Local Tourists

An article currently in the travel section of the New York Times website tells readers what to do in Dublin in 36 hours. We've been here more than two months and haven't done even half of what the Times suggests we do in less than two days. I'm not exactly sure how to react to that. Are we travel losers? I'd like to think it means we've just become locals. After all I'd bet most travel gurus would say you can't travel halfway around the world to San Francisco and not ride a cable car. But as a former local of the city by the bay I can promise you none of the locals ride the cable car and most probably roll their eyes at the fabled cable cars. And don't even get me started about fisherman's wharf.
But as Mark and I talk about heading off to adventures in points further east, we began to muse about what we still "need" to do as tourists here in Dublin. Which took us to the heart of the downtown and Dublin Castle. England's King John had the original castle built in 1204, but a massive fire burned most of that original structure in 1684, after which it became a palace rather than a fortress. The castle is still used by the Irish government for state functions.

The outside of the castle is rather unremarkable but the interior rooms are just as posh and grand as you'd expect from a castle.

It is impossible to go on a tour of this grand scale and not feel like a tourist. In fact, just moments after arriving we were asked to fill out a questionnaire. First question: where are you visiting from?

The West of Ireland - 2 weeks ago

Mark here: (read with caution, and a less critical eye - remember i'm not the writer). Its 2 weeks ago Thursday and Myles, Kate, and myself have set our sites westward. Destination - Galway, and then onto the lesser known escape of Roundstones. On the way we've decided to take a trip out to Ballivor - which is where half of my existance can be found. It's where my Dad grew up on the farm Muchwood, before his mom put him in boarding school. It's the same place where his older brother Bill shot him in the leg with an air gun when he was 2. Admittedly it was a bit confusing, from the map provided as to which side of the road the house was on in relation to the land. In the end it turns out that the house was on the left, which we have no pictures of, we did get plenty of houses on the right. But what we do believe is accurate is that about a mile in from the road above, on the left is this field which is likely the farm. Or it could just be an Irish field in the middle of nowhere which at this point wouldn't suprise me either.What we do know for a fact as the irish historians and myth crushers we are is that this is the town of Ballivor. We know this because the signs on the road as you enter the town say "Ballivor". And although not tested if you were to ask a local, what the name was of this local settlement was called, as a betting man I would think they would say "Ballivor" OR "Get outta my face you moronic Yank". Which probably isn't surprising as when I mentioned to Bill we would be going by the town and farm where he grew up. He looked a me blankly and said "Really? ...why would you want to do that? there's not much to it, and you've only got a few days". Ah well.

From Balivor it was on to a few more towns and ultimately Galway which boasted a really nice walking street with pubs and shops, and good food and nightlife. We listened to a great 5 man band that were 4 guitars, and a drummer. All played harmonica, and all sang. Thursday night saw fog enter the city of Galway at least from my perspective, but by early afternoon Friday we were on the road again to Roundstones, where Myles' uncle Dennis, had loaned us their shared family vacation house for the weekend.
Roundstones is a fairly quiet town, what stuck out in my mind was the Beaches. Outside of cooler beach temperatures you would think you were on a tropical island at times from the color of the water, how soft the sand was, and the rock that appeared as if it were a reef, or formed through a lava flow. Which of course it wasn't as last I checked there are no volcanoes on Ireland. But you get the picture:

Once Upon a Castle

One thing I love about Europe in general and Ireland in particular is how you can just happen upon a castle. North America is sadly devoid of castles. We have mansions. I realize William Randolph Hearst built a mansion that he called a castle but he was a newspaper man not royalty. And as a reformed member of the media, I'd hate to think that anything we do gives us the ego to refer to our large-and-in-charge mansions as castles. If you're not born into royalty, you at least have to pillage and plunder to earn it. Hmm. Maybe Hearst deserved his castle.
But I digress. The point is, Mark and I headed out for a recommended walk along a river in Slaine not far from Newgrange.


We walked along the riverfront and marveled at the serene setting. We ate our picnic among the green rolling hills. We chatted amiably about where we might venture to after Ireland.
And then we happened upon a castle. I mean where else are you taking a stroll in the countryside and happen upon a real-life castle?


Okay, technically we did hop two fences. But only the second fence was wrapped with barbed wire and had a "do not trespass" sign. But even more technically I actually only hopped the first fence because I could see the castle fine from where I was.
Mark clearly wanted a better view. You can see from the big grin just how distraught he gets about ignoring barbed wire and signs. But we honestly hadn't set out with any breaking and entering plans or anything. We just wanted to get down to the riverfront for our walk... and we just happened upon the castle.
And how was I supposed to know that hopping a fence would just a few days later lead to willful trespassing of an abbey full of Benedictine nuns? Stay tuned for more on our afternoon of nun swindling. Thank goodness I'm a protestant.

Megalithic Braniacs

First of all let me say, it is nice to know we have a fan who is not related to us who was wondering where we were! Secondly, you'll be happy to know our absence from the blog has resulted in fresh material.
We had to drive about an hour and a half or so to get to Newgrange, the most famous of a series of ancient burial mounds in Ireland's county Meath. I wish I could show you the inside of this megalithic burial mound since the outside looks like, well a mound. But don't let the grass on the top of the mound fool you, this was no easy task. The megalithic tomb was built around 3200 B.C predating the first pyramids by about 500 years, and Stonehenge by about 1000 years. There's 200,000 tons of rock carefully laid and stacked (no bonding agent whatsoever) that experts estimate took more than 300 men a good 30 years to build.
But the inside is the truly amazing part. Through this entrance, a narrow passage that takes you to the interior of the mound (which we weren't allowed to photograph). At the time of the winter soltice the sun shines directly along this passage into the chamber for about 17 minutes as it rises. The alignment with the sun is too precise to have occurred by chance, especially when you consider the sun does not enter the passage at Newgrange through the main entrance, but rather through a specially contrived opening above it. Mastery of math, astronomy, architecture and all without a wheel. These were some smart megalithic people.