Valdez, Alaska

This story doesn't start last week. This story starts years and years ago with a book called, 'Julie of the Wolves', which was given to me as a 10 year old. In this book, Julie, a young girl with part-Yupik heritage, runs away from a terrible marriage and goes to live with the wolves in Alaska. It was a wonderful story and I read it over and over until the cover became soft and creased, the pages yellow and rounded. I was fascinated by this snowy place so far away, so different from my sunny, hot childhood in Australia. In my mind, a trip to Alaska (or any other snowy, dark, wintery places), was a shortcut to magic. I was obsessed with the place for a few months and became convinced that it was probably the most exciting and interesting place anybody could ever visit, EVER.
Turn the clock forward to 2009. I'm 25? Yes, that's right. And attending a young playwright's conference in Cairns, Australia. At that conference, I meet a young American playwright who tells me that he attended a theatre conference in Alaska called the Last Frontier Theater Conference. I immediately email the director of the conference to find out more information (seriously, it was IMMEDIATE - the guy telling me about the conference was sitting next to me talking, I was looking up things online). My initial intention was to submit a play at the end of 2009, but getting cast in Poetry in Action and then Bronte being accepted into the ATYP program in Australia made that idea kind of impossible. At the end of 2010 I submitted a draft of a play I really hated, simply because I desperately wanted to go to the conference and had nothing else to submit. My brother thought I was bonkers, reminding me that just because when I was living in Ireland I would be in the same hemisphere as the conference didn't mean I was actually 'close' in the usual sense of the word to the conference. I was still going to be really, really far away. It was still going to take me hours to get there. I didn't care. In the end, it didn't really matter because I was, unsurprisingly, not accepted in on the basis of the script that I hated. In fact, its probably a good thing that I wasn't accepted with a script I hated, because the idea is to get feedback which you can then use to re-write or re-draft the script. And if I hated the script and didn't want to work on it, nor did I want to hear what people said about it, or, indeed, didn't want anyone to actually sit down and listen to it, well, that was going to be problem.
Now we're up to 2011. I've re-written an entirely different draft and story of 'Fishtail', using some of the same characters, themes and the same myth to anchor the plot. But, this time, I love the script. On a whim, not thinking much about it, I send it into the conference again. This time, I'm accepted. I can't quite believe it. Interestingly, I had recently reconnected with the people who gave me 'Julie of the Wolves' in the first place and decide to visit them in Michigan on my way to Alaska. That didn't seem so significant when I booked the flights, but thinking back on it now, that does seem an interesting coincidence or significant happenstance, or whatever you want to call it. Maybe that contributed to the huge outpouring of emotion when I left Michigan for Alaska last Saturday. Which is pretty much were I left the story in the last post, wasn't it? 
I had been in contact with three other conference participants beforehand, a woman from New York and a couple from Vermont, and we were all planning to drive from Anchorage to Valdez (well, the couple was planning on driving. I was planning on sitting in the back of the car and admiring the scenery). The woman from New York was also on my plane from Chicago, but as I was in no fit state to be talking to anyone at that point (still mooning over pictures from my childhood), I didn't make a concerted effort to find her until we got into Anchorage. Luckily, we did all manage to meet up and reasonably easily considering I had taken no precautions, like getting phone numbers or things like that. It was a six-hour drive to Valdez, but extremely beautiful, with views of a massive glacier, snow-covered mountains (even in June!), waterfalls and various other lovely things. This drive also introduced me to the strange Alaskan phenomenon of keeping old school buses in your backyard. Seriously, almost every house had their own old school bus. I'm not entirely sure why Alaska is so rich in school buses. Alaska may be as rich in school buses as it is in oil. Did there used to be loads more school children around? And now not so many? Or are they just really conscious of updating their school buses every year? Furthermore, why do people want the copious amounts of buses to be stored in their backyards? Is it a form of recycling or re-using (in which case, I applaud you, Alaska)? Perhaps it is because they have so much space, such big backyards, they feel they need to fill it up somehow, for example, with the cunning use of an old school bus?
Anyway, after a short dinner stop (in which I got ENDLESS fries for $3.50! ENDLESS. I'm still not over that. I could have eaten all the potatoes they had in the hotel and they would still have charged me just 3.50. I could have insisted they go out and buy more potatoes and cook me even more fries and they still could have only charged me 3.50! Of course, I didn't, but I did try my best. It was too good an offer to refuse!) we headed into Valdez. Valdez is situated in the ridiculously beautiful Prince William Sound, which is the end of the Alaskan oil pipe line and the site of a particularly bad oil spill around 20 years ago (this was the only information the New York couple I met on the plane from Dublin could offer on the place). The town is nestled amongst bear-infested mountains that were still covered in snow. In fact, you didn't even have to go up the mountains for snow, there were giant mounds of snow all over Valdez, just sitting there, in car parks and empty spaces, collecting dirt and slowly (very slowly) melting. The town had a record snow fall last winter and so we were able to see the remains of it. 
Of course, being so far North, Valdez doesn't get very dark in the summertime. My first big problem on Saturday night was trying to get to sleep in an only semi-dark room. Though I was exceedingly tired, having gotten up at 5am Michigan time and been awake until 10pm Alaska time (which must have been later in Michigan time, but I can't work it out now, too many time zones...), I was unable to fall asleep. I tried tying some stockings over my eyes as a makeshift eye-mask, but they didn't block out enough light. And they were kind of irritating. In my jet-lagged state, I looked around the room and decided my only solution was to sleep in the wardrobe. It seemed dark in there. So, that's what I did. I lay out a pile of clothes to try and make the ground a bit softer, closed the wardrobe doors and went to sleep; only mildly worried that if any of my room mates, who I hadn't yet met, arrived during the night, they might open the wardrobe doors and freak out, thinking I had been tied up and/or murdered and then stuffed in the wardrobe. Either that, or they'd just think I was really weird because I was sleeping in the wardrobe. Luckily this didn't happen and the next night I was sufficiently used to the lightness of the room to sleep on the sofa and spare my aching bones.
