The Japanese gardens, which I have visited all year long, had rhododendrun of all kinds abloom, and this astounding beauty caught my eye.

We also made a day trip down south and west to visit the Ring of Kerry on the Iveragh Peninsula, during which time we had remarkably good weather. As we headed out the peninsula, we stopped first for views of the Dingle Peninsula across the bay.

As we looked south along the Ring, we could see the road carved into the slope and knew we had an exciting ride ahead of us.

Our good weather day meant some sun, heavy winds and only passing showers. But the passing showers blew in on us fast at Waterville.

It cleared by the time we stopped for a view to the east.

Our coach, along with all the other tour buses on the Ring, stopped in the tidy town of Sneem, where the buildings in the center of the village presented a rainbow of color, including a deep pink pub across from an electric green shop. Turning around towards the river running through town, the natural landscape was a welcome relief.

Our tour ended by winding its way down through Killarney National Park. We stopped to enjoy Ladies' View, so-named by Queen Victoria's ladies-in-waiting who had previewed the vista for her.

On the weekend Mark chauffeured us up north out of Dublin, stopping at Mellifont Abbey in its beautiful setting

as well as Monasterboice with its round tower, high crosses and graveyard surrounded by farms.

Our destination was Carlingford, a lovely, little medieval town/village across the lough from Northern Ireland. We arrived at low tide, which reduced the harbor to mud flats.

Up on the rise by King John's Castle we had a beautiful view across to Northern Ireland and the foothills of the Mountains of Mourne.

What a pleasure it is to travel at this time of year when the sun comes up at 5AM and doesn't go down until 10 PM. We feel very energetic during these long days.

On our way back to Dublin, we drove across the Cooley Peninsula, stopping to find the magnetic hill near Long Woman Grave where your vehicle will get pulled uphill for you. No luck on either account, but we did have a nice walk.

Jane had to head back to the States for work, and Kate and Danny arrived a few days later in Dublin along with their fun and pub-loving buddies, Nicole and Jimmy. The following morning our nephew Steve arrived. Now we are seven!

After some time in Dublin we hit the road, in various combinations. When Mark had to work at UCD, Danny, Kate, Steve and I took the bus to Glendalough – through downpours in both directions. We were lucky to have it let up, as it typically does, and most of our day we hiked around in fair weather. It is a beautiful spot with the River Glenealo (and our own little happy couple),

the 10th century round tower,

ever so green woods,

the still waters of Upper Lake,

and shallow Lower Lake.

The next day we picked up a rental car that almost held the five of us comfortably, and Mark drove us to the Boyne River valley where we visited the amazing 5000 year old passage tombs –

Knowth has 17 satellite graves surrounding the main mound, and there are some 300 carved slabs, some more intricate than others.

The central kerbstone at Newgrange is highly adorned with symbols that we can only guess the meaning of.

It used to be that grazing sheep took care of the grass-covered mounds...

After touring both Newgrange and Knowth, we drove over to the medieval town of Trim to see its Anglo-Norman castle. Trim Castle was founded first in 1173 and then immortalized for us 21st centurians by Mel Gibson in Braveheart. It is such a lovely time of year to travel in Ireland, and swamp iris caught my eye as much as the castle itself.

And gorse is everywhere!

Our big trip west started the next day, and we headed south out of Dublin, stopping for a look back up north over the city from the northern edge of the Wicklow Mountains.

We drove south on the Military Road, the roadway the English built so that they could more easily pursue rampaging Irish. The bogs and moors are almost lunar in nature though there is more color at this time of year.

The Rock of Cashel was our destination for the first night, and we arrived just in time to explore the ruins of the cathedral, Cormac’s Chapel, the hall of vicars, the round tower, the archbishops, the gravesites, the monuments...

Just to the west are the ruins of Hore Abbey, easily reached by a lovely trail down the rock.

The next morning our B&B hostess put together the next leg of our drive towards Dingle. We made our way along the Glen of Aherlow

and then south, up and over the gap via the Vee Drive in the Knockmealdown Mountains where rhododendron run wild is taking over land from indigenous species. It is quite a beautiful interloper.

It rained off and on, quite heavily at times, but once again we were lucky when it cleared as we approached our next stop, the 6 km beach at Inch on eastern edge of the Dingle Peninsula. There were no surfers that day.

We met back up with Jimmy and Nicole in Dingle at the end of the day and shared our Irish tales. The next morning we drove around Slea Head stopping first at Dunbeg Fort, situated on the edge of a precipitous cliff over the Atlantic

and beehive huts further up the slope.

We hopped out again at the south and western parts of the peninsula for glimpses of the Blasket Islands and the Dingle beaches.

Mark and I loved our return trip to the Gallarus Oratory, sitting there like an up-turned boat.

We wagontrained over the Conor Pass, the highest in Ireland at 456m.

This route took us from the town of Dingle (now only called An Daingean, a reversion to its Irish name – in fact, all the signs down there are in Irish only – thank heaven some of the shapes of the signs speak an international language) over to the west. We then headed north up the coast to Tarbert where we caught a ferry across the Shannon to County Clare. The rain let up, again!, as we arrived at the Cliffs of Moher.

And somehow, the next day, we led a charmed life again and dodged raindrops to visit a church ruin in the middle of a cow pasture,

a cairn atop a hill

set off by Burren walls,

the Poulnabrone dolmen, a portal tomb some 5000+ years old,

as well as countless stops around the limestone Burren – on the coast where waves crashed into the limestone cliffs,

and flowers, both tropical and alpine, flourish in the cracks.

Fanore is the site of the one safe beach in the Burren, and people in wetsuits rode the waves.

Erratics deposited by glaciers sit as if scattered by some large hand.

Pasturelands of sorts are separated by stone walls that rise up the hillsides,

and somehow cows find plenty to eat.

We bid our kids and their friends farewell at the Shannon airport and picked up Audrey and Bill Koester last Sunday. We scared them to death with their first hours on the R and lesser Irish roads as we twisted and turned on our way to Clonmacnoise, perhaps the most peaceful and majestic monastic site in Ireland on its perch overlooking the Shannon River.

The next day we took them to the passage tombs and Trim Castle north of Dublin, where we were treated to a rare sunny, Irish day.

Many people were out walking on that bright bank holiday.

The Koesters headed back to the States on Wednesday, and we stopped along the way at Howth, the head of Dublin’s huge harbor, for one last look south.

The sun has returned these final days of ours in Dublin. Yesterday we took a break and went out for a walk along the Dodder, the river that runs by our apartment. The trees and shrubs are lush along the riverbanks,

and the fuschia out front was brilliant in the bright sun.

As you might imagine, Ireland is more beautiful than pictures capture. You must make a trip yourselves. While we won’t be here when you are, we can send you off with lots of advice – and even some good directions – though much of the fun happens when you just get lost. If you want personal guides, perhaps we could be convinced to accompany you. In the mean time, we look forward to seeing you all when we return home.

Kate has been employed at a new job where from day 1 she was acruing negative vacation days we forced to delay our rescue of Mark and Gretch until the spring. Again they said, "Come to Ireland!" We thought about this proposition and using highly evolved cognitive reasoning dedeuced that in fact Guiness beer is brewed in Ireland so it must be a lovely place to visit. While the Traveling Lytles were home for Christmas we formulated a plan to visit the land where the sweet nectar of the gods originates. Immediately cousin Steve was onboard to join us in the trek to find and devour this fine beer we cherish so deeply in our hearts.

A short time later we mentioned our forthcoming crusade to the Guiness Holy Land to our deer friends Jimmy Fantini and Nicole Baltzer. Jimmy quickly brought to my attention the fact that quality golf courses are also in abundance in Ireland. "Brilliant!", we simultaneously exclaimed. So our plans were set to fly to Ireland over the American Memorial Day weekend (USA #1!) holiday for an extended 10 day stay.

After much anticipation our long awaited trip to Ireland arrived...

For the love of cramped Americans. Four super size me adults with numerous bags crammed into a snow mobile with a roof and a steering wheel on the wrong side. Where are all the SUV's??? I'd like a Ford Expedition please. Super Size this car STAT!

Ok, no bigger car. This is the car. We can manage the short jaunt to the Lytle castle. Danny tie tie...sleepy. Until the driving in Dublin begins. I should have taken a picture of our adorable, elderly, gentleman cabbie...What a cute old Irish man...then he drives like a freaking madman with an accent. Driving in Dublin during morning rush hour resembles a video game. Drive at break-neck speeds dipping, dodging, dashing and dodging some more. Floor the gas , push bicylists off the road, squeeze around buses and slam on the breaks at the stop light. And then wait at the stop light...wait some more...wait a little longer because they Dublin stop lights last a fortnight when you're punchy, sleep deprived and jet-lagged. But after what I qualify as the longest cab ride of my life we make it to the Lytle sted. Home sweet home! Ooops, no Euros...ring up to Mark, "Hi Mark! We're hear! Glad to hear your voice...um, could you pay for our cab?"

Ok another slap to the face by cruel reality. Mark and Gretchen don't live in a castle in Ireland but rather a cozy little Dublin condo. Fair enough. We'll bond in our proximity.

Welcome to Dublin!

When I finally returned to Ireland towards the end of April, finally, in the end – a series of mis-steps/delays that thankfully took place on my last, rather than my first, trans-Atlantic commute of the year, an almost funny story as events conspired against me – Mark and I packed up to hop over to England. He was invited to give a talk at Oxford, and we added in a few extra days so we could get museum fixes in London and time to wander Oxford itself. We had amazingly hot weather in London where we pounded the pavement to take in a wonderful international exhibition on the International Arts and Crafts Movement at the V&A, the Tate Britain where we got some prep for our trip to Venice via a Turner, Whistler and Monet exhibit (they had all spent time painting/drawing in Venice as well as London) and the Tate Modern. I walked myself into some good blisters (despite all my Irish walking this year). We are always drawn to water, and it was interesting to see what is and is not beautiful along the Thames.
We also found our way to water in Oxford where the punts were cozily tied up.

We were put up at Pembroke College where we had a lovely room that we approached from the courtyard.

One of my favorite discoveries were the carved heads on the outside of the colleges, not to be confused with the rapt faces of Mark’s audience at his talk.

Mark shared the introduction to his soon-to-be-released, America's Uncivil Wars: The 60’s Era from Elvis to the Fall of Richard Nixon. We also stumbled across Oxford University Press, his publisher, or rather, the British cousin of his publisher in the US. I haven't seen Oxford University Press's US digs, but I suspect they present themselves slightly differently.

We had to hustle back from England to pack up for our big trip of the year to Venice - with my sister, Anne, and our friendly, neighborhood glassblower, Tom Stoenner. We had been looking forward to this for years, and we had a fabulous time. Tom took us to Murano where Dino Rosin, a master glassblower, with the assistance of his son, demonstrated his work, sculpting/forming a female torso. We felt quite honored to be included in this special experience. Our other days were spent in more predictably tourist pursuits.

