Even More Music (and some other things)

I'm not quite sure where to start with this post.
The heading, as you would be well aware, is 'even more music', but its not the point of the post. I don't even know why I titled it that way. Well, I do, but...
The point is, I don't know where to start with this post, hence the 'not-at-all-relevant' blog post title.
Well, I guess with the title. Music. On Wednesday I went out (again) to hear the blokes I have been seeing at 'The Spaniard' play at another bar in Kinsale. I had been in two minds about the whole situation, which is more the point of this blog post. The reason I had been in two minds about it, was because one of the musicians seemed interested... well, ok, was very obviously interested in me.
You would think that this would be a good thing. Boiled down to its basics, it certainly is. An Irish musician, interested in me. Awesome.
No, not awesome.
The devil is in the detail, as they say. 
Said musician was... well, let's say conservatively, 50 years old?
Now, I have nothing against 50 year olds as a general rule. I quite like them. I quite often have very lovely conversations with people just such an age. There are some really very nice 50 year old people around. I even know some nice people that are even older than that. I don't even have an issue with a large age gap in a relationship. Older men can be quite sexy (Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Richard Irons, even Sean Connery....), and as long as both partners are happy, I don't think its a problem.
So, what is my problem here?
Well, firstly, the guy had hardly spoken to me, he knew only that I was Australian, that I was working as an au pair, that I did writing, and that he liked my singing voice (and, presumably, the way I looked). And, after all that, he wanted my number, wanted to call me and was attempting to get me to call it 'a date' when I said I would come see his Wednesday gig. As much as I indulge in romantic fantasies of love at first sight and think I'm in love with musicians I've never spoken to, any guy that acts this eager and pushy when you haven't had a conversation longer than 5 minutes is always going to be shut down by me. That's just the way it goes, I'm afraid. I'm not comfortable thinking of myself as a sex object, so any guy who is ready to go, based on a 30 second glance and some initial inquiries as to what your first name is and your drink of choice, will always make me feel defensive, confused and slightly nervous.
Secondly, when I did turn up at the next gig, and after I had made it clear this was 'not a date', he proceeded to act like it was. Being flirtatious, telling me he 'noticed lots of things about me', that he had been 'watching me so intently', touching my shoulder, putting his finger through a hold in my cardigan sleeve etc. The more I moved away from him, the more he seemed to think he needed to do more to bring me back. When I told him to stop saying I was pretty, he joked, 'You know, they say that when a woman says to stop, she's actually telling you to keep going.' Which, now that I think about it, out of context, is probably the most horrendous thing a man could say to a woman, even jokingly, even in a flirtatious way. Or, maybe, especially then.
Now, I'm not saying that I'm completely innocent here. My natural instinct is not to make waves, not to insult people or upset them. That's the case, even when they are upsetting me. I take everything on board myself. So, except in very special circumstances, if I'm feeling uncomfortable in a situation, if someone's behaviour is making me uncomfortable (particularly if the person is someone I don't know), then I won't actually tell them to stop it, or stand up for myself, I'll sit and stew in my own discomfort, and try to convey, say, through telepathy, body language and clipped words that I don't like what they're doing. Further to that, some of the things that I did that didn't help matters, on the Sunday, when he asked for my number, I gave it to him. When he asked if he could call me, I said, yes. He took a photo of me for my phone number in his phone. The problem from my perspective is, that when he asked for my number, I had no inkling that he wanted the phone number in the way that he wanted it. That may sound incredible in hindsight, but its true. I truly thought he was too old to be interested in me! And, I guess, also, I assumed he wouldn't try anything 'like that' because I was so much younger, and therefore would never be interested in him. Anyway, when he said, can I call you, I was thinking it was just because he liked my singing, and thought I was nice. I thought he meant he wanted to call in a friendly way, in a, 'hey, we're playing at the pub, come down and sing with us', kind of way. It wasn't until I had said yes, and saw his reaction that I realised what he actually meant.
But, anyway, I can handle all that sort of stuff. I can, really. I find it a little odd that a 50 year old man is still attempting a hook-up at his age (I mean, I would expect this kind of behaviour from a boy in their 20s, but I would have thought that by the time you reach middle-age, you would have a bit more sense... well, maybe not, maybe that's why he's single... harsh...), but, its still not anything that I haven't experienced before. Sure, it makes me feel uncomfortable, sure it keeps me up at night, wondering if I've led someone on, if they now feel bad, hoping they don't, kicking myself for all the stupid things I said and did that potentially contributed to the situation, and why didn't I just nip it in the bud when I had the chance, and why did I go listen to the music again, and then turning it on its head and saying, 'well, I liked the music, so why shouldn't I have gone', and then getting angry at them for making me feel bad and then going, 'oh, but maybe it was all my fault anyway,' and twisting and turning continuously and blah blah blah blah blah...
The thing that is really the problem here, and really should be the title of this post, is men over the age of 40. Now, again, before you all jump down my throat, I have nothing against men over the age of 40. I very much like men over the age of 40. They are generally confident, kind, established, charming, much better groomed than their younger counterparts etc. The problem is, that all this year, with maybe one notable exception, it is men over the age of 40 that have been interested in me. I find this confusing. Until I moved to Ireland, I don't think I had ever experienced a serious come-on from a man in that age bracket. Whereas now, every time I go out, inevitably, it is the middle-aged men who are shooting me glances, smiling cheekily, buying me drinks.
I'm sure I sound ridiculous and whingey and ungrateful, but it has seriously begun to confuse me. A logical explanation would be that most of the smart, eligible, younger Irish bachelors have moved away due to the economy. That's the logical explanation. Of course, my brain is doing its best to convince me that the logical explanation is not the logical explanation at all. My brain is attempting to convince me that I am no longer attractive to my own age group. That all the 'good men' in my age bracket are now seriously committed, engaged or married, therefore leaving me only with those older men who are now starting to divorce their wives, going through mid-life crises or never got hitched in the first place (for whatever reason - that they're mutants or emotionally stunted or something. I mean, that's the only reason you wouldn't get married, isn't it?)
Seriously though, apart from the potential generational gap current in Ireland, where there are only a very few single, late 20s, early 30s men around, what would be the reason that older men are suddenly very attracted to me? See, I would have assumed that it would have been a case of, no men around in my age bracket, therefore, no men showing interest. But, I've had just as much interest, but its been from the type of men who showed no interest in me in Australia. Am I giving off some sort of vibe that is attractive to people going through a mid-life crisis? Because I'm off travelling, doing crazy things that they wished they were doing? Are men in Ireland used to bigger age gaps? I hear that up until recently, it was a 'late marrying country', that is, people, mainly men, waited a lot longer to get married than in other places, so it wasn't unusual for a 40 year old man settling down for the first time with a wife 20 years younger. Is it that there is a man shortage here (apparently there is a significant one), so older men assume younger ones are going to be easier, and therefore more amenable to going out with an older guy?
Who knows. Maybe I should just get over it. Most of the time it doesn't bother me. In fact, sometimes, when I like to pretend I'm a tiny bit like Elizabeth Gilbert, I remember that she married a gorgeous, 50-year old Brazilian man 15 years older than her, and that perhaps, on my own personal 'Eat, Pray, Love' tour of the world I will have to do something similar. Perhaps marrying a 50 year old man is a path to enlightenment. And multi-million dollar book deals.
Perhaps.