Sunday was intimidating, I have to say. I had been accepted into the conference as a playwright, but I was also participating in a few acting workshops because I haven't had the opportunity, really, to do much acting since I've been in Ireland. I started the day full of enthusiasm, but after one acting workshop, I was reminded what sort of level of preparation, openness and truthfulness you need to bring to the work to make it worthwhile. I suddenly felt entirely incapable of doing anything of the sort and wanted to go back to my room and hide away from everyone, particularly anyone to do with the theatre or the arts. Not a great start to a theatre conference. 
I did go back to my room, but luckily one of my roommates had arrived and I was forced to interact with her. She was a lovely girl from Fairbanks and she hadn't been up to the conference hall yet, so that gave me a reason to go back and engage with other people.
I don't want to go through a blow-by-blow account of every day as I suspect that would be boring for you all. However, I'm also not quite sure how to draw out the highlights and I don't think that's just because I'm jet-lagged, I think that's because, as saccharine as it sounds, every day was a highlight! (Can you just imagine me chirping that at you with big, bright blue eyes and my previous long blonde hair in pigtails? But, despite sounding like an orphan from "Annie", its true). The days started early - 8am with a writing warm-up exercise, if you wanted, then the PlayLab began at 9am. The PlayLab involved a reading of a selected play, which was then responded to by a panel of three featured artists and from the audience. PlayLab sessions went throughout the day, with plays of varying lengths. There were also acting workshops, writing workshops, 'artist life' workshops, rehearsal workshops, discussion panels and many other good things. 
In the evening, we got a very necessary theatre break from 5pm - 7:30pm for dinner, then there were full-length, finished productions from local companies or from featured artists and after that finished, we had the Festival Fringe in one of the local bars. So, if you add it all up and you didn't take any breaks (which I mainly tried not to do), you could have a 12 hour day of theatre. Which is pretty amazing. People often went out after the fringe too, for karaoke and drinking, though I was very responsible and didn't start the long nights until Thursday, but more on that later.
My PlayLab session for 'Fishtail' wasn't until the very last session on Friday, which meant I had a lot of time to fill before then. What did I do? I sent a lot of stuff to the fringe. I'd already sent a piece before I got to the festival, which they were going to do on the Monday night. After watching one night of the fringe, however, I got utterly terrified because my piece was very serious, verging on the sentimental and everyone else seemed to have submitted hilarious pieces involving drinking and sex and good times and rock and roll. When they finally did perform my piece, I had to *watch* it with my head in my hands. It wasn't anything to do with the acting, maybe not even to do with the writing (I honestly couldn't tell you if the writing was any good at this point), in fact... I don't even know why I had to do that in the end. I think, at the time, I felt like the piece was a little close to the bone for me, just a tad too personal, and so that if anyone happened to laugh at it or judge it, or even if I happened to see the flicker of judgement or scorn passing across any of the audiences' faces, I would have just dissolved. I would have disappeared into the carpet in a pool of shame and remorse. I'm not sure if that was because of the subject material of that particular piece or if I feel like that about most new things I've written on their first outing. A little of column A, a little of column B, I suspect. At 6am one morning, unable to sleep, I wrote a one-page 'play' for the Fringe night of one-page plays (Wednesday?), which was really more of a sketch, but fun nonetheless. Then, on the Wednesday night, I stayed up until all hours to complete the Overnighter challenger (write a play in a night on a given topic, to be performed at the fringe the next evening). Our topic was 'The Witching Hour of America', which totally freaked me out, because I don't do horror or scary things (in that, I don't watch them, CAN'T watch them without getting horrible nightmares and not sleeping for many weeks on end) and so I really felt I had no reference points with which to begin. During the evening's performance I started trying to think of anything that had used to scare/thrill me as a kid and I remembered all those sleep-overs where an ouija board had been pulled out to talk to the 'ghosts' around us. So, I started with that and ended up with a sleep-over that gets ruined by one of the girls' parents coming home and admitting to sacrificing the other girls' parents in aid of fixing all of America's current problems, from the economy to climate change. I think it worked pretty well, despite some clunky, 4am lines added in at the last minute to shore up the plot. I had some fantastic actors in the piece, so that certainly helped.
Throughout the week, I did the monologue workshop with Laura Gardner and Frank Collison (they're coming to Australia soon for workshops, Australian acting friends, so keep your eyes peeled), which was great fun and a good refresher of all the work you have to do to get something up to performance standard. I was working on a monologue from a show written by my friend from New York and by the time I performed it on Saturday, I got many lots of laughs from the audience, which was great. Its always nice to get a laugh. I remember some Australian comedic actress saying that whenever she couldn't hear people in the audience laughing she'd think, 'Well, if they're not laughing, maybe they're smiling and I can't see that in the dark', which is always my comfort, but its always nice to get a laugh too.
In the afternoons, I was going to the Acting for Singers workshop and working on an old favourite song of mine, 'I Won't Mind'. It's a gorgeous piece by Jeff Blumenkrantz, from an unfinished musical called 'The Other Franklin'. It was a great one to work on as it has such a strong story. Also, I'd always had a problem with it, in that I could really feel the story and the emotion whenever I practiced, at home, by myself, away from people, but as soon as I went to perform it, I clammed up. We started by doing our songs as monologues and imagining the circumstances around us, which must have made something finally click for me, because all of a sudden I couldn't stop feeling all the emotion in the song, to the detriment of my singing (you really can't sing if you're choked up). With the guidance of tutors Kim Estes, Nancy Caudill and Juliana Osinchuck I managed to head towards a nice midway point with the song (emotion/singing) whilst also honouring the notes and rhythms written by the composer. I still think I sang it better at my final rehearsal than in the performance in front of everyone (my throat got majorly dry - panic), but, hey, I still think it went well. Apparently I made people cry. I made 'em laugh and then I made 'em cry. Not bad for a morning's work.
But, of course, the main reason I was there was to hear my play, 'Fishtail' being read. That happened Friday. I had a rehearsal Thursday with the actors, which I was really happy with and they did excellently in the Friday reading too. I'm not going to go into great detail about what was said and not said in my feedback, but I will say that I was very pleased with the emotional reactions I got to the script. Even better, I was able to take on board the criticisms/feedback in a way that I have never been strong enough as a writer to do before. I was able to hold onto my idea of what the script was about and what I was trying to achieve. All of those things were exceeding good, especially considering my reaction to the piece I had read at the fringe earlier in the week.

