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Thursday’s Short Take from Niagara Express
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The next several days will be an indulgence of sorts, a travelog chronicling our visit to Ireland. I intended to write daily but have been having too much fun.
First world problems (an American in Ireland)
Moving onward
Today we hit the Kinvara Farm Market before driving for Omeath.
The market had a decidedly European feel with craftspeople, bakers, fresh vegetables and even a cheesemonger selling different kinds of cheddar and gouda.
I grabbed some fresh salad greens, asparagus and tomatoes as well. A toasted bagel with cream cheese, onions, lettuce, capers and smoked salmon was just $5. Beth grabbed a necklace. I gathered a knit wool winter hat.
Then there was the matter of the literary pub crawl. Our welcome came from an American who lives near St. Lawrence. His name didn’t stick in my notes, and he seemed atypical for a corrections officer but when I mentioned to him how I’ve known people with his gig and seen the impact he came back with a frank observation. “It makes people fat, angry and racist.”
James Joyce’s “Ulysses” was a consistent punch line for the evening.
Arty said “that’s how Ulysses finishes so now you don’t have to read it yourself” he explained. “The first chapter is the most popular because that is as far as you’ll get.”
There is a great literary tradition here and drinking. There was music, and frivolity and some poems.
“I get down on my knees and do what must be done
And kiss Achilles’ hand, the killer of my son” that line of prose, from Michael Langley stuck in my notes.
We met friends from London, Ontario who laughed when I told someone about having a dog named Gord and how Canadians always apologize.
We also shared a drink with a new friend from Queensland, Australia.
Another random note about theater: “When St. Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland, they moved to New York and became theater critics.”
Maybe I should have taken better notes but hey, who cares.
We made our way into a town called Gort, a bit more blue collar and not as tourist friendly.
I wandered into a butchershop to have a look. The proprietor came forth, assessed I was American and immediately hit me with “do you support Trump?”
I said “I do not.”
He asked why.
“Because he is a disgrace to my nation and Constitution” I said.
“How can you say that? He is a businessman. If he was in charge here all our problems would be solved in a matter of days” he said.
His ignorance cut me to the core. I walked away.
We are now staying in an old farmhouse “Quarvue” overlooking Collingford. Part dates to the 1930s. Part dates to the 1500s. Our host Seamus is a historian and scholar working to keep Irish language alive with bilingual signs. “Cercy Sicini” is chicken, “Caora” is sheep, “capall” is horse. “Muc” is pig.
Seamus strikes me as a storyteller and offered to take us up the hill to wear he digs peat to supplement the wood stove fuel. I don’t think we will have time.
He gladly tells the locals fighting off a viking invasion and even boasts of a 500-year old cannonball he found in the garden.
Thank God for Beth planning this trip. I could never.
