So Now The Weather

We've been here for well over three weeks now and I have been terrible about keeping up with this blog.  Some of that is because most things about life here have already become so normal and ordinary.  We walk, we read, we eat and drink in pubs, we meet a few people here and there and mostly we "figure things out."  There are a million little cultural differences that require investigation, questions, and trial and error to ascertain how things are done here.  Most of them are too petty to dwell on (although, right now, laundry methods are looming large in this regard).

However, I have said nary a word about the biggest adjustment of all, the weather.  In three weeks, there has not been one single day without some period of rain.  This is a particularly sticky problem because today is the first day when I have felt able to do laundry.  Well, to be honest, there was no judgment to be made because my limited supply of clean underwear officially ran out this morning (I know that means that either I have double used or brought an impressive supply and it's actually a little of both).  The problem is that we have no dryer.  We are told that not very many people do have them here,  but, HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE, when it rains every day.

When I got out of bed today, the skies were clear and the sun was shining.  Since that has never before been the case in the morning here, I thought that, "thank God" today was the day for laundry.  I rushed downstairs and loaded the washer.  While I may have rushed, the washer definitely doesn't.  One small load of wash required over three hours to complete its cycle.  The washer seems to have this sort of languid pace, where it turns a few turns clockwise and spritzes a little water on the clothes, comes to a complete stop, rests, and then turns a few turns in the opposite direction.  The rest periods throughout the cycle are infuriating.  Nothing at all happens, and then just when you are convinced that the things is broken, defective, or just stupid, it springs back to life and runs for a while.  This all goes on interminably.  It was twenty minutes before I was even convinced that the clothes had all gotten wet.

During the three hours of slow motion washing, the skies grew cloudy, then it drizzled, then it poured, then the sun came out, then it drizzled, then it poured, then a huge wind blew, then it grew calm, then the sun came out, then it grew cloudy, then it poured, then it cleared, and on and on it has gone.  How is clothes-drying ever going to be possible.

But todays weather pattern is not unusual in the west of Ireland, in fact, a weather change every fifteen minutes IS the weather pattern in the west of Ireland.  They say that the weather in Maine is changeable, but we in Maine have no idea what changeable means.  Every day here has sunshine (usually brief), but every single day also has rain and wind and clouds and mist and, God knows, what else.  Temperatures vary with the sun, and so short sleeves, long sleeves, parkas, sweaters, shorts, and slickers, may each be necessary in one single day.  This is the biggest adjustment that we've had to make.

Locals keep telling us that we'll hate the winter here because it rains "practically" every day.  We assure them that we a ready for it, but the conversations are a bit surreal coming in the midst of a month of September when IT HAS RAINED EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Anyway, I've just hung out my first load of wash.  There is another one languidly going through the endless washing cycle in the machine.  The rains will return no doubt before long.  I am not hopeful of any drying happening at all.  The neighbor says that we can hang the cloth inside if we need to.  She has pointed out a contraption leaning against one of the walls.  We've been looking at it for weeks, having no idea what it could possibly be.  It seems it is a drying rack.  So no doubt our living room will tonight become a drying room for dripping laundry that, in this damp place, might dry somewhere around Halloween.  It's alright, my underwear will make a nice decorative touch.

What Now?

Eureka!  Car insurance is in place.  Fidelma the insurance broker is my hero. The car is purchased and sitting in front of our house.  The rental car is returned without incident.  We are now the proud owners of a 2007 Nissan Note named Gogarty.  The last of our practical settling-in details is complete.  

And so on this auspicious night, Maureen and I sat in our living room, in front of a turf fire, alone after the departure of friends Hannah and Rainen, after a lovely lunch with dear Patrick and Anne Towers, who helped us with the exchange of cars.  We relaxed.  We sighed.  We sat in silence.  And then we both realized that now the whole thing really begins.  Maureen said, "Are we nuts?"  I said, "What the hell do we do now?"

There is this slightly terrifying dimension to just picking up and trying life on a new continent.  In some genuine sense, we are more alone here than we have ever felt.  We already miss all of the people who are the almost daily touchstones of our lives.  This place is lovely.  We both enjoy the culture.  But now we have to figure out what to do with the expanse of time that I have filled for years with work and that we have both filled with family and friends and theatre and all of the familiar activities of Maine.  Now, suddenly this retirement abroad begins in earnest and we have to do the work of creating new routines and a new way of life.  This is a wonderful opportunity, but right now it is just disorientingly wide open before us.  We've worked so hard to make this new life happen and now we have to find out how to live it.

And so we are early to bed.  Tomorrow will be a genuinely new thing.  "What the hell do we do now?"