We're on a boat!

Outside of the actual 'events' of the conference, I met some incredibly wonderful people and had some amazing nights. Thursday was bonfire night and despite having only gotten 4 hours sleep the night before (Fringe Overnighter challenge), I went out and ended up staying out the entire night. Its kind of easy to stay up all night in summer in Alaska, because the light convinces you that even if you're feeling tired, you're meant to be awake now. The bonfire was lovely and warm, set up next to a fast-flowing creek, cold from the melting snow. This was followed by a 'Warrior Breakfast' at one of the local hotels (you're a warrior because you've stayed up all night). I had French Toast with maple syrup - so American! There were many other 'American' things on offer, like 'biscuits and gravy', which kind of looked like scones and some sort of cream, but I wasn't willing to brave it. I think it also had meat in it, which weird-ed me out, considering it looked like devonshire tea. This made my all-important Friday a little surreal from lack of sleep, but I managed to get through it. Friday night we went out on a glacier cruise at about 9:30pm, which involved a great deal of excited squealing and running around the boat on my behalf (which subsequently led to an extended slapstick routine involving alleged sea otters on one side of the boat and me an another playwright friend getting confused as to which side of the boat and crashing into each other) as well as bad Kate Winslett/Leonardo DiCaprio impressions and endlessly repeated refrains of Lonely Island's 'I'm on a boat!' Of course, the light completely confused me and even though we got off the boat after midnight, I felt like I could go out for a drink or two and some karaoke, despite having to be up for tech rehearsals for monologues and songs at 8:30am the next day. I was very responsible, sang one song, drank water and was in bed by 1am. Saturday was the gala dinner and we all got dressed up, looked swanky and had a lovely time congratulating ourselves on a great week, thanking our sponsors, featured artists and the local community. I also got to hear the local glee club perform, which was majorly exciting and hugely entertaining - much better than that famous show with the irritating characters.
Sunday morning, after only a few hours sleep, I started the long trek home to Ireland. It involved a 6 hour drive to Anchorage, evening flight to New York (with a stop-over in Seattle), three train rides across New York to get from Newark Airport to JFK, 5 hours or so of sitting around in JFK airport, an evening flight to Dublin and then a 4 hour bus ride to Cork. I stumbled into Cork yesterday morning with my huge bag, having slept an indeterminate amount of hours in a sitting position, wearing smelly clothes and looking slightly worse for wear. I managed to stay up until 10pm with the help of Facebook and specifically in the form of photos from Alaska and new American friends. I'm now in my little apartment for the Midsummer Festival, counting down my last 10 days in Ireland (of course I'll be coming back to visit, but, still... this is the last few days before I move all my stuff over to London).
As I look out on the familiar slate-grey Irish sky, Alaska is beginning to feel like some sort of magical, surreal dream. I fell into some crazy deep sleep and made it all up. I left on a major high, feeling like an all-powerful artist, full of optimism. I'm still trying to process everything that happened and so I'm afraid this blog post might sound little more than a grocery list of the week, rather than a true explanation of how I felt and any amazing insights I may have had. Most of all, right now, I'm just trying to keep at bay a real feeling of sadness and loss. I'm missing all my new friends, the constant diet of theatre (reading it, writing it, performing it, watching it, thinking about it, talking about it, critiquing it), the gorgeous scenery. I'm even missing those damn school buses.

Happy playwrights at the Gala dinner

Gussied up at the gala dinner

Trip Down Memory Lane

I am currently sitting in Valdez, Alaska, attempting not to faint from jet lag and an over-consumption of french fries. This isn't actually the promised 'trip down memory lane' of the blog post title, but I thought I'd give you some context. Tomorrow the Last Frontier Theatre Conference starts in this far-flung post of the USA empire, at which my play, 'Fishtail' will be presented. I'm pretty excited. Not least because the last time I went to a theatre conference it turned out to be the absolute best thing I've ever done in my entire life where I met some of the best and brightest people I know. I'm looking forward to a theatre binge, not much sleep and various declarations of the adult equivalent of BFF's (whatever that might be). By next Sunday I intend to be intellectually, emotionally, creatively and lets face it, probably financially sucked dry.
But I've actually already had an emotional rollercoaster of two and a half days. On my great traverse across the wide American continent to Alaska, I thought I would take a break in Michigan. Not just for any old reason, but because we have family friends who live there, who I haven't seen in about 15 years. My Dad and Mum met this couple when we lived in Rochester, Minnesota, back when I was a tiny munchkin of not much more than 5 years old. I always remembered them as some of the kindest, funnest, smartest, best people I knew. Mum and Dad went and visited them in Michigan in 1992, then they visited us in Australia in 1994, Dad and us kids went over again in 1996, they came back in 1998 and then we lost touch for 15 years for a variety of unknown and inexplicable reasons. A few years ago, I looked them up using this miraculous invention of the internet but uncertain where to start after such a long amount of time, I didn't do anything about it. It was left to my brother Chris to send them a letter last year and re-spark the connection. I sent some emails afterwards, they sent me a Peter Brook book and we discussed vague plans about them coming to Europe with their young daughters (who I had never met) or us going to the USA.
Then, my brother got accepted into a composer's program in NY and headed out to see them last March. In the meantime, I got accepted into the Last Frontier conference and asked if I might be able to pop along for a short visit on the way there.
Last Wednesday, after an early start in Dublin and a long wait in NY, I was on a tiny plane (not much more than a tuna can with wings, really) bound for Detroit. I suddenly felt very anxious about the whole thing and wished that I could skip Detroit entirely and head straight for Alaska. It all seemed too scary and unknown. What if they didn't like the person I had become? What if we had nothing to talk about? What if... I don't know, I set the house on fire? What if I just couldn't find them at the airport (my new casual attitude towards most things meant I had left Dublin without an address or phone number in case anything went wrong. Of course it all worked out in the end, but still...)?
I don't know that I really want to go into details about the whole two and a half days. I still feel like I'm processing everything that happened and that I felt. Of course, it was absolutely wonderful, beyond wonderful to see them both again. It felt like opening up a link to another lifetime, back to when I was a child, living in Minnesota happily oblivious to how lucky I was to have my mummy who loved me with me every single day. A link back to a time I could barely remember and a woman I hardly knew.
Less emotionally, it was a link back to the wonderful 5 weeks me, my Dad and my brother spent in Michigan when I was 12 years old; a 5 week period that had made me so happy I constantly brought to mind and perfected every little detail over the years, afraid they might be lost, etching everything so forcibly into my mind that, walking through the city again, I managed to recognise open fields that had been covered in snow last time but were now swishing with high green grasses.
They took me out to yummy vegetarian restaurants and fed me delicious local cheeses. We went cycling and visited local delis and gorgeous artisan shops. We tried to get sangria, but I got ID'ed (seriously!) and when I realised I didn't have my passport with me, I was forbidden alcohol by the bartender. I saw the university's art gallery, filled with gorgeous colourful furnishings created by Tiffany (of Tiffany & Co.), the grad library with its airy roof and the law library that was built underground, but so light-filled and bright you'd never realise.
I was 'all grow-ed up' (as they kept saying), but there was something about being there, with them, that made the past feel all so brand-new and raw and only just out of reach. On one level, everything about Ann Arbor, its big, gorgeous wooden houses, the leafy suburbs and the green university campus, the buzzing downtown and not to mention our friends' house (which still had a hint of the same unique woody smell it had back in 1996) and our family friends, seemed so comforting, so peaceful, so exactly right. On some level, I felt so completely at home and safe and calm that I couldn't ever imagine leaving.
Of course, I did have to leave and far too soon. Worried about my internship and the performance for the Cork Midsummer Festival, I had left only the bare minimum of time in Detroit and just as I had begun to get to know our friends' two little girls, just as I was getting used to having the sun again, just as I was getting used to being around our friends again, I had to leave. They dropped me off at the airport at 6:30am for a 7:30am flight and as the car drove off, I could feel myself reeling. I cried getting my tickets. I cried at security. I cried waiting to board the plane. I cried as the plane took off. I cried at Chicago airport as I waited for my connecting flight for Alaska. I cried and I cried and I cried.