We rented an apartment in Dorsoduro, a residential sestiere but within easy reach – if you don’t get lost – of most major churches and museums in Venice proper. We lived right above Tonolo, a famous bakery, and we would open our shutters each morning to the sight of the tiled roofs, the sound of San Pantelon’s bells and the aroma of fresh baked goods.

We took turns going downstairs each day to choose the morning pastries. Would you be surprised to hear that we were successful in our choices every day? We spent our days exploring, usually ate our meals out (save for a few fabulous ones we cooked ourselves in our tiny, little kitchen), and then played bridge late into the evening.

We had a great time walking and stumbling on, not in, various canals.

Venice is not faring well with its battle with the water level, and many former ground floors are clearly under water these days.

Mark was our map guy, and it turned out someone really did have to have a nose in a map the whole time. What a confusing city. Each sestiere has its own numbering system, and, while the numbers may go in order on one side of the street, the numbers across the way can seem totally unrelated. A good knowledge of parishes takes you a long way.

We loved watching to see how people live modern lives on ancient waterways. Tomatoes are sold off the boats loaded with produce.

We saw Guinness being delivered to Murano

as well as styrofoam for shipping all the glass.

And how does Venice deal with garbage? Little plastic bags of trash are set outside in the calle early each morning, picked up and put into a wheelbarrow of sorts, and then a boat with a crane lifts those bins and empties them into her hold with a great crash.

We came across a traffic light in our neighborhood along a busy canal.

Gondolas still serve tourists, primarily -

with their signature ferro or bow ornament.

We spent a few days riding vaporetti (water buses), and end of the day photos from the water captured the amazing light off the buildings in the Giudecca.

On the last day, after Anne and Tom had flown out, Mark and I got to watch the Vogalunga, something we had never even heard of before – and couldn’t figure out until we got back here to our computer and Google! The lower section of the Grand Canal was closed, and boats from all over Europe – kayaks, canoes, dragon boats, gondolas,

shells, dories – race some 30 km north across the lagoon to Burano and return coming through Cannaregio to St. Mark’s Basin – where, this year, a monster cruise ship sat in the lagoon and watched.

It was quite a sight.

As in much of Europe, people may have washing machines, but they still hang out their laundry to dry. After Tom's run-in (run-off?) with a pigeon, we were reluctant to hang our laundry outside, but the Venetians are undeterred. We saw many clotheslines -

including the chic, all black wardrobe,

the classic, well-balanced and tasteful line,

confident lines strung across a canal in the ghetto,

and clotheslines that fade out, overwhelmed by the colorfully painted houses on Burano.

With all the canals and former canals that have been paved over and made into walking areas, there is not a great deal of soil for growing flowers and trees in Venice. Some campi have central trees like the campo del Ghetto Nuovo. Venice's ghetto is the source for the term itself, which originally meant an iron foundry. It designated the area in which the city's Jewish population used to be confined.

Many houses have eye-catching window boxes or vines clinging to their walls.

There is a garden in Castello where this wonderful lion sits happily above a pool full of sunning turtles.

In addition to the art glass blown on Murano and the junky glass, some of which comes from Murano, we saw glass in other forms. Many of the churches have little bull's eye panes of glass. From the outside they look clear.

With light coming through them some panes show yellow or a pale purple.

There are newer bull's eye panes that have lovely variety.

There was always something new to notice - rooftops like San Marco and the Doge's palace,

campanile like San Pantelon's right outside our window,

and neighborhood churches. We visited Santa Maria dei Miracoli with its elegant,light marble inside and out.

Both times we went by weddings were underway. I restrained myself from photographing the bride and groom, their guests and the charming flower girl...

When we were not outside exploring, we were inside churches and museums. Titians and Tintorettos washed over us… but my favorites were Carpaccio’s flat, detailed compositions set in Venice, chock full of the details of life. The mosaics on the floor at Murano’s church, S. S. Maria e Donato, had a Byzantine feel to them and were indeed that old. San Marco’s mosaics glistened outdoors

and, when lit each day for an hour, the indoor mosaics sparkled as well. We all found marble tiled floors, old and new, that were spectacular. Now and then we would stumble on a lovely, simple of piece of sculpture. We dubbed this pigeon-repelling number Our Lady of Acupuncture.

People caught our eyes, too. We played Name that Nationality while we lunched at outdoor cafes, trying to identify country of origin based on apparel, pocketbooks and backpacks. This has become increasingly challenging as multi-national clothing companies homogenize dress. You can still learn a lot, though, just from checking out people's shoes.

What do you think?

And here is a new way to keep track of your school group.

We made one trip out of Venice, taking the Eurostar to Verona. Anne was feeling pretty cocky after we managed to successfully purchase our tickets. We zipped through the countryside in our rather posh train to arrive in Verona with its strong Roman presence.

Mark, Tom and I clambered to the top of the Arena. It has been through a lot in its two millennia - from earthquakes to gladiatorial games and naval engagements for which it had to be filled with water. Now it has a rather pedestrian function, operatic productions.

I felt like Anne had made the wise decision to stay put mid-way as I grabbed a hold of Tom to make my dizzying way down the pink marble steps and tiered seats.

After a sensational and reasonable (in comparison to Venetian prices) mid-day repast, we walked the city through its medieval streets.

The River Adige makes a U around the central city.

We were allowed to take photographs in churches here. This is one of two hunchback font bearers in Saint Anastasia...

But what really captured our attention there were the marble floors in all their great variety.

I think this is called tumbling blocks when it is used as a quilt pattern,

and this one is trickier.

Look at the motion in this one.

We also visited the Duomo which had wonderful carvings on its Romanesque exterior.

This is Jonah with a rather dragon-like whale a hold of him.

Saint Elena is alongside and holds the remains of an earlier Christian basilica, including mosaic floors

and a lovely fresco of a protective Madonna.

We packed a great deal more into our one day in Verona and loved the scale, character and architectural periods of the city. Our nine days in the Veneto were chock full, and you can count yourself lucky that I have restrained myself from sharing all the hundreds of photos I took! You know, Anne and Tom took photographs, too. I bet you could ask to see theirs as well.

We returned from Italy to Dublin with Mark’s first ton of exams graded, and he has set out to work on his next round. Lest you feel bad for us being stuck back in Ireland all by ourselves, I will assure you we were not on our own long. Jane Ferguson flew in a couple of days later. That is another story, and I am hoping I have time to tell it before we get busy again.

The trees around the duck pond were beginning to develop a spring flush.

A few blocks away sits Merrion Park, surrounded by handsome Georgian rowhouses. Lots of bulbs were blooming along the pathways,

and the heathers' pastels were lovely.

Mid-day, we hopped in our little car and steeled ourselves for Dublin traffic, which we knew would be worse than usual as it was Mother’s Day in Ireland – and a sunny one, to boot. We inched our way out of Dublin and headed down south to Brittas Bay, a beautiful sandy beach that reminded us of Nantucket’s South Shore with its beach grass dunes. The steady winds seem to dry out the sand, and it flows in little patterns down from the edge of the dunes.

The omnipresent gorse makes it clear that this is Ireland and not the outwash plains off the US northeast coast.

We were all happy to be there breathing in salt air on this brisk spring-like day, and I have to share with you this photo of my cheery companions.

We strolled along the beach as did couples and families playing with their dogs.

Smooth stones are strewn across the powdery fine sand, and Anne and I got caught up in hunting for beautiful lucky stones.

Mark even joined the hunt, and we gave him lots of positive reinforcement for applying aesthetic standards (of any sort).

As we gazed out to sea, Mark was the first to spot the off-shore windmills. We could just make out what appeared to be 7 windmills which turned to be about 4 miles off-shore at their closest point. I photographed them, but you will see they are (almost?) invisible. Apparently, there are some 200 turbines, each of which is 260 feet tall, along 16 miles of the Arklow Sandbank in the Irish Sea providing 10% of Ireland’s energy – at least that is what I have read. We hadn’t even noticed them at first, and it took some concentrated peering to see them once Mark had pointed them out. My vision isn’t that bad these days, thanks to Roger, so windpower quite literally looks like a good energy option to me these days.

Mark was teaching on Monday, and Anne and I hopped the city bus to Enniskerry where Powerscourt is. It was fall when I had been last there, and, as it was not yet raining and the weather had been mild, I was optimistic that spring had sprung in their gardens. I led Anne up into the front of the double-decker bus so that we would have a good view on our 45 minute trip. From there we would be able to see across fields, over walls into gardens, and, if we were lucky, how upstairs rooms are decorated. Anne was less enamoured than I of the thwap-thwap made by the tree branches whacking the front windows as we barreled along the narrow, winding roads that took us up into the village of Enniskerry. I find it quite exhilarating.

But she loved the views, and we snapped away as we hiked our way up out of the village into the grounds of Powerscourt. Note how the car parked in front of the understated garda (police) station matches the blue color the gardai use.

And then the pink sheet blowing on the clothesline went quite nicely with the painted house. Is this not a tasteful little village?

We wandered through the graveyard and grounds of the local, well-kept stone Church of Ireland house of worship and then up the long entrance to Powerscourt. To one side lies the golf course, but more interesting to us was Sugar Loaf Mountain in the distance with its snow-covered summit.

There were few visitors on this chilly March day, and we were able to photograph empty vistas - the stairway back up to the mansion,

and then back towards the south with the mansion behind us.

There was little spring-like growth, and that meant we could see the outlines of twisting branches.

There were many humungous monkey pod trees that Anne recognized from her visit with Steve back when he was living in Portland, Oregon.

In the tranquil Japanese garden we saw trees getting closer to budding

and then we stumbled on one of the huge rhododendrun trees that, for some reason, had burst into bloom quite early. What welcome and spectacular color.

We also realized that without the distracting colors of blossoms, we paid more attention to all the varieties of green in shrubbery,

and the statuary. This gentle lion reminded me of old Zonker at home in Rhinebeck.

Anne and I had two more days together in Dublin, foiled in our attempt to take a tour of the Ring of Kerry. The tour was cancelled as we were the only ones signed up. Hard to believe... Anyhow, we made our own fun in town as I took Anne around to notable establishments including TK Maxx (yes, the UK version of TJ Maxx, but, what with the high cost of living here and the value of the dollar these days, there are no deals to be had), Cleo's (a three generation family-run store that sells handwoven, handknit and other fiber works - and the staff there are warm and open) and the Bridge Gallery (the most interesting Irish pottery and glass in Dublin).

We spent the next chunk of March on the other side of the Atlantic. Mark and I went in separate directions much of the time. He was either in New Haven reading Rachel Carson’s files at the Beinecke or whomping golf balls with the pros from Dover in the Dominican Republic. I spent my time driving around – to South Hadley to see Jess, Anne, Janie, Xander, Kate and Danny, to New Haven to see Mom and the Bergers, to Red Hook to see more family and friends and to the Day School and Cope in Poughkeepsie. It was wonderful to see the people I have been e-mailing most of the year. I loved my time at school where I began to get to know the kids I will have in class next year, and I loved catching up with my colleagues/friends - just enough to know that I didn’t want to jump back into the fray quite yet.