Culture Night

On Friday, the women from Creative Connections (or, as many as were free), attempted to re-create our 'Home is Where the Art is' pop-up cafe for Culture Night. 'Culture Night' is something that I originally thought was only on in Cork, as I'd never heard of it before. Turns out, its a national Irish event, and despite having a kind of naff name (come on, admit it), it is actually really exciting and cool. What happens is that, museums, galleries, theatres, artists' studios, churches, historic houses and cultural centres all open their buildings up later than normal, and they all put on free events for the public. So, you can go to the museum and have a little theatrical tour of the space. Or you can go to the gallery and hear a talk. Or you can go to the concert hall, and hear an eclectic collection of musos. Or, you can go to the theatre and see a small performance. All for free. People wander in and out of buildings all night, its just a really lovely vibe. We were asked by Cork Midsummer Festival to re-create our cafe for a few hours in Civic House Trust, a beautiful, red-brick Georgian building that houses a variety of cultural groups, including Cork Midsummer and Corcadorca Theatre Company.
We met the week before to discuss what we could do. There were a few problems to begin with. Not everyone was available, and when we looked around the room, it seemed like only Irish people, and furthermore, only WHITE people were going to be able to work at our 'intercultural' cafe. Not that there is anything wrong with white people, per se (though we can be a little boring and imperialistic and self-satisfied sometimes) and I think we can agree that there is no racial advantage to any one ethnic group in terms of making tea and instant coffee, however, one of the key points of our cafe was its intercultural nature, making a statement about the 'new' Ireland, and advertising our upcoming intercultural workshops that we would be running with our intercultural staff. Our leader assured us that some of the African women would also be attending and helping out, so we moved on.
The second problem we encountered was that in our fundraising for the next Midsummer Festival, we had to sell most of the things that we had used in the cafe. We also weren't allowed to hang things on the walls of the lovely, red-brick Georgian house. Our original cafe had purple and yellow carpet, various lampshades hanging from the ceiling, spray-painted cups and saucers, washing machines and cleaning aides all over the walls. So, we were understandably worried that our new cafe would look a little bare and boring. But, we listed the things we could bring in and hoped it would all come together on the night.

Ooh... pretty... I approve of the logo, if not the name.

 Turns out, there was nothing to worry about. We were able to hang some twine from window frames in the room, where we pinned our embroidered clothes and a gigantic ladder was brought in to hang any left over clothes on. We had enough pillows to scatter about, and those people in the group who had artistic work that they created at home brought it in too. The main thing that was missing was our wise and wonderful group leader, Priscilla Robinson, who had guided us through the original event and helped us run the days. We were also missing our fabulous tutors, Aine and Caroline, who had been integral to the set-up and design of the event. I had a few misgivings about how it would all run on Culture Night, but figured that someone would take charge and it would 'all be ok'.
I was the first person to arrive at Civic Trust House, having run out of things to look at and do in Cork during the afternoon. I had been dreading this possibility, because I thought the people at the house might then assume I was in charge and ask me difficult questions, like, 'Where do you want the projector?' and 'Do you need all this furniture?' Or just, 'So, what do you have planned for this evening?' I escaped to the loo quickly, hoping someone might arrive in the meantime. No one did, and I sat awkwardly in the middle of the room, clasping my hands, as people not from Creative Connections did useful, busy things around me.
Eventually some of the other women arrived, but everyone was just as uncertain as each other, and the person we had kind of all hoped would be there to take charge hadn't arrived. There was some more awkward sitting, until someone realised the time and we all, collectively thought, well, maybe we should do something.
I'm relating all of this, because I find the group dynamics fascinating. Its a generalisation, but I think that if it had been a group of men, or, if we had a man or two in the group, they would have taken charge straightaway, or, at least, attempted to. But, for some reason, I think its because women are so conscious of being polite to others, of not wanting to step on toes, or of not wanting to make mistakes, or not wanting to look stupid, or something, nobody wanted to take charge. In our case, we all sort of waited around someone to take charge, and when it didn't happen, we did it collectively. No-one still was really 'in charge', little work groups formed, advice was taken from around the room, and collective decisions were made. I suppose because we've been working together since March, its easy for this to occur. A box and a few bags of things that we were going to use to decorate the room appeared, and people started looking for ways and places to hang everything. Rubbish was moved out of the way, furniture shifted, until we had something that looked as warm and welcoming as we could make it.
A similar thing happened when our first 'audience' arrived at the house. Whilst the woman we had kind of designated our leader had arrived, we hadn't discussed how we were going to behave in the space, what we should do with those people who arrived etc. We had a couple of work stations set up (Face-painting, bag making and embroidery), as well as examples of our work, and pictures from the festival event, but we hadn't discussed how they would all work together. Of course, our evening's designated leader hadn't even be able to attend the event at the Midsummer Festival, so, really, we were relying on the only person in the room who hadn't already been a part of the event on the day. But, again, we were all kind of reluctant to put ourselves forward, to go out on a limb, to potentially make fools of ourselves.
Of course, it all worked fine as soon as people arrived. When 3 people walk into a room and look at everything that's going on awkwardly, you can't help but try and go over, make them welcome and explain what's going on. Well, I can't help it anyway. I'm becoming such a bubbly, chatterbox, I'll throw a 'How's it going?' and 'Where are you from?' to anyone that vaguely looks in my direction. This is amusing for me, remembering that as a 12 year old I hated even giving a waiter my order because I was too embarrassed (of what, I'm not entirely sure. That he wouldn't agree with my food choice? That I would trip over the words? That he would 'be mean'? I was a crazy-confused 12 year old). So, when the first few people arrived, I stepped up and explained what was going on, a little jumbled, probably a bit long, but I got the most important stuff out, they asked a few questions, looked at some photos, and then sat down to make a bag.
It was a bit slow in the first half an hour, but, just as I was sitting down to have my face-painted, a group of 4 kids walked in with their dad. They spied the free cookies on the table, and I spied them. 'Hey!' I called over, 'Why don't you guys have your face-painted? Its free!' The two girls were very enthusiastic and came over straight away (after getting enough cookie supplies) to see the pictures that were on offer. From then on, we barely had a chance to stop. The place was full, mainly of kids and their parents, coming in, making bags, having a tea or biscuit, getting their faces painted etc. We had a great little group of 8 - 9 year old girls at the sewing and bag-making table who were so adorably enthusiastic. Not only about getting involved in making the bags, but in talking to us, hearing the stories behind the work we had created etc. Their parents had to come in and literally drag them away, their half-finished bags clutched in their hands, and us desperately packing ribbons, buttons and material into them so they could 'finish them at home' - like some sort of cool party-favour bag (hey, that is an AWESOME children's party idea...). I sang again, as did the woman from Somalia, just for something a bit different, which was lovely, and I had two of the little girls pass me a note telling me they liked my voice (it was 1000 times good), so that was sweet.
And, before we knew it, we had to pack up again. The whole evening was fantastic, despite a small child vomiting in the corner early on. It was a real confidence boost for the women that were there (the running of the event. Not the small child's vomit). We have to run 6 workshops for 60 women and children over October and November, and I think a lot of us were really worried about what we would do and how we would go. Culture Night proved that we've already got the skills to do it, which was fantastic.
As I'm now in Kinsale, I don't have access to a car anymore, and my last bus leaves Cork at 10pm. However, one of the women invited us over to hers for a drink or two, and I got an offer of a bed in Cork, so I decided to stay the night and head back to Kinsale the next morning. That evening was wonderful. Many glasses of red wine consumed, a glass of cognac, many pistachio nuts and a couple of prawn crackers, but, more importantly, wonderful conversation with wonderful people. I'm always re-invigorated by a night like that, sitting around with close or new friends, talking, laughing and drinking, whereas I pretty much always come home from a night out dancing and drinking feeling lonely, unhappy and dissatisfied. We finished up around 2am, so not too late, but I went to bed so happy and so content.
Who needs men? I mean, honestly?
........
Well, ok.
I just shouldn't go anywhere I can see them, because then I'm like a kid in a candy store whose Mum has just informed her she's on a sugar-free diet.