Glorious Minnesota Childhood

Because the fact of the matter was, that no matter how close all those years ago seemed whilst I stayed in Ann Arbor, they were still far too far away to go back to.

Transient Nights

A good friend once told me that the trick to living happily in a place is to always look at it through a haze of nostalgia, pretending that you're always on the brink of leaving. Its a neat trick and it certainly makes you aware of what parts of your life you are grateful for. The benefit of it is that you can have the all the good, grateful, happy feelings without the sadness that would be associated with the nostalgia if you were actually leaving.
However, over the last week I've been getting the full nostalgic experience because, of course, I don't have to pretend anymore. I am actually leaving Dublin tomorrow morning for Alaska. After two weeks in the USA, I'll be back in Cork for two weeks and then its on to London. I know a week or two ago I was saying I was disappointed to be back in Dublin, but, well, I'm just that ridiculously fickle and irrational. So, now, I'm on a totally different emotional roller-coaster and whilst I am excited about moving to London (wheee!) I have been feeling the impending loss of Ireland. Of course, when you get into that sort of headspace, you inevitably find yourself gravitating towards rainy windows so you can stare out of them significantly, making daft comments about flowers being so much more beautiful because they don't last and stroking your chin and murmuring wanky words like 'transient'.
So, at the risk of sounding like a wanker, I had a beautiful transient evening last Friday night in Dublin, which seemed like a remarkably wonderful way to send off Dublin.
A little bit of background. I've been signed up to a group called Sofar Sounds since sometime last year. I'm not even sure how I got into it in the end, but in it I am. Sofar Sounds was set up by music lovers who were sick of going to concerts and finding that many audiences at many concerts were highly disrespectful of the bands, particularly of support acts, who mainly happened to be emerging artists. So, they decided to create pop-up events in people's living rooms. They would be limited capacity, so only the people who really cared would be attending and the organisers would impose several rules in order to give the artists the best possible chance of performing. The rules are thus: 1) No talking or mobiles 2) If you come to the event, you stay for the whole thing, no ducking out if you decide you don't like one artist. The people from Sofar then set about finding the best and most interesting artists they could and putting on a hugely decent (free) gig for those dedicated music lovers. Its happening all over the world, New York, London, Paris, Australia and its great music. You can find out more about the group as well as sign up for the mailing list (which is the only way to get to the gigs) here: http://www.sofarsounds.com/
I've been trying to go to some of the gigs in London, but either the dates didn't work out, or I wasn't able to get to the gig because so many people wanted to go. But, last Thursday, I was given an invitation to the first Dublin gig. They emailed an address and off I trotted to Merrion Square on Friday evening searching for a yellow door. It was a beautiful evening, balmy, not too overcast and with a soft pastel sunset growing over the horizon. I found the address fairly easily, I just followed the very attractive, impossibly trendy people who were spilling out of the living room onto the street, drinking and getting to know each other before the music started. I chatted briefly to the woman whose apartment it was and then got myself a sofa seat and waited for the music. It was slightly awkward as I didn't know anyone and some people seemed to know each other at least a little bit. So, I nursed my cider and pretended to text, the last resort of the single, awkward person at an even where they know no-one. I'm certain everyone knew I wasn't actually texting, but it at least meant they didn't have me looking at them, smiling awkwardly and attempting to strike up conversation. And I got to pretend that I wasn't in anyway awkward or lonely. Win-win, really. Status-quo maintained.
Once the music got started, I relaxed completely and felt totally blessed that I had been given the opportunity to hear all these bands. We started with the folkie, accoustic sounds of Dublin band Slow Skies. The lead singer had a gorgeous, whimsical voice that reminded me of a mix of Lisa Mitchell and the Cranberries. The music, itself, however was more ethereal than the both of them. It was absolutely beautiful and from the first notes there was a magic feeling in the air. Everyone listened so attentively and the focus on the musicians only added to the magic that was being created by the musicians themselves.
Second up was a girl who happened to be from Adelaide but who had been living in Dublin for the past 4 years. She used a loop-machine to build and create songs all on her own. She played the violin, sang and used a variety of other instruments I don't know the name of to create really unique sounding music. Its not normally my style and I don't have the requisite language or labels to describe it, but her performance totally blew my mind. Unfortunately she doesn't really have anything online that you can check out, but her name is Margey Lewis and you should keep your eyes/ears peeled for her because I think she'll be going places. In a good, musical way.
We had a late addition to the line-up with a girl who played one song. It was a very sweet song about youth and summer and nostalgia so suited my mood.
The gig finished up with The Raglans, another Dublin band who were kind of a rockier Irish Mumford and Sons (I am wary of making comparisons between new favourite bands and old favourite bands after my comment to one singer that she sounded like Joan Baez and they didn't look too pleased. I had meant it as a compliment and I mean this comparison as a compliment as well, so I hope it would be taken as such). The energy and charisma these guys had was amazing and by the end of their fourth song, no-one was ready to go. They played us an encore, but I would have happily stayed and listened all evening. Of course, that wasn't an opportunity, so I satisfied myself with by going up to them and gushing along with one of the other audience members. Luckily, the Raglans were very appreciative of my gushing and didn't find it in anyway embarrassing. They even tweeted back at me when I gushed more over twitter late that evening. It was probably my most successful and satisfying musician/gushing fan interaction apart from say the weekend with the Unthanks back in January. Anyway, they are on iTunes and I, for one, will be investing in their EP, once I have gotten over the little heart attack I had over last month's credit card bill. I suggest you do the same:

The transience of the evening came from the pop-up nature of the venue, of course, but even more so from the people I met. Now, of course, when you're traveling, you meet people all the time who you are never going to see again. One need only look over my last two blog posts and we meet three unnamed men who I very much enjoyed talking to - the Georgian, the American kayaker and the singing Irish cab driver. But, I suppose you expect this when you are traveling. My obsession has always been living in a country and I collect 'countries-I've-lived-in' the same way other people collect stamps, or coins or, I don't know, antique sewing machines. Living in a country for a short period gives you a false feeling of permanence and you forget that you are still 'traveling' and that the existence you're creating in this new country is far more transient than one you may have lived previously (is it possible to be 'more transient'? 'I think you can in Europe?')
ANYWAY, the point I'm making, or heading towards making or trying to make is that the evening turned into this beautifully strange, bizarrely intimate and yet completely momentary occurrence. Because of the slightly odd and thrilling nature of the pop-up gig, because it was held in someone's house (that before that evening you had never met) and because there were only 20 - 25 people there, I ended up having very interesting and lovely conversations with everyone I chatted with. Of course, they were all very enthusiastic about music but they also all had very interesting lives that had led them to being in that room on that particular night at that particular time. One girl in particular happened to be gushing to the musicians around the same time as I was gushing to the musicians and we decided to form a gushing strike force, going up to everyone and telling them how wonderful they were. It then turned out that we were both walking in the same direction, so we walked together and talked together on that beautiful, balmy night. She told me about her Wwoofing experience in the French Pyrenees and I told her about my plans for London and then we bought gelato and tried out the different flavours that each of us had gotten and then after about 15 minutes of sharing stories, suddenly I was turning left and she was turning right and that was the end of the conversation and our fleeting relationship. I don't even remember her name.
There was something about that 15 minute walk and talk through the centre of early evening Dublin, the light from the sun still hanging around the horizon and all the party people falling about themselves as they went from pub to pub that so perfectly suited my nostalgic mood, my feeling of merely floating through a fleeting world that.... made me want to write bad poetry. No! Sorry, sometimes I find it hard to be serious in these philosophical or significant posts. My style always leans towards the self-deprecating. But, the point is, there was something about my whole experience in Ireland that seemed to be summed up in that 15 minute stroll. The loveliness of it, the randomness of it, the strange, sudden intimacy, the freedom and glory of it as well as the final interrupted and unfinished nature. Perhaps that's the best way for it to be in the end, instead of dragging on and on like a once-successful comedy sitcom, ending on a high note when all you can remember is the good times.

Donegal

To catch you up on the rest of my adventure from this week (that's right, in between looking at fascinating online dating profiles and picking them to pieces, I have actually been doing real things in the real world), I was in Co. Donegal at the beginning of last week. From where I was in Co. Mayo, it took me seven hours (SEVEN), plus six bus and car changes (SIX) to get to where I was going, which was the very tip of the South-West corner of County Donegal, a place called Glencolmcille (well, actually, it was a place called Malinmore, but Malinmore wasn't so much a 'place' as a collection of houses with a post box. Glencolmcille at least had three pubs, a school and a folk museum, so you could legitimately call that a 'place'). Here is an idea of where I was:

I was aiming for the 'A'. From google maps.

Whilst waiting for the first of my six buses/taxis, I hung out in the deliciously blazing sun of Westport and attempted to even out my sunburn. I know, I know, its absolutely appalling and considering my father has had all sorts of scares with skin cancer, you'd think of all people, I would know not to be putting my skin in trauma, but I couldn't help it. It'd been so long since I'd seen the sun and my skin was so white and the sun felt so good, that I just wanted to lie out in it an burn myself to a crisp. I covered up my burnt skin in sunscreen and tried to brown my shoulders, but of course went a little too overboard with the sunscreen, meaning that I ended up with red arms, a little stripe of white skin and then red shoulders. Highly attractive. It must have done something for someone, however, because an elderly gentleman stopped in the street to declare me 'a handsome woman' and to tell me how lucky was the man 'who gets to put his arms around you.' Sweet.
Anyway, I eventually ended up in Glencolmcille, despite a bit of a disaster when I got to Donegal and the mini-bus driver told me that he'd only be able to get me to Killybegs (about half an hour away from where I needed to get). As it was already 9:30pm, I'd been traveling for hours, I was at a bit of a loss as to what to do. However, I held myself together admirably well. Compared to some previous travel disasters I've had, I simply asked the bus driver to check with the company to see if there actually was a service from Killybegs, as I had checked it several times online. Of course, there wasn't, but they agreed to organise me a taxi from Killybegs to Glencolmcille as part of my ticket. I was very pleased that everything had worked out and I also hadn't panicked and made a fool of myself. The taxi driver was very nice, though he seemed a little grumpy at first about having been dragged away from his IRA movie to drive a silly tourist to Glencolmcille. But he became much more friendly and even sang me 'The Boys of Killybegs' when I asked 'wasn't there a song about Killybegs that I would know?' He also refused to leave me on my own in Glencolmcille and stood in the car park for a good half hour waiting for the people from my hostel to pick me up. He was very amused to find out that I was writing all about the trip and hoped I would write a new chapter (it was easier to say it was a book) with himself in it. I should really have gotten his name, but if he ever reads this I hope he will know who he is.
The next day, I was hoping to climb Slieve Leage, which are some amazing sea cliffs, about three times higher than the hugely famous and popular Cliffs of Moher in Co. Clare. Here is a picture:

I climbed to that pointy bit in the middle of the picture. Found at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slieve_League

Because they are not so popular as the Cliffs of Moher, there is no barrier along the walk to the summit. And, though you can't really see it in this picture, the walk to the summit involves rather sheer, crumbly, dizzingly high and terrifying drops into the ocean on one side and not quite o high, but just as sheer and perhaps more rocky drops into a valley on the other. The way to the summit is along the aptly named 'One Man's Path'. My housemate had told me to 'go with someone' along the path, but as I was traveling by myself, I figured I would just have to attempt to do it on my own. The day was perfectly clear and sunny, no wind, so it seemed like the perfect conditions to attempt the scary climb on my own. However, an American man from my hostel also happened to be attempting Slieve League that day and as I needed a lift to the cliffs anyway and he had a car, we ended up doing the walk together by default. He ended up being a very interesting gentleman, lots of great stories about science and kayaking trips and places I should visit in the USA and after a slightly awkward start, we got along very well and had a lovely day. It was kind of lucky he was there in the end, because the One Man's Path wasn't nearly as obvious as the name would imply and there were a few times we found ourselves in rather awkward scrambling situations (at one point, we had some very amusing Germans above us. I called out, 'Did we go the wrong way?' They replied, 'No, no, this is the One Man's Path. It is called this because only one person in every two can survive it.' Ha ha ha). Not that having someone else there would have helped my climbing abilities, but it was a good incentive for me not to completely freak out and have a hysterical break down on the mountain, because I didn't want to look like a girl in front of the hardcore American kayak man. Also, I forgot my sunscreen and I really thought that my skin had probably gone through enough trauma for one week and the American had spray-on sunscreen. I still think spray-on sunscreen must be a bit dodgy, but it seemed to do the trick.
We parted ways at the summit, the American went back the same way to get his car, I decided to go down the Pilgrim's Path down the back of the mountain for a bit of a change. I stumbled into Carrick at 4:30pm, overheated, dehydrated, hot, sweaty and absolutely delighted with myself. About twenty minutes later, the American went past me. I totally beat him down the mountain and he was in a car. I don't want to crow, but I feel that was pretty awesome. And, in the true sense of the word, not in the American hotdog sense of the word.
So, after a lovely shower, I sat down, outside, in the long evening sun and attempted to write job applications whilst getting very distracted by the google mail chat thing that I have only just worked out how to use again.