Mark was able to join me for part of the time in South Hadley, and we were able to get our grandparental fixes. Janie and Xander have grown, no surprise.

Janie has been off oxygen since February 23, and she has also just graduated from her weekly weigh-ins at the doctor’s office. She is growing steadily – as is the beefier Xander. At their last weigh-ins on March 15, she was 8 lb. 6 oz, and he was 10 lb. 10 oz. They are awake much more during the day now. They both love to look at light sources – daylight out the window and light fixtures inside. Their musical mobile over their crib captures their attention for extended periods of time. We have been showing them the wonders of the malleable human face, too. When they lock eyes with us, they smile and move their lips and tongues as, of course, do we – no way of knowing which one of us starts it off.

Xander is the more vocal of the two, and it is he who coos/hums his way through a feeding.

Janie is quieter and calmer, but she is responsive and is beginning to make more sounds herself. All in all, both babies are pretty peaceful and can be soothed the brief times they do get fussy. Car rides, strolling and vegematics work wonders. The little darlings also seem to have come to grips with the concept of nighttime. They sleep their biggest chunks then, and for periods of time all four members of that Lytle family make it through the night for some 5-8 hours. You can see from the pictures how great they look, and they are one happy family.

Our time in the States flew by, and before we knew it we were winging our way back to Ireland, with Susan and Greg on our tails. We got in last Thursday AM, and they arrived in the PM. We had a jam-packed and fun Easter weekend with them. They were energetic, enthusiastic and ready for anything and everything.

The sun greeted us Good Friday morning so we hit the road. Although we had anticipated bad traffic, it seems that the Dubliners had left early for Easter weekend, and the roads were easily manageable. We went south out of Dublin, pausing on the Military Road for a view back over Dublin and the Irish Sea.

We took our time driving the spine of the Wicklow Mountains, pausing for shots of the countryside.

The English had built this road so that they could pursue rebellious Irish when they headed for the hills, and it now carves its way through newly forested areas, bogland and the stark moors where bike riders, walkers and touring cars can enjoy the almost moon-like landscape.

We were headed for one of our favorite spots, Glendalough, the valley of two lakes, where the priest, Kevin, first settled in what had originally been a Bronze Age tomb over looking the Upper Lake some 1500 years ago.

Within two hundred years, St. Kevin’s monastic city spread across the glacial valley, and thousands of students came to study there. Of course, the Vikings sacked the place, at least four times, and we have heard tales of them burning out the Round Tower each time. Mark and Greg, as the males in the group, were very impressed with the size of this tall, pointy structure, which is, in fact, a neck-craning 33 meters high.

The settlement has a graveyard, still in use, and the remains of several churches as well as a round, stone arch at the gateway. The steep, stone roof of St. Kevin's Kitchen (really a church)is in beautiful shape.

We hiked the nature trails, pausing to watch a farmer and his dog round up the sheep.

We couldn’t figure out why the round-up, but we were nonetheless impressed by the way the sheep herded themselves together. Mark’s and my last visit had been in the fall, and it was wonderful to see the signs of spring around the lake.

The bright yellow of the blooming gorse electrifies the landscape, but I hear tell that golfers are in awe of it more because of its stolid thorns.

The forest's green at this time of year comes from moss on bark and evergreen trees. It won't be long, though, until the deciduous trees leaf out.

We stopped for lunch at a pub that Mark and I have enjoyed in the past only to find that it was closed. Apparently, food cannot be served in sight of a working bar on Good Friday, but fortunately Guinness can be brought out to a dining room. So we settled ourselves comfortably in the adjoining hotel dining room. Susan and I had hearty beef and Guinness stew, and Greg was surprised by his vegetarian lasagne that had more mashed potatoes and mashed root vegetables on the side than his rather large lump of lasagne. It is amazing what dishes can be enhanced with some Irish potatoes.

After lunch we headed home by way of Bray, the town on the southern arm of Dublin's enormous, natural bay. We had another opportunity to collect lucky stones,

and Susan left with her pockets full of smooth, ringed stones.

Our second day with the Barlips was a Dublin day. We visited St. Stephen's Green to check for signs of spring,

Grafton Street for people and busker watching (the most intriguing of which was the marionette who interacted with the children in the crowd),

the Book of Kells (unfortunately, along with several busloads of tourists), the market at Meetinghouse Square where we tasted and selected Irish farmhouse cheeses to take home, the Chester Beatty Museum for its collection of prints, books and ecumenical overview of major world belief systems, and we eventually ended up at the Abbey Theatre for a lively evening performance of Improbable Frequencies, a musical about spies in World War II Dublin (keeping in mind that Ireland was neutral, if one could be, at the time).

Easter was really our third and last day with Susan and Greg, and we got up and off promptly to make the most of our time. We headed out of Dublin to the north this time into the Boyne River valley

and spent the morning at Newgrange, a huge Neolithic passage tomb. The tomb is remarkable - remarkable because of its amazing, internal state, its large size and its hard to fathom age. It dates from 3200 BCE, making it some six centuries older than the great pyramids of Egypt. We had an articulate, well-informed tour guide who both put people at ease and engaged them in the mystery of the site - this kind of job matches Irish cultural strengths to a tee. On the outside, the 80 meter in diameter, 13 meter in height mound dwarfs the individual.

On the inside one can only marvel at the corbel-vaulted roof that is canted so that not a drop of water has seeped in - over these 40 centuries. The quartz stones come from Wicklow, 80 kilometers to the south. Some of the stones weigh many tons. And the slit left above the entrance allows winter solstice sun rays to penetrate the interior and illuminate the tomb chamber for 17 minutes five days a year (IF the sun is out). There are 97 large kerbstones ringing the mound, and eleven of them have wonderful spirals and other geometric carvings on them.

Construction of this mound must have taken lifetimes. How did people move the monstrously heavy stones such great distances? What do the carvings represent? How did they so perfectly build the passage to line up with the sun's rays? One leaves this site in awe.

Our next destination was the town of Trim, and we headed cross country with our book of large-scale road maps in hand. As we attempted to match the unmarked roads in the countryside with the unmarked roads on the map, our erstwhile driver, Mark, took his eyes off the road - and we hit an enormous pothole, thus bringing us to a sudden and complete standstill. Mark then inched the car forward, around a corner and off the road into a parking lot at a country post office, was it? The four of us got out of the car and, on hands and knees, tried to determine how bad the damage was. A flat tire, was the first thought, however, the tire looked no flatter than before. But something was clearly wrong with the connection between the left front wheel and the steering wheel. Here we were - Easter afternoon, in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere.

Amazingly, two hours later, with the kind help of the young clerk at the Londis Top Shop down the main road a piece(equivalent to a Seven-Eleven), her boss over the phone, the AA (add another A to get the US equivalent), a local tow truck and repair garage kid from Navan, and a car rental man from Slane, we were back on the road again. We have been rescued by the Irish before, and Mark and I were, yet again, heartwarmingly amazed at the gracious help we were given every step of the way. So were Greg and Susan.

Mark was undeterred by the afternoon challenges, and we proceeded towards Trim. We managed to find the turn for the ruins of Bective Abbey, Ireland's second Cistercian monastery, that Mark and I remembered from four years ago.

We parked alongside the River Boyne by a wonderful, old arched bridge. We actually parked in a no parking zone, a lane that seems to belong to the Boyne Anglers, George, and I am sure there are A LOT of fish there, especially on a nice, misty day like this.

Sprinkling rain made it a brief stop and soon we were back on the road to Trim, the site of Ireland's oldest and largest Anglo-Norman castle. It struck us as pretty young in comparison to Newgrange, having been started only some 800 years ago. Mark, Greg and Susan are standing in front of the finest stretch of the curtain wall that runs from the River Boyne up to Castle Street.

Along this side there is a barbican built out over what used to be a moat at Dublin Gate, the gate that opened on to the road to Dublin.

Another bit of the moat is still watery at the canal where deliveries from the River Boyne were made.

It was getting a bit chilly in the damp, late afternoon, and we headed back to Dublin for our Easter supper and a Guinness. We were, not surprisingly, relieved in the end to get back to our flat in Shanagarry. We had had our adventure for the day - and, hopefully, for a while to come.

Since then, Mark and I have returned the rental car and picked up our wounded Mazda. It works now, but it needs more done. We will do that, we promise, before more guests come to visit. Rest assured!

Mark and I tromped quite a distance through the airport, as everyone must, to get to the bus which would shuttle us to the RER, the train into the city. There was a single and long line for tickets so I headed over to try out a ticket machine. This would be tricky because my French is just a touch rusty – and certainly my vocabulary had never included any tech/computer language, having studied in the dark ages. But knowing that there is always an “I quit” button somewhere, I started to respond to the French screen. I seemed to have entered a destination, number of tickets, something about plein tariff (full price, I guessed), aller-retour (must mean round trip), and then numbers popped up, what seemed to be a rather large sum of money. As I pondered whether I had erred somewhere, a man in Orthodox dress appeared behind me and asked me a question, in French, of course. I laughingly explained that I didn’t really speak French and was just trying to figure out the machine because the ticket window line was so long. He joined in, and we re-tried. He seemed amazed that I was managing the machine, and he was also somewhat startled by the sum required, apparently, to get to Paris. The two of us headed over to the information booth and found out that we were at the correct machine and had come up with the correct amount as well. So, my compatriot and I returned to tackle technology again, chatting. He described himself as a man of the world though originally from the south of France, and he found it quaint (or did he say, cute) to hear that we are living in Ireland. At the machine, he proceeded to purchase his ticket with a credit card. I, on the other hand, was less successful. I found that the machine would only take French credit cards (of which Mark and I are short these days as must many be who travel through the international airport) or coins – and we would have needed 31 euros, which, let me tell you, weigh a half a ton each. So, I rejoined Mark in the ticket window line. We were now more than half way through, and the wait did not seem so long, even though it was way past our dinner hour.

Our trip into Paris went quickly from there. We awaited the express RER, which Irish friends had told us would shorten the journey by half an hour. A seven minute wait and a half hour later we were in the metro station at St.Michel, walls tiled in colorful shards of sunlight, and then above ground heading west on St-Germain. There were few others on the street on Wednesday at 10 PM, and the menacing snowfall had only left little piles of white around the bases of lampposts and trees. Parked cars that had spent the day on the side streets had an inch or two still on their roofs. Bistros were open, store windows alit dressed in strikingly fresh and good taste, and movie theatres advertised the mostly American films on view, including Fils de Chucky. In twenty minutes we were at Hotel de Bonaparte, a familiar entry in the row of attached buildings, with its glass doors sliding open for us, the doorbell announcing our arrival and the friendly, bilingual Frenchman at the desk. We quickly dumped our luggage in our little second floor double (third, to Americans) which overlooked the street and headed out and around three corners for a late dinner. The haricots verts were as I remembered them, cooked to perfection (not squeaky and not squooshy) with a lovely Dijon dressing, the highlight of my meal. We were not only the last people in the restaurant to be starting dinner, we were also the oldest. How did it happen that so much of the world is younger than we are now?