More Music

I've been so slack with the blog recently, but I've been so busy with the Melbourne Fringe show, and of course, its taking quite a bit of adjusting at the new house, so I'm only just working out a schedule for myself. I've got to stop jumping on the computer and losing myself in the never-ending links that come up on to Facebook or Twitter, when there are actually things I want to do.
Music has suddenly become a huge part of my life since moving to Kinsale. I'm not complaining, I adore it, but its so strange that its happened so suddenly.
There's a bar here, 'The Spainard', which is a 20 minute walk down the road from my house, and they have music most nights. I think I may have mentioned it already. The last two Sundays I've gone to 'The Spainard' to hear these two blokes play. They're very friendly, and were teasing me because I brought my notebook into the bar and was writing out notes to myself. Actually, all the blokes in the bar have been doing that. Actually, most of the people I've met in the bar have been blokes. How strange, I didn't even notice, when I've been complaining and complaining that I'm only meeting women in Ireland. To be fair, all the men in the bar are 40 or 50 and over, so its not like I feel like I'm 'meeting' men in the way that people mean 'have you met anyone'? (this question is coming up more and more often - is it me? Do I look old? Desperate? Or am I just so painfully aware of the question because I haven't 'met' anyone?)
Anyway. Last Sunday, the two musicians invited me to come and sit with them as they were playing. Then they asked for a song. Ah, my favourite request. Sing us a song! Who me? *Blushing* Oh, well, if you insist...
So, I dragged out 'The Band Plays...' AGAIN. Everyone loved it, and the old man at the bar told me I had a 'mighty' voice. Someone else told me it was 'deadly' (which is Irish slang and it means its a good thing). They all wanted to know if I was in a band. I was asked for another. So, I brought out 'Tippin' it Up To Nancy'... AGAIN. They loved it as well, and the musicians have told me that any song I want to sing from now until Christmas, I should come down to the pub with them and sing it on a Sunday. Which is so cool. This is the closest I have ever gotten to being in a band. Which is a huge, secret fantasy of mine. And, when I say, 'band', I mean, 'folk band' complete with swishy skirts, akubra hats, fiddles, banjos and mandolins. My dream stage would be the National Folk Festival in Canberra. True Story. I'm such a loser.
Anyway, the point is, I'm now casting around for new songs to learn before next Sunday. Yesterday morning, after Little Brother woke up from his morning nap, I started practicing 'Long Hot Summer Days', which is a brilliant song, and here is my favourite version:

I got totally inspired and got my fiddle out to see if I could figure out what she was playing (I can't really. Only bits). There had been two Kiwis at the pub on Sunday, and one of them had her fiddle, whipped it out and started playing with the other musicians, which was do fantastic, and I was reminded again that I really need to get out the violin and practice it more often so I can do the same sort of thing when I feel like it.
Anyway, Baby Brother adored the fiddle and the singing. He was twisting around to watch me play, and by the end of it, he was giggling and squealing along with me. Seriously, he is the coolest baby. Imagine liking old timey bluesgrass at 7 months. I hope that I, in some small part, end up influencing his musical taste, and that when he's 17 he still has a strange fondness for banjos and fiddles and songs about long hot summer days that he can't quite place.
Meanwhile, Little Man showed me another song yesterday on You Tube, which is hysterical. Its an Irish song about farming and the words are so appropriate to Little Man, who is obsessed with farming and tractors.

You really need to listen to it. Really.

Music

I've mentioned before how my days have changed from looking after girls to looking after boys. Suddenly its all tractors and construction workers, whereas it used to be doing hair and Sylvanian families. Its not the only thing that's changed though. I'm watching new TV shows (now its all 'Thomas the Tank Engine' and no 'Peppa Pig', we're watching a lot of 'Hi-5' as well, which is so hysterical). But, the thing that I've really noticed is the songs. I've got a whole heap of new songs to learn and/or perform. My last Little One was a bit funny about songs. She liked singing when I first got there, but after about a month, she wouldn't let anyone sing anymore. Then, she would let us sing, but only certain songs. So, I was allowed to sing 'I want a home amongst the gum trees', and occasionally, 'Please don't call me a koala bear,' but most other songs were banned on the rationale that, 'That's bad singing, Jenny'. Ironically, she would let me sing ABBA (which her sister was always playing on the iPod), when I was intentionally singing it appallingly badly. Apart from these songs, we were allowed to sing one of the songs from her older sister's holy communion, 'Happy in the Presence of the Lord', a couple of songs about rainbows (usually 'Red and Yellow and Pink and Blue,' but I was occasionally allowed to spice it up with 'Rainbow Connection' or 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow') and a song about the days of the week. Her elder sister liked me to sing, 'Blue Moon', because she liked the 'quavery voice' I did (vibrato) on the long notes, but the Little One hated it and would cover her ears and yell, 'No, Jenny, no!'
My new boys love music. There was one morning when I first got there, and I was left with Baby Brother, who was crying up a storm, and I didn't know what to do with him. On a whim, I started singing, 'Fields of Gold' for him, and he immediately stopped crying, looked up at me with big eyes and grinned. You think, 'Wow, if only all audiences would react to me like that...' He loves a good sing along, and he's particularly fond of 'Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes...' because of the bit where I have to go from touching my knees to touching my toes. Whenever I stand up again, he's always got a big grin on his face. I think he likes the way my hair bounces about. Either that, or he just thinks I look like a fool.
His older brother, Little Man, also loves a good song. He's got some songs that he sings with his mum, 'Shake, shake my sillies out...' which I don't know yet. We've been talking a lot about crocodiles recently, so I started singing, 'Never Smile at a Crocodile,' for him. He thought it was fantastic. Pity I could only remember the first line. But then I remembered that amazing thing called the internet, and that fabulous invention, YouTube. So, I told Little Man I'd find the song for him on my laptop. He was enthralled:

He adores it. He makes me play it over and over and over again, and adds in commentary. 'There they go in their boat.' 'There goes the crocodile.' 'He's not happy'. 'He's very scared, isn't he?' etc. etc. etc. Today he asked me for a dinosaur song. I was in the middle of saying I didn't know a dinosaur song, when I thought, 'I'll just type dinosaur song into google and see what comes up.' I just clicked on the first thing I saw, praying it wasn't some sort of parody or filled with bad language or naked women or some such. Thankfully, it was all G-rated, and again, he was delighted:

Again, we watched it over and over and over, doing roars when the dinosaurs did them, singing along to the words, pretending to play the guitar etc. Then, his mum asked if he wanted to show my the 'funny duck song'. So, we looked it up again, and came up with this gem:

Which is truly bizarre, but also kind of hilarious at the same time.
So, this is the beginnings of my new soundtrack for this household. I'm sure it will be added to in the next little while. I'm also becoming very adept at Hi-5's 'Backyard Adventurers'. So Australian, they even have a hills hoist in the background.

Millionaire's Mile

I've mentioned this part of Kinsale before. I walk along it to get home from the town. It really is a stunning place, looking right out over the harbour. You can see the ruins of the two forts, all the pretty sailing boats (which, will, unfortunately, start to disappear in a month or two as the seasons change), and the lovely houses.
Now, I don't know what it is about Millionaire's Mile, but, the things you find dropped by the side of the road there are exceedingly cool. I don't know if that's because Millionaires have so many cool things, that they don't mind dropping some by the side of the road, or they forget, or they don't care about rubbish because they're certain other people will pick it up for them, or if the place is just full of faeries, but every time I walk there, I find something really cool. Of course, it could also just be that I'm on the look out for cool things that I can make stories about because I need them for my next theatre piece (yes, I'm making another one. I can't help it. Its a disease. This one is much smaller though, I promise. No big budget, cross-country extravaganzas. Just me, in a room with a whole heap of junk I've found by the side of the road. Seriously).
So, anyway. The first day I was walking into Kinsale, I found this: 

Which isn't amazingly cool or gorgeous. Actually, now that I'm looking at it, the back is a much prettier design. In fact, I wish I had photographed that. But, my camera is low on battery and I can't be arsed right now, at 10pm to change it. So, trust me. The back is really cool. Its this intricate pattern of oak leaves and acorns. You should see it.
Anyway, there is something delightfully whimsical about finding a single playing card in the bushes by the side of the road. It reminds me of Jostein Gaarder's 'The Solitaire Mystery,' which was a favourite book of mine as a kid. It also reminds me of Carrie's irritating boyfriend Berger (or however you spell it) in 'Sex in the City'. I try not to focus on that so much.
Anyway, I happened to be walking the same road a day or two ago, and I was thinking about how cool it was to find a playing card in the bushes, and how awesome it would be if I found another and was starting to create a story about a person who walks one road for many weeks until they find all the cards in the pack, when suddenly, I saw this poking out from some leaves:

Which, apart from the fact that its cool simply because I found it several meters from where I found the first one, happens to be the COOLEST playing card I have ever seen. What is it? What does it mean? Is it some sort of visual representation of climate change? Is it a representation of the changing seasons? Of the different hemispheres? Of growing older? Its so cool. I love it. I have no idea what game its from (does anyone know??), but I feel like its trying to send me some kind of mystical message. Is it about 20/20 hindsight? Is it about being 40 years old? Oh, the endless possibilities.
So, today, I was walking the same mile, and I thought, how cool would it be if I found something else. Probably not a playing card this time, as I've obviously already found the coolest playing card in the whole wide world, but something else that might be cool. It was about this time that I saw a small square of folded white paper amongst some rocks. I thought, hmm... this is probably some sort of terrible flyer for window cleaning or some such, but I'm going to pick it up, just in case its a personal note that will be whimsical and interesting. I unfolded it and:

There are many things I like about this. I like that there is a sassy Minnie Mouse in the left hand bottom corner of the writing paper. I like that the second 'Gina' looks more like 'Gold'. I like that little girls still insist on writing their names with hearts in them, and looping round things as many times as possible, so that their name and signature isn't just about the letters, the words, but the feeling, the gesture, its a work of art. This little girl loves her name so much, she's practiced it 4 times over, added a heart, circled it all and then traced over it again and again 'til its bold and dark. This is my name, she seems to say, this is my name, and I love it so very very much.
I like to think Gina also owned the last thing I found on my walk (and the only thing I feel slightly bad about having kept):

Its a pink, bejewelled, butterfly hairclip! Just the sort of thing a heart-drawing, name-circling, Minnie Mouse-loving girl like Gina would love. I do believe this might be a treasured possession of somebody, some little tot named Gina, to be precise, and so I feel slightly guilty that it is now sitting on the top of my desk as whimsical inspiration. But, in my defense, its actually broken (look at the top right hand corner of the butterfly and you'll see the flimsy pink gauze is pulling away from the wire). I'm convinced that Gina wouldn't want it anymore. Or, that she even threw it away in a fit of 'Imperfect Butterfly Hairclip Passion'. Either way, I'm keeping it and that's the end of it.
So, how do these things join into a theatre piece? Well, you'll just have to wait and see. I haven't quite figured it out myself yet. But, it does involve a little red suitcase, and many more trips down Millionaire's Mile.

Moldova

Here's another post I've been meaning to write for a while, but haven't had a chance.
Before you get too excited, I didn't pop off to Moldova for a quick weekend visit. There will be no stories of missed airline connections, and attractive Dutchmen and too much limoncello in this post (for those of you dedicated blog readers).
No, this is all about a woman from Moldova. She's in my Creative Connections course. Now, we've been in the course together since March, but I've never really taken the time to talk to her. I'm going to be honest with you, I've been pretty bad about talking to everyone in my intercultural Creative Connections course. Over the first 6 months of the course, I gravitated almost exclusively towards the Irish folk and the other Irish/Australian woman, which is, of course, not the point of an intercultural group. Its also not very helpful for me in completing the course, as the whole idea of the diploma is to be able to teach and interact with other intercultural groups, and give us the experience and knowledge to do so.
There are probably a few reasons why I've done this. Firstly, it is easier to talk to the Irish and Australian folk. I don't mean in terms of English or speaking skills, though that is sometimes the case, but just because there is a common understanding of culture, behaviour, experience. Enough of our experiences overlap to be able to converse easily, with there being enough variance to create interest. Of course, again, that is the point of having an intercultural group - to have you interact with people you wouldn't normally interact with, and learn how to communicate with people who don't share your experience. So, I've been pretty bad at learning how to do that over the past 6 months.
There are other reasons though. Due to groupings, I ended up spending a lot of time with a wonderful Irish woman leading up to the Midsummer Festival, who I really got along with and loved talking to, so I often found myself looking for her at meetings. Many of the younger folk, so again, the people that I would naturally gravitate to, are Irish, so that's also meant the I often am chatting to them.
Anyway, for whatever reason, I haven't spoken much to this woman from Moldova. She spoke out at a meeting last Thursday and shocked us all, revealing she had been pregnant for the whole course, and was due this week. No-one could believe it. She had always worn the same jacket, and it just happened that it hid her belly very well. But, I also feel like this is very much her, not making a fuss, not getting all romantic about things. Her quilt piece was called, 'Flowers are a waste of money', because she used to work in a flower shop and she could never understand why people would bother spending so much money on something that was going to die in a few days. Such a different perspective and way of looking at the world to... say... me. A hopeless romantic who can't help but share every thought and feeling with the people around her, via a blog or otherwise...
Anyway, now that I'm in Kinsale, I no longer have access to a car, so when our meeting finished last Thursday, I had to take the bus back to Kinsale. The bus wasn't until 10pm, and it was only 7:30pm so I had a bit of waiting to do. I had originally planned for some quiet time in a cafe with a notebook or some such, but when the women in my course realised I had 2 and a half hours to kill in the cold, autumn air, I immediately had two invitations, one to join a group of people I didn't know for dinner, and the other to walk around Cork with the woman from Moldova. My first instinct was to go to dinner, as the girl inviting me was a good Irish friend of mine, who I had hung out with a few times outside of the course. But, I had a sudden change of heart. I had already eaten dinner. It was nice night. I like to walk. And I knew nothing about this woman from Moldova, who seemed endlessly fascinating.
So, in the end, we went for a few laps of the city, talking about all sorts of things. University, jobs, Ireland, Moldova, Australia, the changing seasons, airplane tickets, racism, homesickness, architecture, and (appropriately) how taking the time to do something different, walk on the other side of the road etc. always shows you new things and perspectives.
No huge revelations, really, but a truly lovely hour and a half. A reminder that you don't need a lot to have an enjoyable evening, to learn something or have an experience. A reminder that everyone has a story, if you just take the time to listen.
And, now, it appears that I've slid into cliche, so I'll end the post before I further ruin something that was truly lovely.