Me being summer-y and confused by Gmail chat.

 The next day, I decided to walk over the mountain on the other side of Glencolmcille, which my hostel owner had said was quite lovely. I learnt from one of the other guests (who happened to be an artist) that there were the remains of a cottage Dylan Thomas had once spent 6 months in over the mountain as well and I figured I might go sit in it for a bit and hopefully get some Thomas-like writerly skill or inspiration and churn out my equivalent of 'Under Milk Wood' in a day. Or something. I didn't find the ruins though (they were a bit further away than expected), so I guess I'll have to do it on my own steam. Apparently the reason Thomas was in this neck of the woods was because it the cottage was the further away from a pub that Thomas' agent could find near the UK and was hoping to dry Thomas out for a few months. Instead, Thomas decided that a 10 mile walk over the mountains was a perfectly reasonable way of getting to alcohol and did it regularly. Well, I guess if he wasn't entirely sober, at least he was getting some exercise and that's... not nothing.
There was absolutely no one up on the mountain except myself and a lot of sheep (and lambies!) The mountain cliffs dropped straight into the sea, and I found myself clutching on to the edge of the flimsy wooden fence and staring down a sheer drop into the water however many hundreds of metres below. It made me ever so slightly giddy, light-headed and giggly.
When I came down the mountain, I popped into the local Folk Museum, which was quite sweet. It had a variety of cottages done up as they would have been in the 1700s, 1800s and 1900s. I couldn't help thinking of my eldest charge from last year and how much she would have enjoyed it. I certainly enjoyed myself, but thinking of her enthusiasm for knit curtains and old-fashioned things made the experience that little bit more fun.
I was lucky enough to get a lift back from the hostel owners as I was completely wrecked after my 5 day adventure holiday. The weather was incredibly perfect for the entire time I was away and I was little sorry to have to be going back to Dublin the next day, but I was also kind of wrecked and, of course, there was plenty to be done back at home. I'm packing everything up at the moment, as I leave my house in Dublin tomorrow. I'm off to Alaska on Wednesday and then back in Cork for two weeks and then its on to London...
I can't quite believe it's all ending. I'm getting more than a little sad and nostalgic and have been listening nonstop to a beautiful Unthanks song called 'Fareweel Regality', which is all about farewells.
But, more on that next time.

And now it's time to say fareweel
And though I hope that we may meet again
And all things may be reet again
We've lived and spent the day

And so we'll cry fareweel regality
And cry fareweel to liberty
To honest friends' civility
To winter's frost and fire
And there's naught that I can bid you
But that peace and love gan with you
Never mind wherever call the fates
Away from Hexhamshire

And what is time that flies so fleet
But just a bird that flies on merry wings
And lights us down in happy springs
When winter's need is past

And so we'll cry fareweel...

Aye but the curlew sings her sang
And winds her sorrows down the Rowley Burn
And drear as winds the hunter's horn
The call is all fareweel

And so we'll cry fareweel...

And as I set the mossy stones
And do me bits of jobs and gap the dykes
I hear the whispers down the sykes
Fareweel they sigh, fareweel

And so we'll cry fareweel...

Do I remember? Do I dream?
And did we rightly meet by Viewly Side?
For all this and much more beside
Has got me sore beguiled

And so we'll cry fareweel...

And on some golden autumn morn
Or when July is hazing Dipton Slopes
By Whitley Mill or Westburnhope
We'll live and spend the day

And so we'll cry fareweel...
And so we'll cry fareweel...

Internet Dating

So, I've signed up to another dating website, even though every time I do (I've joined four different ones over the course of the last few years), I get severe buyer's remorse afterwards. Its probably because, of all the things that you can buy that promise a better life (a new dress, a gym  membership, whitening toothpaste), internet dating seems to offer the most. True love! Soulmates! Happily Ever Afters! So, if (when) you fail to find said true love/soul mate/happily ever after, its all the more frustrating and disappointing when you think of how much money you've wasted.
Also, I think the whole internet dating thing offends my default romance setting. The initial set-up, with profiles and pictures and endless lists of things you like and don't like seems to me to be essentially shopping for a boyfriend. 'Oh, well, yes, I like this model, but I wonder if I could get him with blue eyes rather than green?' And then when (if ) you get to the first date its often more like a job interview than a date. 'Yes, I am very close with my family and feel that family life is important. I spend every Christmas with them and speak to my father weekly, which I believe shows my stable and well-adjusted nature, perfect for a long-term relationship and potential marriage.' On some deep level, my brain still believes that the only way you can meet your one true love is when you both reach for the same, red hard-cover, gold-embossed copy of 'Anna Karenina' at the second-hand bookshop. Or, when you happen to sit next to each other at a friend's wedding. Or, when his best friend lets the largest country house in the vicinity and you meet at a dance and he insults you because of your low-class, so then you decide you hate him, but then he falls in love with you because you don't care and he proposes and you refuse and insult him and so then he mends his ways and becomes awesome and you decide you made a mistake, but aren't sure if he still loves you and then his crazy aunt comes and tells you you're not allowed to marry him and then he proposes and you say yes and you have a joint wedding with your sister who happens to marrying your husband's best friend.
Oh. Sorry. Got a bit carried away there.
I also feel there's a bit of a stigma still around internet dating. Like, that it's for old, divorced people or socially stunted people. The amount of men that have said to me, 'So, what's a nice/pretty/confident/outgoing girl like you doing on an internet dating website?' as their first message is too numerous to mention. I know its meant to be a compliment, but it just ends up making me feel even more romantically incompetent. Read in another way the comment could be: 'You look reasonably nice and pretty! And you still couldn't manage to find someone? So, what's wrong with you?'
But, still, I have several good friends who are currently in long-term, happy and stable relationships through their participation in this modern-day form of torture/humiliation that we call internet dating, so I'm once again giving it a go. I figure that, at the very least, I can start to meet some London people and they can take me out to awesome London places and I'll start to get a sense of the city. And that has to be good, right?
However, there are several things that annoy me about the gentlemen I meet online. So, at the risk of sounding like a know-it-all dick (hi there anonymous internet trolls! I look forward to your abuse!) or someone who writes books with annoyingly smug titles ('he's just not that into you' nyah nyah nyah), I wrote a list of the things that are most likely to make me lose interest in a man on an internet dating website (if any of the gentleman online wish to write a similar list about the women online, I'd be glad to read it. I honestly have no idea how best to advertise myself on these websites. Ugh. Just describing the process as 'advertising myself' makes me feel sick to my stomach, but it is sort of true).