Our first morning in Paris dawned sunny and brisk, and there were no signs of the forecasted snow. Mark started his day with a chocolat, but I could not resist café au lait to wash down my hard roll and croissant that is the French/hotel breakfast. How easy it is to return to caffeine. We hurried on out to walk in the sunlight
and worked our way along the Seine,

towards and then past Notre Dame

and its snow-covered gardens,
across Ile St-Louis (NOT stopping for ice cream at Berthillon, believe it or not) and the Seine

on into the Marais to follow a walking tour Mark had found in our guidebook.

Monks and Knights Templar settled in the Marais in the 13th century, and the religious street names, as in the rue Temple, reflect that era. A medieval wall has been incorporated into the wall of the Lycee Charlemagne that edges its football pitch on one side and the street on the other. In the 17th century the aristocracy followed Henry IV into the Marais as he built what is now the place des Vosges,

along with its arcade,

and they constructed lovely creamy colored mansions. Some of these hotels particuliers now house government departments or museums. The Hotel de Sully currently has an exhibit of a former colleague of Mark’s from Bard, the photographer, Stephen Shore.

The pink brick Hotel de Chevry seems to be a library now. Caddy corner from the hotel particulier where the government handles internal disputes in the civil service (helas!) is a 17th century relief of a winemaker, perhaps suggesting a source of solace after the resolutions of said disputes.
A little passageway leads to the side entrance of the Eglise St-Louis-St-Paul, a Jesuit church from the 17th century. Aside from a couple of street people bringing their belongings in from the cold, Mark and I were the only people there. Paris, all in all, was still while we were there. It was a peaceful and quiet time to explore.

The Marais later became the Jewish quarter and in the 1960’s into the early 1970’s became gentrified (again, when you think about it), now drawing a significant gay population. Wandering through this historic area affords excellent eating and fun shopping.

During our travels we located wedding dresses for Kate

and options for Danny the groom as well. These items are all in raw silk and, we were drawn to the festive three-piece set with the longer jacket – but are they your colors, Danny?

After (salty) mussels and (salty) onion soup and (fabulous, thankfully) draft beer alongside the place des Vosges,we footed our way over to the Musee des Arts and Metiers. As with many Parisian museums, this was much more than we could take in thoroughly in an afternoon. However, we enjoyed looking at and trying to read about applied technology from astrolabes and sets of stacking brass weights to jacquard looms, tunnels, bridges the French had built in their colonies, velocipedes and the TGV. There was a particularly wonderful airplane with very large feathers for propellers, about which we could find no information about how much time it actually spent in the air.
The model trains were gorgeous, and we thought of you, Jesse. That night we had dinner at a favorite, Bistrot Aux Charpentiers, which felt like the right place after our afternoon. It has carpenters’ models of roof frames and old photographs of the carpenters themselves – and it was in our hotel’s neighborhood, in deference to our tired feet.

Day two also started out sunny, and after the previous day’s shift to snow in the afternoon, we knew we should at least start out outdoors in the good weather. We had hoped to walk through the Luxembourg gardens, but it was locked up.

Instead we made our way across the street to rue de Fleurus to locate Gertrude Stein’s flat. Having read both The Book of Salt and The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas this fall, I had the urge to see her neighborhood, which is still a residential area and quite nice.

While our destination for the day was really the Louvre, we went by way of Le Bon Marche, opened originally in the mid 19th century. Though “good market” can mean bargain, that is not the case here. This is an amazing department store full of a vast range of excellent quality everything. I wanted to look at the colorful jacquard table linens, and, on our way to check about tax back, we wandered through many other departments. Had there been readily available salespeople, I know I would have returned with fanciful buttons, dyed faux fur ribbons, embroidered dragonfly patches, and knitting yarns in addition to fabrics. We were tempted by the zotty (but very pricey) stockings and socks. Mark was amazingly patient as I poked my way around these specialized departments. And, guess what? We hadn’t in the end spent enough money to qualify for tax back!

We walked north to the Seine. From the river the big, blocky Louvre, first a fortress, then a palace, now a museum for the past 200 and some years, is all you can see, far too large to photograph. Up close you see the textured surfaces.

We entered through the Portes des Lions, the cats still edged in snow.

Once in the courtyard, it is I. M. Pei’s pyramid that draws your eye. Mark and I talked about how it relates/doesn’t relate to the original Louvre as we regarded it from the gate, in the courtyard, from within and through gallery windows.

It is most certainly a highly functional entry and gathering space, and the daylight inside is wonderful.

While Parisian streets seemed sparsely peopled, the Louvre seemed full by comparison. Nonetheless, it wasn’t crowded, and we could choose to visit whatever part we wanted. We even thought we could take a peek at the Mona Lisa, and, though we could actually get somewhat close to the glass covered painting, the crowd itself was more intriguing.

Throughout many museums and even most of the Louvre, people are allowed to take photographs. The museum map asks people not to use flash, but we never witnessed anyone of the many guards restrict a visitor’s use of flash. In fact, at the Mona Lisa, the flashes were constant. I had seldom traveled through a museum before with a camera, but I had our digital with us and decided to capture a few myself. The 18th century painting of the Grande Galerie du Louvre, jam-packed from floor to ceiling, did not look all that different from today in fact.

I was also intrigued by the rather grotesque 16th century four seasons paintings by Arcimboldo and snapped spring...

and summer.

And having lived with an eel in the classroom with Mary Ellen, this fish market caught my eye.

Mark and I spent much of our time with the Italian paintings. There is no way a camera will capture the subtlety and richness of those colors and textures. Museum-itis struck, as it always does and especially so in a museum as vast as the Louvre. So, after a lunch break and a tour of painting from the Netherlands and Flanders, we hit the streets again.

Mark had found another walking tour in our guide that looked like fun. Back when Paris had no sidewalks or sewers, shopping wasn’t particularly pleasant. During the peace and prosperity of the 19th century, 150 passages couvertes were built, covered shopping arcades. There are 18 of them still around these days, some recently renovated and handsome, some fairly grungy. As the sky turned grey again, we took on some serious window shopping in the arcades and passages just north of the Louvre. It turned into a curious museum experience itself walking by art galleries with antiquities or contemporary work, toy stores with wind-ups, tea shops, Internet cafes, classrooms, shops selling war medals, books, music boxes, lead soldiers, discount shoes, Asian fast food, musical instruments, antique dolls, vintage clothing, designer fashions, or antique clothing - all specialty businesses. Exhausted, Mark took us into a creperie where we rekindled ourselves with a sweet, something we figured we will actually attempt to recreate at home. We pulled ourselves back together and headed south towards our hotel. When we walked back through a Louvre courtyard at the end of the day, the sunlit stone block was gorgeous.

The Seine softened in the late afternoon light as well.

We had our last dinner in our neighborhood once again as there are many choices just around a few corners. Though tempted by the name L'Enfance de Lard, its menu was less interesting than that of Boucherie Rouliere . We had a dining experience that incorporated all the basic elements of our Parisian meals - freshly baked, dense and tasty bread, lovely and affordable wine, and interesting sauces. Although smoking is banned in public places and theoretically limited to smoking areas in restaurants, there was no evidence that the French pay any attention to those parameters. Smokers sat either side of us this evening, and one took care to exhale behind herself rather than into our faces in the tightly packed space. Tiny dogs accompany their owners off-leash into restaurants and usually are quite well-behaved. Tonight's chien felt the urge to issue a bark every two or three minutes, and his mistress would respond each time with an ineffectual shhhh! We could only laugh - and then walk home carefully, with our eyes peeled, avoiding the inevitable droppings that Parisian dogs leave everywhere.

Saturday was our third and last day, and there was no snow in the forecast. We packed up, checked out, left our suitcases for a later return and made our way over to the Institut du Monde Arabe. On our way we saw, and then heard, recycling in action.

A crane lifts up the large green cylinder, holds it over the truck’s container and the glass contents cascade from the base with an extended, enormous crash, only sounding like breaking glass as the last few bottles drop. Quite a startling experience.

At that same spot on the rue des Ecoles, Anne and Anne-Lise, we were interested to see how Paris deals with insufficient classroom space.

However, the most interesting structure on our walk was the Institut itself, built of metal and glass with mouche-arabies. These photo-sensitive openings regulate the light and heat that enters the building – and are reminiscent of traditional lattice work in the Arab world.

While most people were lining up for an exhibit on Ancient Egypt, Mark and I headed for Le Ciel Dans un Tapis, a gorgeous exhibition of woven rugs primarily from the 16th and 17th centuries. The earlier rugs tended to have simpler geometric designs and fewer colors. The later were more intricate, often with floral elements, with more shading and quite intriguing to investigate close up. The lighting was subdued, and people whispered as they looked. This was one time I wished my French was stronger so that I could have understood accompanying text more fully.

As we emerged from the low lit, quiet exhibition, we were struck by the brightness of the winter day. We hurried along to keep warm and crossed the Seine to Ile St-Louis’s more residential area, under the arch,

and we came up to a lovely lace curtain.

We were actually headed on over to Sainte-Chappelle on the next island, Ile-de-la-Cite, but we had to stop for mustard purchases on our way. We passed Notre Dame on its north side and were struck by the shades of its stone - almost black, sandy or white - reflecting how recently an area had been cleaned.

We ran into our first waiting line at St Louis’s Sainte-Chappelle. Each of the museums we had been in so far had x-rayed our bags, but this was the first one to have a wait both there and at the ticket window. We figured it was worth it in order to revisit the stained glass windows in bright daylight. Unfortunately, by the time we got in, the sun was wrestling with the clouds, and the chapel was darker than we had remembered. Nonetheless, you can get some sense of the upper chapel (for the holy relics, the king and his entourage) from these photos – the colorful floors,

the richly painted fleur-de-lys lower walls and columns,

and the upper two-thirds of the walls seem to be all colored glass (most of it the original 13th century work), primarily blues and reds in the twelve windows around three walls which retell the biblical story of humankind from creation through Christ’s redemption.

The Apocalypse in the rose window in the west has more white.

In the lower chapel (for the palace staff) the low ceilings are painted like a starry sky,

and each glass window represents one of the twelve Apostles.

We spent quite some time in the upper chapel enjoying the light, but hunger eventually sent us back out into the cold.

We eventually found a restaurant still serving lunch, refueled with some incomparable cream sauces, and then headed back to our hotel to pick up our luggage and retrace our steps on the RER to the airport. Walking up a side street, we heard what sounded like a brass band – and it was, and a rather pink one.