Sick

Well, its been ages since I wrote anything, but 'luckily', this afternoon I got food poisoning, so I'm holed up in bed, with a massive headache, the curtains closed, too weak and sick to get up or eat anything. I'm currently trying to get through a glass of water, but my stomach is not happy about it.
I've spent the afternoon in bed with the computer, watched Shrek 4 for the first time (which was much better than I expected), slept, and ran to the bathroom. The only benefit is that food poisoning is, of course, *the* quickest way to lose a few pounds. But its hard to focus on that upside when you're too nauseous to sit up (or look at yourself in the mirror).
Being sick is usually an opportunity for me to be totally self-indulgent and whinge-y, call my Dad on the phone asking for free medical advice (when really just wanting sympathy and attention), have a boyfriend and/or friends fetch various things for me, whilst I wrap up in the bed clothes and have a little cry about how awful it is to be sick. Being overseas changes all that. Being sick isn't nearly so fun when you don't have people to feel sorry for you. I could, of course, let out my woes in a Facebook status update or tweet about them (oh, yes, I have Twitter now too), but I feel like the update and resultant good wishes would seem, respectively, self-absorbed and cringe-worthy when restored to full health in a day or two. So, instead, I'm blogging about the experience, which at least allows me to be self-deprecating and make all sorts of broad sweeping statements, grand parallels and sophisticated comparisons as justification for my self-absorption.
So. Being sick this time around is a bit of a different experience. I've been sick overseas before. That's not the difference. When I was 13, I went on a homestay to Japan and got massively unwell. There were many theories put forward for why I was so unwell - there was a bug going round, I got food poisoning, I was a weak Western girl who couldn't handle the unbelievably long days of the average Japanese schoolchild. Whatever the reason, I work up in the middle of the night, feverish, panic-ed, only half conscious and releasing liquids in a manner reminiscent of 'The Exorcist' or Monty Python's 'The Meaning of Life'.
I was rushed, whimpering and crying and mumbling apologies, around the house by my poor Japanese host family, my head bathed with cool towels, my hair pulled back, back stroked, and when it didn't help, I was bundled up into warm clothes, put into the car, and then they all (mother, father, 2 host sisters) jumped in beside me and rushed me off to the doctor. I've never forgotten that experience. I had my two host sisters of either side of me, holding my hands and telling me that everything would be ok, they were going to look after me, they loved me and they wouldn't let anything bad happen to me, whilst my host father in the front seat acted like a racing car driver in a Hollywood movie, speeding through the empty dark streets of Ube, running red lights, taking turns through petrol stations to avoid cars, doing U-turns, all in an attempt to get me to the doctor quicker. When I had to return the next day and get a drip put into my arm, my host mother and host sister sat next to me, whilst I slept in the bed, and watched me quietly. I felt so loved, so protected by these wonderful people, who had only known me less than 2 weeks.
Of course, at the time, I was a relative baby, and they were meant to be looking after me, so if I were to get desperately unwell, or die, whilst under their care, it wouldn't have looked good for them. I was certainly their responsibility, but what was so touching was that they behaved as if it weren't a responsibility at all. In fact, so caring, loving and concerned they were about me, that it never even occurred to me until I wrote this all down that they might feel that they had to be 'responsible' for me.
The point is though, being sick as an adult, there isn't much room for the same scale of dramatics. I'm feeling pretty wretched, it has to be said, and, admittedly, I'm probably not as sick as I was back in 1997, but there's still no room for crying and whimpering. There's no rushing to the hospital or the doctor, there's only a check that I have the medicine I need, a glass of water to make sure I stay hydrated, and then I'm left to my own devices in my room. My little man was calling out to check I'm ok every so often, until his mum told him he should leave me alone to rest.
I'm not complaining, its understandable, and reasonable. I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. I'm sick, but I'm not hallucinating or in a coma or anything, so there isn't much to be done but just ride it out. But, there is part of me that wishes I could be a whiny kid again, run to my Dad, tell him I feel awful and have him get me flat, warm lemonade (how Dad always got us hydrated and sugared through stomach bugs), get me a hot water bottle and sit me on the sofa in front of some Disney films. I can remember one night, Mum rubbing my sore tummy until I fell asleep. As awful as being sick was, it was also kind of fascinating, there were all sorts of accoutrements that went along with being unwell - pills, and drinks, soups bought especially for you because they didn't have 'bits' in them, salty crackers and dry toast.
But, now I'm an adult, so its up to me to do the parenting and comforting myself. I'm a bit of a harsh parent it turns out. I've used the afternoon in bed to have a snooze, but then, feeling guilty about not being up and working, I've been checking out toddler websites to see if there's anything I can do to help Little Man get over being left with me in the afternoons after school. I then read up on various craft activities we may be able to do together, games to play, refreshing my memory of nursery rhymes I'd forgotten... Only one movie, and then back to work! Cries my inner parent. And no flat lemonade, only water! *Sigh* I want to be 13 again.

New Experiences in Kinsale

Here is a list of awesome things that I have done/can do because I now live in Kinsale.

1) Walk home past "Millionaire's Mile", where *apparently* one member of U2 has a house.
2) Walk home in the pitch black night past a graveyard. This is where ghost stories start.
3) Walk home in the pitch black with a torch, just like on school camp
4) Walk home, skipping, because its pitch black and no-one can see you
5) Walk home, singing very passionately along to your iPod, because its pitch black and no-one else is about. 
6) Walk home in the pitch black and look back over the lights of Kinsale
7) Walk home, slightly tipsy from red wine, on a Sunday evening after having gone to a trad. session just 20 minutes down the road, and made friends with the musicians (one of whom's mother is from Hobart), and some middle-aged Irish people about to visit Australia 
8) Walk to the end of the road. Its the end of the road, because it finishes at cliffs that fall into the Celtic Sea.
9) Walk to the ruins of a medieval fort.
10) Walk to a cafe that has 10 different types of hot chocolate!
11) Walk to Kinsale and watch the tiny sails on little boats in pretty patterns on the water along the way.
12) Walk to the bus to Cork and not have it take most of the morning.
13) Walk up a hill called 'Breakheart Hill'
14) Walk to my friends' house
15) Have all my hair chopped off (ok, I could have done that in Bandon, but the fact is, I did it in Kinsale)
16) Buy a cape. A woolen cape. A black woolen cape with a white belt.
17) Go to a stationary store called 'Paperworks'. This place will, over the next 7 months, take all my money. All of it.
18) Buy fudge. Good fudge. Good fudge with flavours like 'Lemon Meringue Pie' and 'Strawberries and Cream'.

Yep. Kinsale is pretty awesome.

Crazy Plans

I'm in the midst of another existential crisis. I think its because I'm tired. And because I've just started a new job, and whilst its fine, it isn't exactly my life's dream. So, here is a list, in no particular order, of a variety of crazy plans that I have made whilst walking this evening, in an attempt to find some greater meaning/purpose, some sort of direction for my life.

1. Buy a caravan and drive around Ireland for 3 months, playing music and singing in pubs.
2. Hike the Appalachian Trail.
3. Travel to Croatia and hang out with Vedrana. Travel to Ankara and hang out with Didem (thanks for the suggestion, Finnigan).
4. Go to Africa and do 'useful' things (yes, I realise how bad that sounds, but you have to realise how tired I am, and the fact that I actually know very little about what 'useful' things I could actually do/how useful I could actually be to the continent).
5. Do the Trans-Siberian Railway.
6. Buy an old church hall and convert it into some sort of crazy theatre/artistic space.
7. Move to London
8. Move to Edinburgh
9. Move to New York
10. Move to Alaska
11. Become an author
12. Become an organic farmer
13. Become a gym instructor
14. Become a tarot card reader
15. Become a buddhist nun
16. Do Route 66
17. Learn German and move to Berlin (oh, I think I already told you guys that one)
18. Learn French and move to France
19. Learn Italian and move to Italy
20. Trace Che Guevara's motorcycle trip around South America
21. Go to Oregon and see the redwoods
22. Cut all my hair off, dye it red, and get a tattoo

*Sigh* Aside from the fact that I'm probably not going to do any of these, most of those activities are not mutually compatible, meaning I would have to make some decisions between the crazy schemes anyway. Of course, I could do some of them. Like, I could become an author, an organic farmer, cut off my hair all in Berlin. Or, I could become am Italian-speaking tarot card reader on Route 66. Does anyone have any votes for what I should/should not do (Dad, I assume you vote against the last one and number 14). 
Is anyone else disturbed by the fact that I'm 27 years old and I'm still playing the, 'When I grow up, I want to be a...' game? Is anyone else still playing that game?
Notice, also, most of them don't actually involve staying as an au pair in Ireland. I'm hoping this feeling will go away in the next week or two, but at the moment, I'm wrecked, I'm stressed, I'm emotional, I'm uncertain of the new kids (and they're uncertain of me): its just like starting again. Which it is, of course. But, I forgot/didn't realise how hard it would be.