1) Photo. If you don't have a photo, I ain't interested. Don't take it personally, boys, I'm the same with recipe books. If a recipe doesn't have an accompanying photo, I'm completely at sea when attempting to choose something to make for dinner. It is the same with your profiles. Its not that I'm superficial and only want to date men with six-packs and jaws you could cut diamonds on, but simply that, as they say, a picture speaks a thousand words. A photo will give a better sense of who you are. Especially when it seems most people these days 'like movies, live music, keeping fit and traveling'.  And, in that spirit, be very careful about which photos you chose as your main profile photo. Don't choose a photo in which you are scowling. You might think girls like dark and brooding, but, there's a fine line between Heathcliffe and deranged axe-murdering stalker. Best to urge on the side of caution and choose a photo that shows you looking reasonably happy, confident and comfortable. I know its a tall ask. I know some people don't feel comfortable with a camera stuck in their face. Maybe try to get a friend to take a photo when you're not expecting it. "In the moment", as they say. Give them a camera and have them jump out at you when you're in the midst of laughing at a hilarious joke your friend just told you. Also, unless it's a photo of you at the beach, please no topless photos. I don't care if you have six-pack. Well, I do care, but its not going to make me want to date you more than somebody else who doesn't have a six-pack. And if you care that much about your six-pack that you need to show it to me before I even know your name, then chances are my desire to date you will dip into the negative digits. Also, you may think that Zoolander-style photos are hilarious, but so do about a thousand other men and, believe me, after a while, the joke gets old. Oh, and, one last thing. Drunk photos? Seriously? Especially drunk photos where you are flanked by scantily-clad, buxom, bronzed women? Are you still drunk when you're choosing them? No-one looks like a good prospect when drunk in the Playboy Mansion. NO-ONE. Not even Hugh Hefner.

2) Proper grammar and spelling in your profile. I may be in the minority here, but if you misuse 'your' and 'you're' or mix-up 'their' and 'there' and 'they're', it will equal an instant rejection from me. if you don't use caps locks, i will start to wonder what's wrong with the left little finger that it cannot stretch to the caps locks or shift keys. If you end every sentence with! I will not think you are enthusiastic! Or, I will think you enthusiastic in the way that my gym instructor is enthusiastic! In my head all your sentences will end on an upward inflection! And this will annoy me! And then I will think you are annoying! And I will not contact you! Similarly... if you use... all the way... through your profile... I will not... think you are thoughtful... I will think... you have written... your profile stoned... and cannot remember your.... words. But the worst thing of all, the absolute worst, is text speak. Dudes, seriously. If you use 'lol' at all, at any point in your profile or messages to me, my instant reaction will be to compare you to a 16 year old girl. I will imagine you flicking your long, blonde hair out or your baby blues and, like, sucking on a strawberry lollipop and, like, checking your glittery nail polish and whilst that probably does it for some people, I promise you, for me it DOES NOT. You may use text speak ironically, in which case, I will smile ruefully to myself, but the danger is, will I know you are using it ironically? Best to avoid it entirely.

'LOL! This is definitely my best angle! The girls won't be able to resist me.' Found at: http://menknowpause.fooyoh.com/menknowpause_lifestyle_living/5209717

3) Don't start your profile with, 'Not sure what to write!' Don't start it with, 'I don't really feel comfortable writing about myself like this...' Don't start it with, 'Never done this internet dating thing before! Thought I'd give it a go...' Don't start it with 'Smart, handsome, friendly (and humble) guy...' Yes, we realise it's uncomfortable and awkward. Chances are, the girls looking at your profile also felt very uncomfortable and awkward when writing about themselves. I promise you, absolutely everyone is uncomfortable and awkward. Pointing it out does not help. Its like the person who says, 'Well! This is awkward!' after an awkward pause. There is no response to this. Its not funny. Its not original. Its just... awkward.

4) So, on match.com, you can 'wink' at people to show that you're interested. If, gentlemen, you have 'winked' at me and I haven't responded, chances are I have read your profile and am not interested in you. I know its a bit rude not to respond, but I actually have a life outside of internet dating and don't really have time to message everyone who has winked at me, so sometimes I don't reply. I apologise. If you wink a second time, or a third time, or a fourth time, I guarantee I have already looked at your profile and am not interested. Look, if you imagine it in a real-life scenario, at a pub or something and you wink at a girl across the bar and she doesn't respond, you take that at face-value. She's not interested. No amount of winking will change her mind. And, I mean, really, after a while its just blinking not winking and that's not alluring that's just confusing. 

5) If you have sent a 'wink' and I 'wink' back, don't make your first message to me, 'you're cute' and nothing else. I will go from thinking you are a potentially fascinating individual who I may have an interesting conversation with to thinking you are a sleaze and most likely masturbating over the pictures and profiles you have open on the dating website. I'm not joking. That's the image my brain immediately jumps to. I won't respond.

6) If you are living in Morocco, I'm sorry, but I'm not interested. Not even if you tell me I'm beautiful and you want to marry me. Actually, especially if you tell me that. Men living in Thailand, Italy, Cyprus and any other country apart from the one I'm living in, please also consider this post relevant to yourselves. I think we should all agree that long-distance is a bitch even in this wondrous modern-age of the internet and Skype and jet-planes. Plus, I don't have UK passport, so there's no point in marrying for that.