They were energetic, had a sense of humor and played quite a range of music, classical and pop. Most strollers on St-Germain just walked on by. How could they? Pulling our suitcase along the sidewalk we also came across a pianist, whose upright rested on a four-wheeled platform. He was pounding away, playing lively tunes. A couple stopped to listen. Everyone else went about their business, whatever that is on a Saturday in the 6e arrondissement – shopping? We were on our way to the airport and home in Dublin where we, too, have buskers - but they play fiddles and accordians.

It always feels good to get home to your own bed, and we have wonderful memories of our full, three days in Paris. I have just finished breakfast and have dabbed my mouth with my new French napkin, butterflies woven in to remind me that spring is not far off. Looking forward to seeing many of you in person soon...

Both were in good shape, but the final touches involving coordinated breathing, sucking and swallowing were still to be learned. Evidence of success would show in weight gain. So they spent their first twelve days in Baystate’s NICU. They quickly shed various tubes and wires. Feeding tubes for pouring Anne's milk into their tummies remained in place.

I was able to come home in time for their one week birthday, and I picked up Mom/Gran, the great grandmother, in North Branford. The two of us traveled together to see the new babies. Gran held Alexander, and I held Janie.

Mark arrived a week later and was the first to hold the pair at one time.

Shortly, they graduated into the Continuing Care Nursery. Many visitors in addition to their parents came by and had a chance to cuddle the little babes.

On January 7, Xander headed home, and four days later on January 11 Janie joined the family at home.

Mark, now known as Papa, had to head back for second semester classes at UCD on January 9. But I, Abu, on sabbatical myself, could make my own schedule. I settled in with Anne and Jess in South Hadley for the next several weeks. I made myself useful cooking, stoking the woodstove, doing errands, cleaning (ever so briefly) and holding, changing and feeding babies whenever I had the chance. These sweet little babies slept well and often, and they learned to nurse and to drink from a bottle - that being the easier task. Needing less sleep than in my earlier years, I happily volunteered for the middle of the night wake-up feeding. No two nights were ever the same, but somehow I changed, fed, burped and rocked both babies and put them back down, even remembering to turn Janie’s oxygen up at the beginning and down at the end. Janie was to continue with increased oxygen for a half hour after eating, and I wondered whether I would stay awake for that half hour. It turned out to be a treasured, peaceful time. I would sit by their crib in the rocker under the gentle glow of Tom’s lamp and knit, watching them through the end slats. A half hour later I would tiptoe downstairs to the oxygen tank to readjust the dial, rinse the bottles and then sneak back up to my cozy bed for a couple more hours of sleep. If I were really lucky, the dogs missed my footsteps going downstairs, and I didn’t have to quietly but firmly point out to them that it was not yet time for their breakfast.

As the days went by, Xander and Janie had more wakeful moments, fortunately during daylight hours.

Concentric black and white circles captured their attention.

Babies sleep on their backs these days so they need tummy time for exercising more muscles. Can you imagine lifting your legs like they do?

Both lift their heads, but Alexander seems to have a notable amount of stamina for this challenge.

They also are both intrigued by the mobile over their crib. Janie especially likes it up close and personal.

One Sunday, when Kate and Danny were visiting, we contacted Mark by phone and on-line. We used little video cams so that we could see each other across the ocean on our computer screens, and we donned the telephone headphones so we could hear each other as well. Xander happened to be awake so he caught a snippet of a Papa lecture, and Mark could hear Xander's little sounds, most of which we feel mean that he is hard at work processing, that his digestive tract is in gear, or, as Jesse puts it, he's having office hours.

Still, much of their days were spent asleep. Anne's grandfather had made a cradle that now holds Janie and Xander when they are downstairs during the day in the livng room near the warmth of the woodstove. They seem to settle down best when swaddled in their cozy flannel blankets. Note their jaunty caps, handknit during the dark of the night by their loving Abu!

They also sleep well in their crib upstairs in their sunny yellow bedroom. Don't they look peaceful? There are times when we would find them trying to worm their arms up and free, often out of the neck opening of the stretchsuit. We especially appreciated what we thought of as Janie's alien imitation. She can stretch her neck way high, reminding us of an alien emerging forcefully from its chrysalis.

As a grandparent, you get all the joys of babies for a fraction of the effort and worry of parenthood. The parents were the ones to be concerned about whether the bathwater was the right temperature for their first baths at home, and I got to be the swaddler and photographer. Then I got to have my picture taken, too!

Anne and Jess are seemingly tireless, patient, enthusiastic and loving parents. They are also sensible and generous. Janie and Xander are lucky little kids. I also count myself incredibly lucky to have had the time and opportunity to share their new babies with them. It was not without tears that I wrenched myself away on February 2.

I brought these photos of the babies with me, and I marvel at their growth over the first 8 weeks of their lives. At their due date towards the end of January, they looked like healthy little newborns. Xander weighed 6 lb. 13 oz., and Janie weighed 6 lb. 2 oz.

Fortunately, I had Mark and Ireland to return to, no small thing - and plane tickets for a trip back in March!

P.S. I was just chatting with Anne and listening to Xander sounds, and I told her how hard it was to send only these few photos. Would you be surprised to know that there are hundreds in existence? You can count your lucky stars that I was somewhat circumspect. (And you can also ask for more!)

We had loved exploring the castle four years ago, and we decided to have a special lunch nearby. We were not surprised to find that our chosen restaurant was not open. In this case, they are remodeling during the off-season. It is great to travel here quietly in the off-season – except that many things turn out to be closed down. We shrugged, asked a passer-by for a recommendation, and had a lovely, rich Irish stew in a pub nearby - and I had my first fresh Guinness in 8 weeks.

We made good time down to Cork, even as the highway slowed to a crawl through village centers. We aimed to beat the forecasted rain and hustled out to walk the port city.
City centre is an island in the middle of the River Lee, and the northern part of the city rises steeply away from the river. Some of the narrow alleys accommodate the little cars, and some are for pedestrians. The British used most of Ireland’s wood centuries ago to build their navy so most houses were necessarily made of stone and plaster. Whitewash has given way to cheery colors, which seem especially welcome on grey days. Quickly fading, again, it seemed to be time for another feeding, and we were lucky to have an amazing vegetarian dinner at Le Café Paradiso, touted as one of the best veggie restaurants in Europe. We tried to remember the interesting combinations of ingredients with varied textures and flavors. The Portobello mushrooms with crispy, crushed nuts atop were the highlight until dessert arrived – limono paradiso or supremo or ultima (whatever, sensational) – a perfect contrast to the dinner proper – four miniature lemon treats - canoli, tart, cake and sherbet. This restaurant came into being some 20 years ago, quite an adventurous attempt in this carnivorous county. Now Cork is famous for its exceptional and varied dining options. It is also famous for its English Market, a collection of food stalls in a large, U-shaped passageway in city centre. We found (chewy, amazingly) sourdough bread, garlic olives and local cheese, aged some 14 years. Were we ourselves local, we would have bought fresh fish as well. The English Market was originally named such because they supplied meat to the British navy – and offal to the Irish. We could also have taken home a nice hunk of tripe or drisheen.

Friday was conference day, “The World After 9/11,” where Mark spoke at University College Cork about the roots of the conservatism we see much of in US government these days. As I was included in the lunch before and the dinner after (Did we do anything other than eat?), I felt a certain obligation to attend the conference as well. It turned out to be quite interesting. I noticed one member of the audience in particular, who was responding in a lively fashion. She would nod her head, make notes, chuckle at asides and even raised questions. How un-Irish! And, of course, she wasn’t Irish. We met her afterwards, and Liz turned out to be an American professor of history at UC Cork who had, along with her husband, moved to Ireland some 30-odd years ago. We quickly realized that, though we did not know each other, we had actually both gone to Vassar at the same time and had even lived in the same dorm. I enjoyed hearing about her life choices and, in particular, how Ireland has changed over the last 30 years. When we bumped into her and her husband the next morning at the bread stall in the English Market, it was like running into an old friend.

Our good fortune with the weather continued Saturday morning and into the afternoon, and Mark and I strolled over to the art museum at the university to take in the Irish Craft Council's 40 Shades of Green. We drooled over some wooden bowls, dyed and inlaid with dots of silver. Shortly we took to the open roads again. We headed for Yeoghal (as in “Y’all come back.”) only to find, no surprise, that the pottery there was not open, despite the open sign and the listing that indicated it would be open. We stopped by Yeoghal's harbor and sucked in the brisk salt air, and looked across the calm bay to the headland. From there we decided to head more directly to our destination for the day and night, Ballymaloe House. We traveled along unmarked, narrow roads, fortunately not meeting much traffic coming the other way. Did we see one car? High hedgerows meant we couldn’t see the surrounding area, but we were able to stop at one widened section of road and climb up to see out over the farmlands and to the sea.
We buzzed by Stephen Pierce’s pottery (actually, more of a factory these days) and stopped abruptly, just one driveway past a sign for Micky Donovan’s pottery. A quick turn-around and we pulled in where Micky was wiring lamps he had built. As we exited his little shop, we started chatting with him – and, seemingly out of the blue, he asked whether we knew of Nantucket. It turns out that he is the ill-fated potter who briefly had a shop down the side street by the Dreamland Theatre on Nantucket. What a small world. At that point, then, we had to make a purchase. We left the large pots with raised sperm whales in his shop and brought home with us two lovely, simple bowls in his trademark matte, sandy glaze.

Once more we were on the road to Ballymaloe, only getting waylaid one more time as we ended up at the cooking school rather than the country house. I was considerably cowed as we pulled up to the former castle now just a manor house.
What were we doing in such fine surroundings?

We were quickly put at our ease by the family staff who make a point of being friendly and welcoming. Amazed that the rain was still holding off, we left our worldly goods in The Blue Room (our bedroom that looked out on to the gardens) and strolled around the grounds, which include the working farm (and our dinner, still alive), a short golf course, tennis and swimming pool. Snow drops blossomed in clumps. Daffodils and rhododendron were getting underway. Had the trees begun to leaf, it would have really seemed like spring.
The colorful sunset gave us hope for the morrow, and that evening we heard a new version of “Red sky at night” where shepherds, not sailors, are looking to good weather in the morning.

The Allen family is famous for its cooking, using fresh local produce, fish and meat, and Mark and I were bowled over by the fabulous 5 course dinner we were treated to. Mark’s favorite moment may have been when the waitress came over and asked him if he would like seconds – or perhaps it was the sampling of unusual, local cheeses before dessert. My favorite moment was the soup, both Mark’s and mine – mine was Jerusalem artichoke and mushroom with hazelnuts sprinkled on top, and Mark’s was a creamy pea with coriander and chili. After dinner we walked out under the stars, returning shortly to the drawing room where we settled down in comfortable stuffed chairs to listen to traditional (well, not really – more folky/pop) musicians and a poet reading her work. We were among about 20 other guests. We were the sole Americans among mostly Irish - a staid, upper crusty couple whose toes tapped lightly to the music, a flamboyant gay couple, youthful yuppies, and two couples from the neighboring county Kerry who were splurging celebrating one of their 58th birthdays. There was also an unusual trio - a hip young Englishman with, perhaps, his mother along with his Jamaican partner. Everyone sipped Guinness, coffee, brandy or port and hung around for quite some tiime. We headed to bed hours later and listened to the confused rooster out back announce the time.