Farewell to Bandon

Well. Its been a big week. I've been meaning to post for a while, but I've had so much to do, mainly because on Thursday and Friday I packed up all my stuff and I moved them over to Kinsale. Friday was my last night in Bandon, and on Saturday morning I was picked up by my new host family and taken to Kinsale.
It was all very sad. I got very emotional, which I really hadn't expected. The Little One didn't understand at all, she kept calling out, 'I'll pick you up later!' Which almost broke my heart. Sitting here, looking over my new charge, Baby Brother, I do miss her a great deal, I feel quite sad thinking about her. I'm glad to have made the change, it was time for a change, I love Kinsale and the kids are great, but I am still very sad to leave Bandon.
One of the people I haven't mentioned yet, and one of the reasons I'll be sorry to leave is Gerry O'Hara, who owns one of the local pubs. Gerry really deserves his own blog post, but I've so little time at the moment, that he'll just have to be rolled into this one. O'Hara's was the au pairs' local pub, and it was full of charm and fun and character. There was a front bar which was all of open fireplaces, nooks and hallway coat hangers. It has ye olde Irishe photos and pictures on the walls. There was also a picture of Gerry and his wife, Mary-Anne with the Irish actor, Liam Cunningham (he used to come in during the shooting of 'The Wind that Shakes the Barley', which was filmed around Bandon), who is gorgeous and talented, so that always made me happy to see.
So, that's the front bar. But, if you walk down either of the two corridors, you would get to the back bar, and this is where we always hung out. The back bar was kind of like and old-school 'youth' hangout, with snooker and pool tables, dart boards, a juke box (!!) and a little verhanda to go and smoke (not that I did that, you understand, but some of the other au pairs did). This was where we spent many Wednesday nights and many more Saturday nights for the past 7 months, taking over the jukebox, screaming and laughing and generally making fools of ourselves. Gerry and Mary-Anne were always welcoming and kind, never getting irritated at us, even when the jukebox had been hijacked by EVEN MORE Adele (and believe me, I was getting annoyed by that, so good on them for keeping their cool), when the au pairs were walking behind the bar and making nuisances of themselves, or when we were having dramatic arguments involving thrown water and beer (very European). 
Gerry even made us a farewell chocolate cake and gave us farewell gifts last week when many of the au pairs were moved on. I got a little plastic leprechaun and a drawn picture of O'Hara's, which is now in pride of place on my desk and I'm looking at it now, as I type. If you ever get to Bandon, call into O'Hara's for a pint, and tell him Jenny, the aussie au pair sent you. Actually, best to say 'the oldest au pair, the sensible au pair, or the au pair who always went home early and never got in any trouble with any of the boys.'
Anyway, so, I'm now in Kinsale with the new family. Not only have I had to say good-bye to Bandon and my old family, I've also had to say good-bye to a lot of my old au pair friends, as many have gone home in the last week or so. So, all in all, its been a bit of a sad week. I'm more homesick than I have been in a while, and not in a sudden flash kind of way, like I was in the holidays, meeting up with friends and then saying good-bye to them again (I always had another friend to meet with, so it wasn't too hard to say good-bye), its more a dull, constant ache. I'm scheming of how I can get home in February, rather than go straight to the UK. I may need to do this anyway to get my visa, and it will be kind of expensive, but at the same time, at the moment, I feel like I really want to go home. Just for a little while.
I'll probably get over it, once things in Kinsale settle down. I'm going to be very busy. I've got Little Man, who is 3, and then there is Baby Brother, who was born in March. So, a big change from the girls. I already have spit up all over me. I still can't get over how gross it is. I mean, Baby Brother is GORGEOUS, all big blue eyes and chubby cheeks, and he smells AMAZING (that's such a cliche, isn't it, but its true, all the Hollywood movies have said the truth for once - babies smell AMAZING), but I can't get over the spit up and saliva. I'm wearing my oldest, yuckiest clothes every day, but I'm still so icked out by the stuff. The minute its on me I'm running for a towel. I'm going to have to get over it, I know.
Baby Brother is now on my lap, and I'm typing with one hand. He's more demanding of me than his parents, not nearly as settled. I suppose that's to be expected and he's just getting used to me. Either that, or he can smell the fear off the newbie and knows that one squeal out of him and he's up, out of his chair, cot, bed and into my arms, with all new things to play with, like my hair, jumper, and laptop. Cheeky bugger.
It must be pretty amazing being a baby - everything is new, you're not sure where anything goes, 'Do I put this in my hand, or mouth? Or should I roll on top of it? Or should I put it in my eye?' All the amazing adventures and excitement you can have, just with the string on a hoody.

Alright, best go. New adventure for Baby Brother at the moment is attempting to push himself backwards, out of my arms and flip over the sofa like some sort of Russian gymnast. As his trainer, I feel he hasn't quite got himself warmed up and ready yet.

Cape Clear Storytelling Festival (the actual festival this time)

