the rumps of several sheep. Those are the sheep that have been "rattled". That's rural Irish for "impregnated". The yellow dye is not applied directly to the backsides of the female sheep. Rather, in a deviously ingenious plan, it is slathered upon the nether regions of the "bull" (the sheep in the foreground here on the right) so that when he has done his manly duty the mark of his passage is clearly visible to all the next morning. This allows the family to easily track the progress of the expectant mothers among the herd.
Here, a pair of cows* eye the intruding visitors. Was it natural curiosity, or the fact that I can't go anywhere near cows without repeatedly going "MOOooooo"? You be the judge.
(*FSM strike me dead if I'm misusing this term, but they are both female, so I think I'm in the clear here.)
Mary discusses the finer points of raising cattle with Tracy and my Mom. And no, your eyes do not deceive you: Bulls do grow afros. It impresses the females, apparently.
These three fine fellows seemed bullish on the future. Apparently, they don't know what's at steak.
Do not adjust your monitors. That's some bull-on-bull action, dear readers. Homosexuality at its bovine best.
I waited 15 minutes to get this picture, I'll have you know. We caught the Pitcher there trying to mount his herd-mate repeatedly, but every time I managed to collect my jaw from my lap and aim my camera, he'd ceased in his efforts. Finally, I caught him in the act.
This episode, by the way, was way funnier before we found out that the Catcher was, in fact, one sick bull. He'd come down with a bad case of constipation, apparently, which was the proximate cause of his lethargy and thus the indirect cause of his penetration. Later that evening, Tom's brother Gordon had to forcibly administer a bull-sized dose of laxatives in order to bring this poor guy back from the brink.
Tracy poses for Bucolic Mistress Monthly. Personally, I think the juxtaposition of the barbed wire with the spotted wellies really makes this pic something special.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrraaawwwhhhhh...
Wandering the farm, I caught myself thinking "Might this be the life? Working outside, with your hands and your muscles, engaged in such clearly productive activity? Ah to breath the air, to drench oneself in the pungent odors of life. Why not this, instead of the cold, antiseptic confines of a cubicle back in Corporate America?"
Oh yeah: The 24x7 nature of raising livestock. And the poop. Everywhere, the poop.
Here, we see Tracy tromping back through the fields with Bruno, Sheepdog in Training.
Damn, that's some green grass.
At the farmhouse, I share a little quality time with Bruno. Why, yes, he is an exceptionally cute pup. But you should see him in action. That dog's gonna make a name for himself someday...
Our tour completed (and my reverie ended) we took our leave of the farm and headed back to West Dromore to get ready for the rehearsal party that evening.
Not content to avail ourselves of the entertainment options at the B & B -- which consist of a nice variety of plush chairs in the lobby for sitting contemplatively and a small TV in the kitchen where one can join the proprietress to watch daytime television -- Tracy, Mom, Aunt Loretta and I wander down to -- where else? -- The Still.
Prior to entering, I take a moment to revel in my conquests from the previous evening. Looking back now, it strikes me how clearly I had started to take on the shape of my prey...
A fine little bar, The Still was.
Tracy, in case you're curious, is holding a Bulmers™ cider. I had mistakenly ordered it thinking it was beer, and when it arrived tasting of apples and whatnot and blech, she volunteered to take it off of my hands.
After a few pints, we headed back to the B & B and made ourselves presentable. Finally, the evening was upon us and the time had arrived to move on to the Big Event of the day, the Rehearsal Party. Into the caravan we all piled once again, members of the local clan at the wheel, off to a night of indulgent revelry.
Actually, they should have called it the "Everyone Who's Made It To Sligo Gets To Go To A Party" party, as it was in no way restricted to participants in the wedding. Yet another gracious gesture on the part of our hosts. The event was held at the Radisson Hotel Sligo, out on a peninsula due west of the city. The view was beautiful, the hors d'oeuvres were outstanding, and the company was most excellent.
At left, Tracy and I, enjoying the free wine.
Kim's husband Neil, Kara's husband John, Uncle Joe, and yours truly. The freeness of the wine was not sufficient cause to tempt my uncle away from his preferred beverage.
I caught Tracy here holding court. Tom's mother, Mary, kneels before her. Yes, there is an odd resemblance between the two which earlier had caused our host at the B & B to ask if Tracy was related to Tom's family. In the background are Peter and Miriam, relatives from Tom's side of the family.
Tracy, Peter & Miriam. I liked Peter immediately. He was the first Irishman I met who walked up to me, both guns blazing, ready to do some serious Bush bashing. Oh, he had it in for George the Dumber. It was like a blast of fresh air.
My cousin Kristin, the bride, poses with her mother-in-law-to-be, Mary, and her niece-in-law-to-be, Eva.
Eva, Mary Jr.'s daughter, was that rarest and most wonderful of creatures: A happy, quiet baby. And cute, too.
On a related note, as we travelled through the west of Ireland, we kept seeing babies who looked just like Eva. After a while, it was disconcerting. I had to wonder if there wasn't a Cute Irish Baby Factory buried in the hills somewhere.
Kristin's preternatural Night-Before-The-Wedding Calm was sorely tried by the Bear-Hug-From-A-Drunk-Cousin Test. Amazingly, she passed with flying colors.
Imbued with the super-human power of Beer Muscles, I challenge my Uncle Joe to an arm-wrestling contest.
We had an outstanding time at the rehearsal party. Met guests from around the world. Talked a blue streak. Got an impromptu lesson from Tom in proper Gaelic pronunciation. (Tracy had amassed a handy stack of phrases which she had learned from her Pimsler "Learn to Speak Irish" CD's, but it took a native to instruct her in the correct inflection and tone.) It was a blast. I wish I remembered more of it.
Alas, once again our evening came to an all-too-abrupt conclusion and we were shuffled outside to be shuttled back to our B & B.
As we exited the Radisson, we ran into a camera crew from the Sci-Fi Channel. Turns out the cast of "Ghost Hunters" was in town to, em, hunt ghosts. That's the producer there that Tracy and I are posing with. Didn't get the exact location of their quarry, but later in our visit Tracy and I would pass through a site which they would have found most inviting. (Join us for Day 8 to learn more...)
(Note: Why is Tracy flashing a peace sign? 'Cause she's hammered, that's why.)