On Sunday morning the fine weather persisted, and, after a tasty breakfast with farm fresh eggs and warm, chewy (Again! Wow!) raisin bread, we left for the beach in Ballynamona. (Bally, by the way, is the English version of the Irish word baille [pronounced, “bah-lyeh”] which means town - hence, many Irish towns start with Bally.) It was low tide and the cold wind blowing across the flats was the first wintry chill we had had. After we drove up the winding, steep, narrow streets to the top of the cliffs in Ballycotton, we decided it was time to head back to Dublin.

We drove the southern coast road east through rolling farmlands and then headed north through Waterford. We made a quick pit stop at Jerpoint Abbey, a lovely Cistercian abbey on the main (but you know what that means now) highway back to Dublin. My favorite carved figures looked none the worse for wear since four years ago. They just sit there, those saints, quite chipper on the end of the tomb.

Within an hour of Dublin, pouring rain greeted us, and we knew the party was over. We were safely back at Shanagarry before dark, and the time had come to really settle back in to our life in Ireland.

The weather gods have given me a gift since. It has cleared again and, along with it, my spirits. Mark and I are looking forward to the visitors who have planned to come this spring. Ireland is a place to be experienced, not viewed from afar. Prepare yourselves to wander the countryside, meet friendly people and eat good food!

But nothing goes as one expects…

We chose the 2:20 train so that we would have daylight for most of our crossing to the west coast. Since we had decided not to drive ourselves, Mark wouldn’t be contending with the unpredictable road traffic, and I wouldn’t exhaust myself twitching as the always alert backseat driver. We could just sit back and relax and enjoy the scenery. We were quickly out of Dublin and shooting across the flat, green countryside where cows were grazing in the east and then more and more sheep as we headed west. Stone walls divided the fields, overflowing streams meandered through the countryside and upstart ponds appeared in lower areas. Lone houses cropped up, a little village at a crossroad, and bigger towns with heaps of waste of one sort or another near the tracks. With our late departure we lost light earlier in our journey than I had hoped and we arrived to a Galway night.

Having been there four years ago, we remembered how city centre is laid out, and we trundled off toward the Spanish Arch Hotel. “Location, location, location,” as realtor Helen Battistoni would have put it. We were staying in the perfect place for our two day visit – near the Corrib River as it empties into Galway Bay, amidst all the restaurants and shops, eagerly awaiting our Christmas shopping pocketbooks. The pedestrian streets were lit up with tasteful white lights set in green swags strung between the buildings. Shops are open late on a Friday night and sparkling with Christmas décor – Santas, angels and a sprinkling of snow on the Donegal sweaters, which, unfortunately, resembled dandruff during the daytime.

A peat fire greeted us in the little wood paneled reception area at Spanish Arch Hotel, a 20 room hotel which had originally been a Carmelite convent. Nuns no more, let us say. Our dimly lit bedroom was dominated by a rich orange, rust and olive velvet, swagged double bed.
The single tall window had a matching drape that must have weighed 50 kilos. We felt at home, though, as the little TV perched in a corner was identical to the one in our flat in Dublin. However, there were two differences between the two tvs – the hotel TV received even fewer channels than ours, and its remote buttons had not been nibbled down by Mary’s rabbit.

We dumped our stuff and headed out to explore, with our Bridgestone Irish Food Guide under our arm. The streets were full of families, shoppers, diners and pub goers, stopping to enjoy the various street musicians and performers. Mark, with his eye open for Galway oysters, took us into a little restaurant down a side street, where we stopped and had a pint of Guinness along with oysters for Mark and fabulous mussels steamed gently in a garlic cream sauce for me. They were cooked perfectly, still tender and juicy. These taste treats took the edge off our appetites, and we wandered the streets refreshed. We came across a touted Chinese restaurant, and we eagerly concurred that it was high time for some good Chinese food. Well, we had had such good luck with all of Bridgestone’s other recommendations that we never paused to consider the actual likelihood of there being good Chinese food in Galway. What were the clues we missed? Well, the name of the restaurant was Royal Villa – Oriental Food – not especially Chinese, right? How about fancy linens and western flatware at the table? How about the enormous chunks of food too big to eat without being cut with a fork and knife? How about the generic dishes on the menu from three different cuisines – Chinese, Thai and Indian? How about no tea brought to the table? How about coffee instead? Yes, we ended up quite disappointed with our dinner – more Chirish than Chinese. It was bland and overcooked. The best I can say is that they didn’t serve potatoes with the meal.

We headed back to our hotel, chastened.

When we had checked in earlier, the receptionist had mentioned that there would be live music that night – well, actually, both Friday and Saturday nights – the same group and, brilliant, really – Paul Byrne and the Green Onion Band. No problem for us, she spoke assuredly. After all, we were staying on the third floor, and the band would be playing on the first floor. Mark and I returned from dinner and headed off to the pub in the hotel to enjoy the music. The band wasn’t bad musically, and they played lots of songs we knew – Van Morrison, the Kinks, James Taylor, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones... But it was a shame that only one member of the band sang. Fortunately, the crowd that quickly packed the pub was enthusiastic – the hen party there to celebrate Melissa’s impending wedding, the young men trolling, babes, women friends and lots of mature couples. People sang along with the band. The entire pub burst into song as the band broke into American Pie. We were astounded that this was the song to bring the crowd together and to life in chorus. After that number, we retired to our third floor room, only to discover that our window opened on to the glass roof above the pub area. Some time after 1:30 the band retired, and I only had Mark’s snoring to contend with in order to find a quiet night’s sleep.

Saturday was to have been a rainy day, but we made it through until after lunch with only clouds. We spent the morning browsing our neighborhood – the walk along the Corrib towards the bay,
the narrow streets, the shops and
the pubs. The weekly market around St. Nicholas’s parish church was just up the street from us. Farmers with their vegetables,
an Inishmaan man with his smoked salmon, a donut maker, a crepe maker, bread bakers, cheesemongers, an olive stand with a huge bin of lavender as well, a potter, jewelers, a leatherworker, a sculptor with his bog wood carvings and then scads of people selling imported Asian jewelry and textiles. The quality was mixed, but Mark sampled fabulous oak smoked salmon, and each of us chose a fresh, savoury crepe for lunch.

We took our lunch away from the packed market and watched a busker manipulate his marionette at the piano.
The pianist was half the size of the captivated two and four year olds. The busker looked much like his marionette and the pair responded to each overture from the youngest members of the audience with a face-on stare or a nod of the head and a quick bow. Parents gave their children coins to put in the hat, and the bravest (usually the oldest) would drop their coin and then stand transfixed as the miniature pianist played Moonlight Sonata.
When he played a perkier piece, then a young, shy observer broke into dance. We have noticed that the Irish often contribute money to street performers as well as those collecting for charity, and this time we observed the young age at which their children learn to do so.

As the sky darkened and a few drops began to fall, we decided we needed to get moving. We dropped off our packages at the hotel (Did I mention that we had done some lovely Christmas shopping? The west coast is where the sheep, yarn, knitters and weavers predominate.), and we headed up along the river walk towards the cathedral. (The Catholic Cathedral of Our Lady Assumed into Heaven and St. Nicholas – there’s a mouthful) In many ways, walking and photographing Irish cities can be more beautiful in the rain. There is no reflection from vehicles, construction sites, trash and enamel graffiti paint. However, there is still trash around and in the rivers (less since they started charging for plastic bags). As we walked upstream alongside the Corrib, Mark saw a large white bag floating in the river – which, in this case, turned out to be an up-ended swan looking for eats. What a hoot. The swan would stretch out and down his long neck, tilting his body and rear tuft straight up to the sky, and stay that way at times long enough for my VERY SLOW digital camera to take a picture.

We did make our way up to the cathedral, which felt brand new (fresh stonework and more contemporary stained glass) and had in fact been dedicated by Cardinal Cushing in the mid-sixties.
The wind had started to blow the rain so our trip back down the Corrib to our hotel was a wet one. We retired with our books for the rest of the rainy afternoon. After it stopped, we ventured forth once again, hoping to catch a traditional music session at the pub nearby, but there was no live music. We settled instead for rugby as the Irish team came back from a 19-6 deficit to beat Argentina 21-19 on a last second dropkick. The crowd, while appreciative, did not have the raucous joy of, for instance, Red Sox fans.

We had been smarter about this evening’s dinner and had even booked from Dublin before we left. It was a return visit for us to what had become hot, The Quay Street Wine Bar, Martine’s, where four years previously we had first dined with the Carneys. We had a table for two in the front window which afforded fun people-watching – the great mix we see everywhere – families, couples, singles, groups of buddies – and, despite the central role of drink, a comfortable, up-beat crowd. Mark and I had lovely, fresh seafood. After dinner we took another pass by the traditional music pub, to no avail, and this time we chose to listen to our hotel music from the comfort of our bedroom. It is amazing what one can sleep through.

Sunday was a glorious morning, and we headed out to walk the edge of the bay and back up the Corrib again. It was low tide.
The moon had been full the night before, and so we anticipated an exceptionally low tide as happens on Nantucket. The rocky shore stretched out into an enormous flat with some sandy stretches but largely seaweed-covered boulders. Someone was out collecting, mussels, we figured, and he was pulling his bike along with him.
Look closely at right of center for the yellow slicker. Mark and I strolled along, and encountered the inevitable palm tree, somehow able to weather Atlantic shore winters.

We walked out the long causeway towards a restricted area, which Mark guessed was a prison, but turned out to be the waste treatment plant on Mutton Island. In the distance we finally determined that we must have been seeing the Burren outline to the south.
With the sun out, the sky was blue not grey. There was light and shadow. At this time of year the sun's path is quite low in the sky. You squint when you face it, and your shadow is long.

We left the brisk sea breeze and walked back towards the canals off the Corrib, through canal neighborhoods with startlingly green trees,

circling past the cathedral and back down towards Quay Street.

After we had hiked over the rocky shores and
up and down streets, through University College Galway,
for a couple of hours, I realized that I had worn the wrong shoes. So we picked up a Sunday paper and sat outside at a café sipping café latte and hot chocolate, enjoying the weekly book reviews and provocative style section. Our beverages quickly cooled, and it was time to head back to the train station. We wanted to get seats traveling back on the southern side of the tracks for a fresh view. We found just what we were looking for, and shortly before the train departed, an older Irishwoman joined us. She accepted our offer of the paper and then we chatted about the sunny, spring-like weather (weather always being the first topic of conversation) and what lovely scenery we were enjoying. Sarah, as with every Irish person we have met, has relatives in the States; her grandmother had immigrated to Pittsburgh at the turn of the last century. Her family hailed from Glendalough, a little town nestled at the foot of the mountains south of Dublin that borders St. Kevin’s monastery, one of our favorite walking spots. The Healeys were evicted generations ago, and Sarah is a Dominican living not far from us in Donnybrook. Conversation turned to how Ireland has changed, a central issue in most people’s lives here, as people no longer greet each other on the streets of Dublin, pine tree plantations destroy good soil and cities spread, gobbling up lovely countryside. But some things remain the same. Express trains take as long as locals, and everyone goes with the flow. We returned to Dublin as the sun was going down Sunday, invigorated by our fresh experiences and glad to be home again in our flat on the Dodder.