Take 3 with the Storytelling Festival.
So, if you read by last post, you would have realised that the festival didn't start too well. In fact, I went to bed and had a little cry in frustration. I woke up the next morning and had another little cry (sleep deprivation and listening to a particularly sad story on 'The Moth' podcasts, about a man who lost his 2 year old daughter to cancer - not a good combination). But, I dragged myself out of bed, feeling more than a little awful what with the rain and the cold the night before and went downstairs. The good news is that, after a tea (wonderful, wonderful tea!), some breakfast, some Nurofen and some soothers, I started to feel good. I started to feel great! I had a lovely chat to the hostel owner, then went for a quick walk to the pier and back before heading to a storytelling workshop headed by Graham Langley, one of the storytellers (the one from Birmingham that I particularly liked).
The workshop was quite interesting, though there were probably more people there than was possible to actually involve (he'd said a maximum of 30, but there must of been closer to 50 in the room). We talked a bit about the difference between acting and storytelling, and did a few exercises, which were very enjoyable. By the time we finished, the sun was also out, and I was in a far better mood.
Next on the agenda was a walk around the island, with a little bit of history and nature thrown in. I had a nice chat to Graham, who was also along for the walk, about his travels to Australia, about Birmingham and all sorts of other topics. The walk itself was great, though it was suddenly boiling hot, which was most unexpected, and actually irritating, as it meant peeling of various jumpers and scarves and attempting to find space for them in my bag. Crowded House actually wrote '4 Seasons in 1 Day' for Ireland, I'm sure. I've had more use for that phrase this year than the entirety of my life in Australia.
I went straight from the walk to the 'Story Swap', which was an opportunity for the participants to stand up and tell a story. It was held at one of the pubs, and, of course, after half a pint of Bulmers in me, I decided I was definately getting up to do that. I had learnt some stories for 'Home is Where the Art Is', and had only gotten to use one (probably because my telling of that story was so very bad - I was terribly nervous - I pretty much screwed up the ending, almost forgot the whole point of the story), so I decided to use the Australian one I had learnt. I was very excited, but still very nervous, which meant that, instead of listening to the other storytellers, I just went through my own story in my head. Kind of a shame at a story SWAP, but, oh well. This story went much better, I got a couple of laughs, but, more importantly, it was quiet during the telling and I could see everyone listening, which was really cool. Its a real thrill when you realise you're actually managing to hold people's attention like that. I did still manage to screw up the ending a little bit. Not sure what problem I have about endings. Anyway, the story was 'How the Kangaroo Came to Have Her Pouch', and I'll write it in another post and put it up here too in a little while. 
After the story swap, there was time for some dinner before heading out to the evening concert. It was delightful weather that evening, so I decided to leave enough time to walk to the community school the concert was held at. This involved hiking up a hill comparable to Mount Everest. Ok, you got me, I'm exaggerating. It was more like K2. Anyway, the point is, it was steep, it was long, and it was suddenly bloody hot. I was reminded of how unfit I've become in the last year, and, as I wheezed by the side of the road, pretending to take a break to take some photos of the view, I made a mental note to get out the bike when I move to Kinsale, and use that bike to ride to the gym and swimming pool.
I was in a much better mood on the second night, and had a lovely time. I was sitting next to David Holt's wife (also named Jenny!) for the second evening in a row and had a lovely chat to her. The concert ended, and the weather was still clear, so I headed down the hill towards the pub. On the way, I heard some distinctive dipthongs behind me, and I turned around to demand where the people making those sounds came from. 'Bendig-oh, mate.' Knew it. I chatted to the elderly couple for a little while, though they seemed a little reluctant to do so (I bet they'd been meeting Aussies all over Ireland and the UK too and were just as sick of them as I was), but they remembered the story and complimented me on it. Actually, now that I think of it, the reason they were probably so underwhelmed by the fact that I was Australian was not because they'd met so many other Aussies, but because they'd been there when I'd told my story, so they already knew I was Aussie. Oh. Right.
Anyway, that evening at the pub was the most fun I have had since being in Ireland, I think. It was packed when I got in, and whilst I had chatted to a few of the people in there, I was a little hesitant about how to approach. So, first things first, I went for another Bulmers. By the bar, there was a particularly loud bunch, yelling and singing and falling over each other, as one of them played backing chords. I was rolling my eyes at a couple of them, but then the guitarist launched into 'Wish You Were Here' by Pink Floyd and I started singing along. One of the girls noticed me and told me to come over. I did, and when the song finished, they insisted I had to sing next. I was more than a little embarrassed, and flustered, but agreed, and ended up singing 'Tippin' it Up to Nancy' the song I had heard the man on Inishbofin Island sing, and that I had taught myself in the weeks after. It went down a treat, the people in the circle were delighted and amazed, insisted I sing more songs and that I could be a professional and we all become fast friends. Eventually, we went out the back to a bigger audience, and my new friends insisted I sing 'Tippin' it Up' again, which received even more applause, and more cries for encores. So, I sang 'The Band Played...' (AGAIN - I need to learn new songs!!!!!) In the end, I stayed up to 4:30am singing and talking and drinking. It was the best night ever. I talked to a lovely artist from Limerick who might be moving to Kinsale soon, an American journalist who was writing about the festival, one of the ferryman (who told me if I was an actor rather than a singer than he was desperate to see me act, because I was such a good singer, according to him - one too many beers in the man, one presumes, but still, lovely), and many others. There was just a small group of us left at 4:30, when the air suddenly turned cold and we decided to leave. The pub was already closed, so I had to stumble back with the guitar and my torch, promising my friends to return the instrument to the pub the next day. 
I intended to sleep in on Sunday, but, of course, what with the other people in the dorm room and the light, I couldn't sleep past 9:30. I dragged myself out of bed, washed my face, drank a gallon of water, had a big brekkie and headed out to the small concert with Kate Corkery and David Holt. This was probably my favourite session out of all of them. Both David and Kate told some great stories, and we had some sing-a-longs to hillbilly music, which I always like.
There was only the afternoon concert left, but in the meantime, I had to organise my way home. See, on the way to Cape Clear, I had gotten a bus from Bandon to Skibbereen to Baltimore, where you catch the ferry. But, it being a Sunday, there were no buses from Baltimore to Skibbereen. I asked my hostel owner what to do, expecting to get a price for a taxi. He told me not to bother with a taxi, but to just ask someone on the ferry to drive me to Skibbereen as there was bound to be lots of people heading back. I was uncertain of this plan, but thanked him and headed off to the concert.
I had to leave halfway through the afternoon concert, which was sad, but I had seen the tellers several times over by that point, so it wasn't too upsetting. The ferry ride back was awful, cold, rainy and very bumpy, but we got through it. Plus, nothing can ever compare in my mind to the Inishbofin ferry anymore.
The whole trip back to the mainland I stared at the people in the ferry, attempting to locate the friendliest looking person, who was least likely to refuse me a lift to Skibbereen. Was it the middle-aged man who had moved his jacket so I could come inside out of the rain and sit down? Was it the Spanish-looking Irish family whose 16 year old son had been chatting to me the whole way back on the ferry? Was it the lady sitting on the life-jacket box holding her dog still? Was it the tall and incredibly handsome man in his hoody and his bright, but hardly gorgeous, girlfriend? By the time we were pulling into Baltimore I still didn't have a lift and I was convinced I wasn't going to get one. I was essentially attempting to hitchhike, and I realised I just wasn't the sort of person that was able to do that. I was too convinced people would view me as an Ivan Milat-equivalent (yes, I know he was the one picking up hitchhikers, but, oh, you know what I mean). So, I resigned myself to paying 25 Euro for a taxi. But, as we got off the ship, waiting for our bags, the wind whipping us around the head, the rain pouring down, I happened to be standing next to a group of girls who looked about my age. One was loud and bright and enthusiastic sounding. A kind of mad impulse gripped me and I turned to her quickly, before I was able to think too much about it, and blurted out, 'You're not driving through Skibbereen are you?' She was a little taken aback, but soon recovered and said, 'I'm not sure.' My predicament tumbled out of my mouth and she relaxed a little. 'Oh, sure, I'll go check with out drivers,' she said. She came back a minute or two later. They were driving through Skibbereen and they would be delighted to give me a lift. A huge weight lifted off my shoulders and I chatted happily away to my new friends for the whole trip, very proud of my ball-sy, courageous self, laughing at the ridiculousness of my previous fears.
So, that was the trip. It was quite delightful. I'd been looking forward to the festival since about this time last year, and I think that may be why it wasn't exactly what I had expected or built up in my mind. But, I still had an amazing time. I think, if I were to go again, I would try to go with friends if possible. I did manage to meet a few very lovely people and have some lovely conversations, but because the festival was reasonably short, and there were so many different people around, it would probably be nicer to go with people, instead of attempting to make friends there. Though, I am getting better at making friends and conversation with people these days. Excellent skill to have, really.
Ok, that's it from me. Its my last Wednesday in Bandon, and I'm heading out with what's left of the au pairs to our favourite pub, O'Harra's, to farewell our favourite bartender. I'm actually getting a little sad and emotional. I'm surprised. I didn't expect to get sad about leaving Bandon. Not that I hate the place, but its been a mixed experience being here, and the town itself is not the most amazing place I've ever lived. Pretty enough, but a little dull. But, here I am, two days until I move, and I'm getting all nostalgic. I guess I'm just not good at endings...

Where to Next?

Cape Clear Storytelling Festival (or, the Crazy British Lady)