Frustrations

Some of the boundaries between our countries and cultures are more impenetrable than others.  Most of them seem to have to do with cars.  First there is the absurdity of different counties not being able to agree on which side of the road we should be driving on.  Cars have been around for a hundred years and different countries stubbornly stick with their own customs.  However, I can get used to driving on the left, in fact, I rather enjoy the challenge.  But automobile insurance seems to be a boundary that just can't be crossed.  We've been here a week and a half now and during all of that time we've been attempting to get insured so that we can begin driving the car that we've already mostly purchased (the purchase can't be finalized until we have Irish insurance).  I've made more phone calls and spent more time in the office of Fidelma, our lovely local insurance broker than I've spent doing any other thing since we arrived, and the miracle of insurance nirvana has not yet happened.  There is always one more phone call or one more checking in with somebody that has to happen and that has to be waited for.  Fidelma is now on first name terms with Darcy, who is our insurance broker in Gorham, in spite of the fact that due to the time difference and their lunch hour schedules, they can only speak during one hour each day.  Tomorrow, I am promised, is the golden day when insurance consummation will happen.  That is if Fidelma and Darcy don't spend their entire overlapping time talking about the weather on Nantucket where Fidelma desperately wants to live.  I can't bear to get my hopes up.

Old Stones

Since yesterday, we've been hosting Maureen's good young friend Hannah and her boyfriend Rainin.  Last night we were visited as well by Jeannie Williams, a friend a more than three decades from Massachusetts.  On a four day trip to Dublin on business, she took her day off to travel here from Dublin by bus.  We had a long night of talk, laughter, stories and Irish whiskey, first in our local pub with dinner and then gathered around the turf fire in our cottage.  Its lovely to be strangers exploring a different country and culture, but how extraordinary to be here with old friends from home.

We saw Jeanie off on another bus this morning and later walked down to the lighthouse on the lake.  The Ballycurrin lighthouse is the only inland lighthouse in Europe and dates from the 1700's.  It is long deserted, as it was lit once upon a time only by a large bonfire on its top.  The steps are stones projecting from the lighthouse on the outside.  We thought of climbing up but were faced with 40 mph winds off the lake.  The whole day has been dark and brooding amid the gale.  In this rather alarming weather we explored the castle next door (about thirty feet from our cottage).  The castle is a ruin from the thirteenth century.  It is partly broken down and covered with massive amounts of ivy.  We had long since discovered the entryway into the ground floor (two large rooms with amazing arched ceilings of a million stones).  But today we found another entry that leads to a winding old stone staircase rising two more stories up into the keep.  The second floor, growing everywhere with moss, ivy, and vines that seem as old as the castle itself, is a magical world that I wish I had been able play in as a child.  I can still envision hours of fantasies filled with knights, swords, armor, and, of course, damsels (in distress and otherwise).  There is a further winding stair that (rather dangerously) brings you out into the open air at the top of the ruin.

The whole place seems enchanted.  But the amazing thing is that this is no tourist site.  It is no protected preserve with roped off areas and explanatory plaques on the walls.  It is just a part of a hill next to a farmers field, here to be explored and wondered over by any passers-by and would be explorers with all the dangers of climbing over old and crumbling stones.  History is just part of the air that people breath here.  And so we get to stand alone on the crumbling battlements of the thirteenth century and view the Connemara mountains across the lough while facing forty mph gale winds.  If that doesn't make you feel fully alive, nothing can.

Tonight we go off to Dublin to celebrate Hannah's birthday with a fine meal.  Life is good.

New Beginnings

We've been in Ireland for a week, with at least fifty-one more to go, and we still have no idea what this year will be like.  That's because we've spent the time running about the country setting up a bank account, buying a car, getting European cellphones, buying necessaries for our new house, and generally figuring out how to live in a new and very different place.  And yet, along the way, we've still met a dozen new and charming people, had lunch with old friends, sat beside the wild shores of Lough Corrib, and walked country lanes picking and eating wild blackberries from the hedgerows under the suspicious gaze of cows and sheep.  In some strange way, the pace of life is slower and gentler even in the midst of working our way through our lengthy "to do" list.  Perhaps it's because of the way this year stretches out before us as this big empty time where nothing has to seem rushed.  While the people in the streets of Galway rush about as frantically as any crowd of Americans, just 30 minutes away up our country lane in Headford, the grazing sheep, the sleepy cows, the moody lake and the ancient countryside, create a different world all together that is somehow timeless.

There is a twelfth century castle ruin outside our front door.  It's half tumbled-down but you can still walk inside an see the remains of a medieval world.  We drive past the shell of a seventh century church and cemetery on our road home.  The grand manor house beside which our little cottage crouches as if in obeisance, embodies the world of the eighteenth century.  (It's beautiful to look at and to walk around in, but the poor woman who lives there can't keep up with it because it was designed to be run by a staff of at least ten.)  Even the stone wall that keeps in our neighbor's cattle has probably been there for centuries.  When I met the two farmers who own the herds outside our door (brothers from a family of twelve siblings), it even felt like they had been here for centuries.  The life that they lead seems more similar that of their great great grandparents than to ours (and yet, bizarrely, one brother is known as "Jimmy and the Cow" because that is his twitter handle).  Maybe the presence of so much that is so old makes time feel different, and maybe that is part of the appeal of this place.  One can rush about trying to accomplish one's long list of little tasks, but doing that in the midst of this world of ancient timelessness, changes how it feels.  And so I breathe a little deeper tonight as I rest beside the old stone of our ruined fortress knowing that none of the days business matters much at all in this ancient scheme of things.