"Car Booty"
No, this is not about accoutrements you can pirate in or for your car. Nor is this about the latest in car booting or clamping (though we can actually tell you a real life, personal story about car clamping and how easy it is to get it taken off, for a mere 80 euros). This is one of many shows related to material acquisitions and improving one’s lot in life. The boot, as many of you may know, is the trunk of a car in the British Isles, and a car boot sale/show is basically a group of people holding garage sales out of the trunks of their cars. "Car Booty" is a poor cousin of "Antiques Road Show" in game show format. The challenge is to try to sell enough of your household treasures at a price determined in consultation with experts so that you can have the family reunion or buy the barbecue that you have set as your goal for the day. Accompanying experts keep things hopping.

"Hangin’ with Hector"
Probably most of you know that the European Union considers capital punishment barbaric so this show would never be about the legal system or about the prison system. It is a talk show, and talk shows are the coin of the realm here. Hector interviews Irish politicos and celebrities in a folksy style. One could probably watch one talk show or another all day long on British or Irish TV. This is a chatty crowd.

"Rasai Luas Tuathal"
Not only would you have no idea what the above words mean, you wouldn’t even be able to pronounce them. And, until recently, that was the case for me as well. We have access to one Irish-speaking TV station. (Irish is a Celtic language like Scottish Gaelic, Welsh and Breton.) I still look blankly at most of the show titles, but there are English sub-titles, and my Irish language teacher tells us it is (will be…?) helpful to listen to Irish TV. So far, my experience is that they speak way too fast! The above title has something to do with talking, speed and, literally, the wrong direction against the sun, i.e., blundering or counterclockwise. My guess is that it is/was a talk show about history or tradition. It doesn’t seem to be listed in the TV guide anymore. Perhaps there was a blunder.

"A Place in the Sun"
There is an extraordinary amount of interest in other lands on the part of those who live in western Europe. You see it in recurring newspaper ads for vacation deals, numerous storefronts in Dublin for travel agents, and the proportion of TV shows that are devoted either to vacationing or, even more often, to the purchase of a vacation home in/moving to another country – which would be, of course, warm and sunny. I haven’t yet noticed anyone eager to move north. The host of "A Place in the Sun" is a realtor (and perhaps a model on the side) and takes various couples to view properties, often around the Mediterranean. It has become apparent that prospective buyers need to be alerted to the possibility of fraud. Just last week they focused on a couple whose life savings had been ripped off in Turkey by a local theoretically facilitating a house purchase. "A Place in the Sun" runs alongside "Home and Away," "A House in Florida," "Trading Up," "I Want That House," and "Fly to Let." (And, no, I have not watched all these shows, but they are all listed weekly in the newspaper TV guides.) Part of this interest stems from the fact that Irish and British property has increased enormously in value over the last 5-10 years (as have taxes and crime, which people are looking to avoid). In addition, Europeans have traditionally traveled outside their countries a great deal; some 40% have passports as opposed to 25% of Americans. Europeans see their countries in the context of a larger world. Were the Irish asked what their priorities were, my guess is that they would say, family, vacations and then, perhaps, work. Not like a large part of the good, old US of A, huh? – much less Poughkeepsie Day and Night School.

"Ground Force"

Until the last few years, I would say all houses in Dublin had groomed yards in the front and back of their houses. Often the strips of land were quite small, but all had grass and carefully tended shrubs and flowers. That has changed somewhat as the Celtic tiger has provided families with more than one car and, therefore, required that people come up with parking space for their multiple vehicles. Front yards have given way to gravel parking areas. Nonetheless, gardening is still of prime interest here, and "Ground Force" is a show about redesigning gardens. While its name might make one think it is a military show, there ain’t no such animal here.

"Flog It!"

Child beating? Self-abuse? Cruelty to animals? No way… This is another car boot sale programme, as we spell it here.

So, that's it for TV life in Dublin - just one more way to access a culture.

Great Sugar Loaf Mountain rises in the southeast, looking just like a pile of fresh sugar on the cutting board.

A mare and her foal rest comfortably in the field on the side of the long drive in.

The Le Poer (hence, Power and Powerscourt, certainly not Poorcourt) family originally built a Norman castle on the ridge in 1300. Several Anglo-Irish owners followed, and eventually, in 1603, it landed in the willing hands of the Wingfield family. They had eighteenth century architect Cassells design the Palladian-style mansion it is today, incorporating the castle in its center.

Classic fountains continuously spout, regardless of the weather, less impressively in the wind and rain.

The Wingfields kept the 64 square kilometer estate in the family until the 1950s – until just yesterday, really. The day before it was to be opened to the public in 1974, a fire gutted the entire interior. Enter the Slazenger family, who took it on and are still in the process of completing its restoration. They let out much of the mansion to retail shops (and for funeral receptions, I noted on a return trip yesterday), and they also open their gardens to the public for a not so nominal fee.

There are the informal cutting gardens with a wide range of perennials.

Hydrangea edge one wall of the formal rose garden.

The roses are beleaguered at this time of year, but the impatiens inside the greenhouses is thriving. The gardens are the reason for the visit, and they are a lovely place to walk, year-round.
The grass is always green and closely clipped, and annuals are rotated through the ornamental beds at the foot of the Bray stone steps.

Leaves fall in autumn, but only a few species turn colors that remind me of home.

The Japanese garden is particularly spectacular in the spring when the rhododendrons and azaleas bloom, but it is a peaceful refuge at any time of the year.

A wide variety of lovely, aged trees dwarf us strollers.

The de rigeur palm trees are huge, much taller than those that stick up in the little front gardens in Dublin proper. How strange it is to see what I think of as tropical plants in this northern clime.

The enormous eucalyptus tree sheds layers of bark.

Mark and I have made quite a few trips to Powerscourt to share it with visitors in the past, but this trip with Jesse was our first of the year. The family’s pet cemetery continues to be one of my favorite spots These are not the Slazenger family’s pets, but the Wingfield family’s. Clearly animals were central in their hearts.

It is an intimate spot on a western hillside where the select few are honored. One has to wonder how or, rather, if they actually buried not just the faithful dogs but also the horses and cows in these little plots.

Some homages are quite poetic.

Some headstones represent what we assume were the animal's most significant traits. This is the monument to the horse, Sting.

I find Tommy's and Magic's headstone quite bittersweet. Tommy had ten lonely years without Magic.

These days, especially, this horse's name hits home. The Irish, and much of Europe, resent Bush's actions in the Middle East and are much less enamoured of America and Americans.

Who would have thunk it??!

This twofer must be a pretty cosy spot.

One headstone was covered in burlap and remained a mystery to us, despite Jesse's quick peek.

Yesterday I made a return trip to Powerscourt. As I was hiking back out of the estate to head down the hillside to the public bus stop in the village, I wandered off the path. Peeking through gates marked “Private,” I saw the family graveyard. It was too far off to be able to read any of the headstones. I could only wonder what heartfelt inscriptions lay there – or not. What would the Wingfields have said about their relatives? Is it easier to express feeling for one’s pets? Is it too difficult to sum up a person in one phrase? Someday I need to find out what the family headstones actually say. How surprised would we be to find, “Here lies Lady Louise, mother of 4, a good milker.”

Mark certainly enjoyed seeing the high cross and walking through the graveyard and ruins, but I learned that perennial lesson. You can’t go home again. Nothing stays the same. My first trip with the Carneys and Fairleigh was a magical discovery, an experience not to be repeated.

From there we headed further south stopping in Bennetsbridge, a village where several craftspeople and businesses work in clay, wood, fiber and leather.

We spent some time at The Bridge Pottery and Mark chatted up Mary O’Gorman, an energetic, very redhead, who paints surface designs on her partner’s pots. >
A downpour drove us off the street, then, into Chesnau leather, a Frenchman’s high-end business, somewhat more delicate work than Coach bags. Dyed in the Wool no longer has a retail store, but Nicholas Mosse’s business was open to the public. There was even a seconds room, but prices for seconds were not much different from the firsts, all of which were expensive, especially since we Americans have to think in euros. There seem to be two categories of craft production – successful businesses that produce in quantity and market internationally to high end stores and struggling individual/partnered craftspeople who do not have ready outlets for their work. They sell from their studios, which have to be out of the way due to zoning issues and the high cost of property. Many have websites, but, as far as I can tell, they do not use advertising, and the few city stores that carry crafts seem to carry the same, few national names. It is clear from wandering through towns and villages that there are plenty of makers, and it is too bad their work isn’t out there for more people to enjoy – and it is more than too bad that they struggle economically. Mark and I did what we could to support them. Isn’t it nice to have Christmas and birthdays as an excuse?

Mary O’Gorman sent us on to Kells Priory (no connection to the Book of Kells), where she loves to run their dogs. I had read about the site, the perfect ruin – always open and often empty. We wandered south and west on the lanes and stumbled upon the highpoint overlooking the monastery ruins.

Sheep were keeping the grass clipped, and there wasn’t a person in sight. We walked the high field, the sheep scurrying away from us when we got too near, and went and peeked through the arrow slots – to see more sheep inside the ruin.

We drove around to the far side of the ruin, walked past the old mill, along the river and approached through the untended graveyard – to see some kind of fabric blowing in the wind, suspended from the aged, overhanging trees.
Rags? In fact, dress silhouettes of net, top-stitched, areas painted in mossy green… Kells’s ghosts… We clambered through the ruins for some time. The emptiness, the sheep, the wind, the ghosts – my memories.

At this point, the end of the day, the no-gas light on in the car (few villages have gas stations) and no place to sleep for the night, it was time to reach for our mobile (read, cell phone). We called a place in Kilkenny, our ultimate destination, but they were full – and kindly warned us that the streets were being shut down in half an hour anyway, for the celebration, and we had best hurry. What celebration? Well, the All-Ireland hurling championship had been played against Cork the day before (in Dublin), and County Kilkenny wanted to welcome home their heroes, who had lost, but are nonetheless heroes.

We decided to skip the celebration and found a room at the B&B over the pub in Inistoig, the picturesque village in which Circle of Friends was filmed. It is a gem, along a hillside and the banks of the river Nore.

We found one place open for supper, run by an English couple who had moved here a dozen years ago. We were the only customers so they kept us company as we ate, and we chatted about the IRA, schools, round-abouts in Ireland and England, and Bush. Fortunately, people do not make the assumption that all Americans support Bush; the Irish can’t stand him – anyhow, his opponent’s name is after the Irish county, Kerry. After dinner we headed across the empty street to our spare but clean B&B.
Really, everyone WAS in Kilkenny welcoming home their hurlers.
The next day we walked the river

and then drove up the steep, winding village road to Woodstock Park for breathtaking views of the Nore River valley.