So, now we get down to the meat and bones of the weekend. That is to say, I'm actually going to write about it now, as opposed to just posting pretty pictures in pleasing patterns down the page. Ooh... look at the alliteration in that sentence.
Sorry. Tired. Stressed. Hence, in strange mood.
Anyway, the storytelling festival. Will you forgive me if I don't give you a blow-by-blow account? Its just I can't quite find a through-line for this holiday away, and I started it last night and it was kind of boring, and the post also sounded similar to many others I've written previously, so I stopped and posted the pretty pictures instead...
So, the storytelling festival. How can I start?
Well, it started on Friday. It then continued Saturday and finished Sunday. I arrived in time for the evening concert on Friday and left halfway through the afternoon concert on Sunday. It was held on Clear Island, which is off the South-East coast of Ireland. You get there on a ferry.
I like ferries. Even though they make me seasick. There's something about leaving a harbour that makes you feel like you're going on a real adventure. Though, I learnt on the weekend that whilst these days we think of the sea as a barrier, hundreds of years ago, before roads and cars and things, the seas were viewed as the pathways of the world. Isn't that interesting? Changes how you look at the map of the world, doesn't it? So, a tiny island off the coast of Ireland would be much more important than places inland, because it was easier to get to.
So, yes. I arrived Friday evening and got settled in at the lovely hostel. The hostel owner introduced me to some people, as I was travelling alone, so I spoke to some very pretty and willowy French Canadians, an English girl who clearly thought she was a fairy or a pixie (or at least highly original and unique) and an American with a headband. A male American with a headband. Things already seemed interesting.
After a quick dinner and some tea (no-one does anything in Ireland without first having some tea), I caught the island 'bus' (its a mini-bus, and, really, more like a taxi, in that it picks you up where you want to go and drops you off, and comes whenever you want, not on a timetable, but, luckily its much, much cheaper than a taxi), to the evening concert. It was very enjoyable. I particularly liked the storyteller Kate Corkery, who is Irish but has been living and working in London for years, and the Birmingham storyteller, Graham Langley. There was also an American Appalachian hillbilly player, David Holt, who kind of blew everyone else off the stage. Throughout the course of the weekend, David would show us how to play the guitar, the banjo, the spoons, the bones, the mouth bow, the Jew's harp (yes, this is its actual name, I'm not being racist), the paper bag and the 3 cm high Jack Daniels bottle. He would also tell us how he came to discover he was related to Frank and Jesse James. He's solid-Appalachian, Confederate hillbilly.
So, the concert was good, but it didn't blow my mind. It was kind of crowded in the venue, and I guess I had been expecting something in the vein of the National Folk Festival in Canberra or Woodford, and, of course, was disappointed because there was less choice of venue, performer, schedule etc. Things got worse when we walked out at the end of the concert (11pm) and it was pouring, pitch black (no street lighting on Cape Clear) as well as very windy. I had left the hostel in a bit of a hurry, worried I would miss the bus and/or concert, so had left without my rain jacket and torch. I had a black T-shirt on, a pretty crocheted white top and a darling, sunflower-yellow beret with white flowers (bought from cheby-lou on etsy, don't you know?), doing my best, "I'm a free and easy hippy-dippy flower-power love-child" impression, and FREEZING MY ARSE OFF. I missed the first bus, and ended up waiting in the rain with around 15 other people for half an hour for the other one to return. We eventually called it and were told that it had a punctured tyre. We requested they send anyone, absolutely anyone for us (the goat farmer and his tractor, perhaps?), but the bus driver didn't understand. 'Yes, I understand, but I've got a flat tyre, I can't come now.' When finally the other bus arrived, we managed to squeeze around 15 people into a 9 seater bus, as no-one was willing to wait again.
Needless to say, I was not in the mood to go to the pub. Nor was I in the mood to be particularly happy or upbeat. I'd been struck down with a cold a day or two beforehand, and I was not happy that my attempts to get better were being hijacked by the wind and the rain and my inappropriate clothing. I was determined to go straight to bed when I got back to the hostel. Well, at least, after a relaxing sit in front of the fire to warm up.
Unfortunately for me, my relaxing sit in front of the fire was not to be. When I went into the hostel's common room, there were 6 or 7 people in front of the fire all talking very loudly and excitedly. I didn't particularly want to put up with all the noise and bother, but I desperately wanted the fire, so I pulled up a chair on the edge, and put my top and hat out to dry closer to the fire. Though I had gone to the edge of the room, I soon found myself being involved in the conversation that was taking place next to me.
It was one of those conversations that I very much like to get involved in, when I'm in the right mood, and with the right people. I like to call it, the 'What's Wrong With The World, And How All The Problems Would Go Away If Everyone Just Thought Like Us' conversation. The problem was, I didn't think at all like the woman who was leading the conversation. Besides which, she wasn't really leading the conversation, so much as she WAS the conversation. There was barely room for us to add nods or frowns on either sides of her sentences, before she was off again on a completely different, and usually contradictory tangent. She started off making those wonderfully banal comments about how what we were currently witnessing was the end of Western civilization, and how the end of the Roman era was just the same as this, excesses and things falling apart, which sounds terribly clever and cutting-edge the first time you heard it (when you were about, oh, I don't know, 15 years old), but is now beginning to wear thin. It got worse when she followed it up with comments that not only were we now like the Romans, but we're also like the Weimar Republic, and look how that ended, in a dictatorship, conveniently forgetting that only two minutes ago she had been predicting the end of Western civilization, not a dictatorship, and that, apart from excessive drinking and free morals, there's not much the end of the Roman empire has in common with the Weimar Republic. Of course, all these comments were delivered with a slightly smug smile, a faraway look and a thoughtful tone, to inspire a sense within us that here was a woman who had thought long and hard about the problems of the world, and had, after much deliberation, identified the key areas that needed improvements. Here was a woman who had flicked through her Year 8 history book, noticed some words in the Roman section that were similar to the words she had read in her Miranda-Devine-equivalent article that morning over coffee and come to an inevitable conclusion.
This was painful enough, but she then began to discuss the NHS (she was British) and how there was nothing that compared to it in Ireland and how dreadful that was. This cheered me up a little, as we at least had the same views on basic services. But, before I knew it, she was complaining about the 'nanny state' and how social democracies like Sweden stopped people having ambition. She was telling me that because there was so little difference in pay between a paramedic and a doctor in Sweden, the kids that 'should' be aiming to become doctors were just 'copping out' and becoming paramedics because it was easier. A smile was tugging irresistibly at my lips whilst I attempted to find the right words to explain that I didn't think that was such a big disaster, and that, really, if the worst thing that social democracy had done was leading to an oversupply of paramedics, I thought it still compared fairly positively as a political system to the rest of the options out there.
But, things were only just getting started. We then moved on to how social democracy, married with not enough smacking of the children had led to the London riots. We were then given a lecture on how single parent families had contributed to badly brought up young people, particularly in relation to fatherless children, and then how all children these days were spoilt rotten, had too many toys and were too consumerist (I resisted the urge to point out that the only way they could have become this way was by copying their elders and existing in a consumerist world created by those older than themselves). There was a round of, 'in my day...' phrases, just for good measure.
At all points during this conversation, I attempted to stand up for the social democratic state. I attempted to point out that her beloved NHS was only available in a social democratic state system. I attempted to point out that the widening economic gap between rich and poor (which she was furious about) was easily fixed through a social democratic state. But she would have none of it. She insisted the government was interfering too much in her life and that her preferred form of governance was that of Plato, which was a people who didn't know they were being governed. I resisted the urge to point out that this statement had rather sinister overtones, and that I would rather be fully aware of how and why I was being governed, so that I could debate it with idiots such as herself and then make informed decisions at the next election, certain I agreed with the party I was voting for.
The highlight of the conversation, however, came when we began to discuss (well, when she began to discuss) welfare payments. People on the dole had far too much money, according to her. They could get more money on the dole than by working. This meant they would never want to go to work. Fairly standard, right-wing, uncompromising views. All things I can't stand to listen to. Myself (and some of the other blokes there) argued that she was wrong, and that she was talking in regards to special incidents where a person was entitled to a variety of different benefits. She agreed, but then went on to say that a person could get 25,000 pounds on the dole if they had 5 or 6 children. I pointed out that, in that case, the money wasn't just for them, but also to help support their children. The other blokes laughed and agreed with me, which seemed to light a fuse under this woman's arse. She leapt out of her chair crying it was unfair, it was not right, you shouldn't get that on the dole, when someone with the same amount of children couldn't earn it on a proper job, and then instead of letting me talk, she proceeded to call me a Nazi and a communist and talk loudly over the top of me so none of my points could be made.
Its always a special conversation when you're called a Nazi and a communist by the same person and in relation to the same comment. I decided that as I was in danger of punching this woman, it was about time I left the room, which I did calmly and coolly. I was rather proud of this, as I have a tendency to storm out of arguments, tears streaming down my face, insults flung behind me, because I couldn't change my opponents' mind and they had, in my mind, been mean or disrespectful to me. In this case, my opponent was so ridiculous that I couldn't feel too upset that I hadn't changed her mind, though it was slightly worrying that the tabloid press had so completely brainwashed her.
I don't know why I went off on such a tangent. This woman just made me mad is all, and I thought she was more than a little bizarre. I certainly didn't expect such views to be expressed at a storytelling festival. All the folk festivals I had been to in Australia were populated with hippies - middle aged hippies, new age hippies, environmentalist hippies, communists hippies, vegan hippies etc. I was so used to being in complete agreement with anybody I meet at these types of festivals, that to get into a passionate argument with one was more than a little bizarre.
I'm too exhausted now to write anything more about the storytelling festival, but I promise I will. Tomorrow.

Cape Clear: Photo Essay.

I went somewhere beautiful this weekend. And, I will write about it too, but right now I'm too exhausted and stressed to be able to. So, instead, here are some photos.

Cape Clear. Its really pretty.