From there we had an easy drive north to Kilkenny where we took a tour of the Butlers’ Anglo-Irish- Norman castle and then across the street to what was the mews and now houses Ireland’s contemporary craft exhibit, Kilkenny Design Center and several craft workshops. Once again we did what we could to support the Irish craft community before having to hustle back up to Dublin for Mark’s afternoon meetings at UCD.

It was wonderful to get out of the city for that overnight, to see again what a beautiful country Ireland is, to meet people and to explore. We are making a good, long list of great places to share with our visitors. Come on over!

Once again, here in Ireland, mail is key in our day...

One of our long-awaited pieces of mail is our replacement MasterCard. Mark, unfortunately, lost his (details, details…) the week before we left for Ireland. Fleet indicated to Mark that a new one was in the mail, immediately. We knew that could mean ten days, anyhow. But those ten days are long gone, and it was time last night to call them, for the third time, to tell them we had not yet received the new cards.

I have developed a straightforward, calm, no-nonsense approach to these conversations. (Really, Kate, you would not be embarrassed by my tone.) After proving to two different authorities that I am who I am. (They could care less that I am a registered alien though I am thrilled to be one, at last.) They want to know the last four digits of Mark’s social security number, of my social security number, our mailing address (Which one?), Mark’s mother’s maiden name… Then I am shuttled to a second phone person who promises the new cards are in the mail. “And how are they being mailed?” “Well, air mail.” “How long will that take?” “7 to 10 business days.” “That must be for within the United States. Theoretically, that’s how they were mailed last time, and they have yet to arrive. Can’t you FedEx them?” “Oh, no, that is only for international addresses.” Ah, ha! Herein lies the problem. Haven’t we all heard about the sad state of geography in the general populace? “Well, Ireland is an international address,” I remind her. Perhaps I’m being too harsh — there is a Dublin in the States, in Ohio, after all. Possibly she hadn’t noticed the place name, Ireland, which followed the place name, Dublin. “Oh!,” she exclaims, “Let me see if I can recall that order! You know, I can only ask for one new card for you in each work day.” A few minutes pass, and I am happy to hear that she has successfully intercepted and changed our order, and our new cards are being sent, hippity-hop, overseas by the fastest means possible.

We were promised overnight service. Need I say that the mailbox was empty today? Except for yet another offer to help sell our flat… In the meantime, I am looking for the geography lobby in Washington D.C. and planning on pledging thousands.

P.S. The replacement credit card arrived a week later, registered mail. We received two cards, actually, both in Mark’s name. Don’t they know who the professional shopper is and who actually uses the card? Mark telephoned, to activate the new card and to request one with my name on it. That one arrived registered mail, today – another two weeks later. Time flies.

TV in Ireland is not often compelling, but it does offer us a window on another world. But, what to watch? We don’t have the TV Guide channel. Besides, the channels are limited. One broadcasts in Irish, and another broadcasts radio sports debates. And the others are a mish-mosh. So, what would you watch? Torso in the Thames? Bognor or Bust? The Worst Jobs in History?

Now Bognor or Bust actually happens to be one of our favorite shows, which I also stumbled on while knitting yet another hat. “A topical show with a tropical prize!” This week the winner gets to go to the Taj Mahal (and India) for two weeks; the alternative is Bognor, an English seaside town with excellent wheelchair walkways and guaranteed rainy weather. The quiz show pits two ordinary contestants (this week a vicar’s wife and a 6’7” bus driver who had backed into a hearse his first day out) against each other along with his/her support team of two experts. The experts are well-informed celebrities – though neither of us had ever heard of any of them. Much of the game is spent explicating presented images/video clips from the week’s news. There was a clip of Cherie, Tony Blaire’s wife, surrounded by a group of Chinese who wanted to her sing…! The question was what did she sing and why. I happened to know it had been her birthday, and she chose to sing, “When I’m 64,” self-consciously and off-key. It was quite painful to witness – clearly an embarrassment to the British Empire, not to mention to Tony himself. Then there was Brian Keith who, unbeknownst to me, had won the world record for making a balloon dog behind his back in only 9.2 seconds – though the emcee commented that children had been bored in only 4.1 seconds. You won’t be surprised to hear that our very own “W” made the show, too. After embarrassing footage of “W” admitting that he might have made a mistake sometime/somewhere in Iraq (though he wasn’t going to say what it was), the emcee commented dryly, “Well, it’s highly unlikely that he’ll invade North Korea because they actually have weapons of mass destruction.” What makes this show so entertaining is that all the participants are clearly well-informed, clever and quick. The vicar’s wife was a stitch and a half when, in response to the query about what “W” does before he goes to sleep at night, declared disapprovingly, “Oh, that’s not right on TV.” Of course, Mark and I miss a good third of the repartee as they exchange quips so quickly and the uproarious audience laughter is real and extensive, not canned.

There are many other game shows, including what is now the classic, The Weakest Link. We witnessed its introduction to the world of TV some four years ago when we were here. Then the humiliation seemed pretty amusing. Now, it’s a bore. Mastermind is a more understated quiz show. Four chairs are lined up next to each other set against an electric, midnight blue background. Contenders take turns sitting in the hot spot, the swivel chair on stage where the spotlight shines. The camera slowly moves in as the contestant wrestles with challenging questions in his/her specialty. This is a serious show – last thing you need is music – or any other filler while contestants calmly and deliberately cogitate the questions. Last week the specialties ranged from Hercule Poirot, to the Battle of Britain, to the life and music of Buddy Holly. This week we covered unicorns, the life and work of Wittgenstein, and the life and poetry of Wilfred Owens. Questions initially are posed in the contenders’ areas of expertise. Later the screws are turned, and general knowledge is tested. The truth will out. Clearly those who have traveled, gone to the movies and benefited from a liberal arts education are in the strongest position. It is very hard to tell the winners from the losers based on body language. People sit straight and are reserved. A slight furrow in the brow might indicate profound disappointment, disappointment in oneself, of course. Tonight the large, balding unicorn specialist with a lisp carried his stuffed wombat with him as a good luck charm. All in all, though not exactly Jeopardy, and a host more Alistair Cooke than Alex Trebek, this is the most understated and restrained game show we have ever seen.

Watching the Ryder Cup debacle in Europe was a novel experience. Where the American TV crowd groans on TV, here the viewers cheer, especially given the success of the three Irish members of the European team. Chants of “USA,” “USA,” “USA” sounded a bit bombastic over here where a bunch of essentially journeymen golfers along with a few star players went up against some of the highest paid athletes on the planet. We couldn’t help being taken with the spirit of Europe’s team. Few Americans, save for golf junkies, could take as much pleasure from victory as Ireland’s sports fans did. Yet, their comments were more sympathetic than triumphant. “A bit odd how tense and joyless your American chaps seem” was one rather telling remark after Day One. “Hope they make a show of it so Sunday is worth watching.” We dealt with our national humiliation by consuming significant quantities of Guinness and Old Paddy. (Some of us did, anyhow.)

(So, friends and family, can you tell which of us took initiativewith each section?!)

And now for some fun and games… THE TV GAME! Our very own game show of shows…

As you all know, Mark and I come from game-playing families, and we would like to offer you the option of joining us in an altogether NEW game. We have selected (and watched, to some extent or other) the following shows presented each week on our TV here in Dublin. The challenge is for you to describe each show as if you were billing it in a TV guide. Extra marks for details pertaining to a particular episode. You can go for the gold and really try to figure out what each one is about – or you can just let you imagination run wild. Now, there is one rule: no research, no googling these shows.

I am going to post this game on the webpage Danny has put together for me, and then you can respond there – and everyone will get to see everyone else’s responses. Be sure to log in first, following the directions on the webpage. I will send you the link.
Here is the sample of weekly TV shows:

Car Booty

Hangin’ With Hector

Rasai Lios Tuathal

A Place in the Sun

Flog It!

Ground Force

Have fun, and we will let you know what the shows really are about – sometime in the not too distant future. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts… Gretchen and Mark

Here are some more numbers to wake you up. Lamb at the competitively priced supermarket (not the local butcher) runs at 18+ euros a kilo – now, that is 2.2 pounds so it’s not as bad as one first thinks. All meats are right up there. So, what’s the good news? Well, Guinness costs a lot less than meat! So do charlottes, my favorite potatoes. So do the fabulous fresh sugar snap peas (from Zimbabwe). In fact, an evening of excellent Irish theatre costs less than a big, fat lamb chop.

Sometimes prices look like a great deal. 97.9 cents for gas! Yeah! Bring it on! Until you realize that once again it is euros, not dollars –AND you have to buy it by the liter. Now, how do you feel about paying $5.00/gallon? We walk a lot, and the 1.45 to take the bus downtown doesn’t look so bad – until we remember it was .85 for that same trip when we were last here.

Numbers are not just part of the monetary system. We think about numbers in another way every morning when we watch Sky News for the weather forecast. (One of the hardest things for me here is that there is NO weather channel. Many of you know I start and end my day with the weather channel at home – even when snow days are in the distant future.) Anyhow, England’s news covers weather for all the big islands in our area so we can get a sense of temperature for the day. The numbers are different, though – what does 15 mean to you? Do you remember how to invert and multiply and what fraction do you use? My solution is to live by approximation. Wow! 20! I don’t need a sweater! Yikes! 0! I need my winter coat. Then there’s the great, in-between vague. I guess it doesn’t really matter, though. The weather is constantly changing so the answer is layers every day – unless you are Irish and go around in a t-shirt just because the calendar says it is summer.

Some numbers still carry very little meaning for me. On our hob(that’s the stove) there is a nob for the oven – what do you think 210 means? All I can tell you is that it is near the end of the dial so it must be hot. Sure makes it hard to bake at the right temperature, though.

Oh, here’s one of my favorites – Irish TV. We have access to several channels – a couple of English and several Irish. Most stations change programs as we would expect – on the hour or on the half hour. On the Irish language station it varies. Often it is on the hour or half hour. However, An Aimsir starts at 7:22 and Two and a Half Men is on at 9:05 tonight. Some city area codes have two digits; some have three. Some phone numbers are seven digits long; some are six. In town our bus, the 48A, goes by the tanning shop with a 6 second tan. The government is about four years into the 17-year transportation plan. Where do these numbers come from? You may be reassured, as I am, that some of the old familiars are still in use – 7 days in a week, 60 minutes in an hour and 365 days in a year, though Christmas lasts a fortnight.

My solution is to stop trying to make sense of all the numbers we run into. It is complicated, probably unnecessary and, at times, too confusing. Just make a guess. Just do what you want to do and spend money as you need to. But don’t plan on buying your golden boy son a tweed jacket like you did for your husband four years ago. What went for about 175 euros now is going for 395 euros. Sorry, Jess.