7) If you have sent a 'wink' and I 'wink' back, don't make your first message to me be self-pitying, defeatist and pessimistic. For example, heading a message with '...not the greatest match...' Dude, if I've winked at you, I've found something in your profile interesting (even if it is simply your correct use of grammar), so just trust that and run with it. I will either think that you are less than enthusiastic about talking to me (oh, well, no-one else has replied to me, so I suppose I'll have to just talk to this one), or that there is some problem with you. Or, even if there is nothing wrong with you, the fact that you think there is something wrong with you will fill with me dread as I imagine long dates in which I attempt to convince you that you are worthwhile human being (I've got my hands full convincing myself of my own worth as a human being, which is a full-time job, so really, dude, you're on your own).

8) If we have used the vile instant messenger for the swapping of 4 or 5 lines of conversation ('hi' 'how are you' 'what are you up to'), do not then expect me to give your phone number so we can 'text'. I wouldn't have thought this needed explanation, but some gentlemen have been insulted at my lack of enthusiasm for this idea. Sorry, dudes, its called, 'Not-wanting-to-open-myself-up-to-a-stalking-situation'. Conservative, I know, but after many years of having the fear of God put into me regarding strange men and the things they might do to young ladies if they got the chance, its hard to break some habits. But, if we turn it around, exactly why do you need my number so soon, anyway? And, if we're already arguing 5 lines of text into our relationship, is this something that either of us want to pursue, anyway? I thought not. Good day, sir.

9) If I have agreed to go on a date with you, do not text to ask me how big my boobs are.

Do I really need to go through an explanation for that?

10) If we have messaged for a bit and, then, for some reason, I have decided that I'm not interested in you, do not want to go on a date with you and have stated why, you need to respect this. No amount of texts and emails are going to change my mind. It shouldn't take me giving my phone to a male friend to answer for you to leave me the hell alone (oh, and for gentlemen who were confused by my refusal to give out my mobile number in point 8, take this as the reason why).

But, hey, really, guys, I'm just a down-to-earth, easy-going girl, looking for someone to share some laughs with.

Really.

Cycling the Greenway

So, we're up to my second day in Westport, Co. Mayo. Having wrecked myself on Croagh Patrick last Friday, I decided to do something similar the next day on the bicycle. You may remember that I wasn't able to get a bus from Westport to Achill Island, so I decided to cycle 42km there instead. The sun was still blazing, but I had sensibly bought sunscreen this time, and proceeded to cover up my already bright red arms and neck.
After a check-in with the cycle company, who told me where to start, gave me a map and their phone number so I could call them from Achill and get their courtesy shuttle bus back to Westport, I headed on my way. I was full of enthusiasm, feeling like an intrepid traveler once again, having packed up my panniers with water, food, a jumper (more to ensure that the Irish weather DIDN'T turn cold, as we all know by now that the Irish weather is malevolent and will only ever do exactly what you expect it not to do), books, sunscreen, my map, my mobile and money.
But, then, not even out of Westport, I hit the first hill. Oh, woe is us, my legs cried, do you not remember what we did just yesterday? Why do you hate us so? All my confidence that I would make it alive to Achill Island in a timely manner was now starting to drain away. But, I convinced myself the only thing to do was to try.

This was an excellent choice. The Greenway (part of which I had cycled the day before) has mainly made on the old railway line between Westport and Achill Island. This old railway line is quite interesting, featuring, as it does in a prophecy put forward by an Irish monk, named Brian Rua Ui Cearabhain in the 1600s. Old Brian said that one day between Westport and Achill Island there would be "carriages on iron wheels, blowing smoke and fire, which on their first and last journeys would carry corpses".  Well before the time of trains, Brian's image would have seemed surreal and terrifying to his contemporaries. For us it is more chilling. Beyond the fact the Brian seems to have imagined trains before such things were beyond the imaginings of most men, the trains from Achill to Westport did indeed carry corpses on their maiden voyage of 1894 and their final journey of 1937. More than a bit chilling and thrilling. 

Anyway, the advantage for me is that trains aren't great on hills and unless you're in Switzerland and not really able to do so, people who build railway lines tend to do it on a flat surface. Or, as much of a flat surface as they possibly can. The people who had converted the railway line to the cycleway had been mercifully considerate and kept the flat gradient, meaning that the fear the first hill created in myself was completely unfounded. 

In fact, with the sun a-shining and the green hills a-rolling in the picturesque distance, it was all I could to stop myself from yelling out in sheer delight that I had happened upon such a country and such a place at such a deliciously wonderful time. I mean, if I had taken my holiday at most any other weekend in the rest of the year, it would not have been nearly so pleasant and pretty. But my sheer chance, I had taken my adventure holiday on the only blazing hot sunny days Ireland is likely to have in 2012, making the water sparkly, the hills shimmer, the flowers sparkle and the landscape seem, on the whole so painfully beautiful that it was sometimes necessary to stop and reach out and touch something, just to make sure it was all real and not some incredibly fabulous, accidental drug trip. 

In fact, when I was whooshing down the lovely Greenway, safe in the knowledge that the path was for cyclists and pedestrians only, no cars, I couldn't help but squealing, 'Greenway!' in a strange, high-pitched voice, as if I were a character in MarioKart ('Ima gonna win!'). I was just so happy that someone had come up with the idea of creating the cycle way and that other people had also thought it was a good idea, and they had given them money, and then other people, whose farms the Greenway cuts across, said, 'sure, I'm happy to have a Cycleway in between my cows and sheep' and, finally, that other people had been employed to design and build it. 

Artist's impression of Jenny on the Greenway. Found at: http://www.mobygames.com/game/n64/mario-kart-64/screenshots/gameShotId,246966/

I made it to Achill Island in record time, even with the amount of stops I required to squeal delightedly at the little lambies eating grass by the side of the road. The lambies weren't as delighted by my presence and tended to either run away, pee or poo when they saw me. Charmant. 

I had initially told myself to take it slowly as I wasn't sure my fitness would hold up. Also, I was enjoying the scenery. However, two... middle-aged people went past me and... well it hurt my pride just a tad. I felt like as the young, sprightly one I should be overtaking them. I suddenly became very competitive and insisted on pushing myself, making certain that I at least kept them in sight, if not being able to overtake them. 

Of course, this resulted in me getting to just outside Achill Island and my body suddenly packing it in. No, no, Jenny, we refuse to go on any further until you provide us with a litre of water and two bananas. At least. Luckily, I had packed just such things and after a brief rest, I managed to get back on the bike and head the final kms to Achill Island. It was 12:30pm and I decided to take a break in the shade and read some of my book (a side note about the book. My housemate lent it to me and it is about the 'Sack of Baltimore', where Barbary pirates stole away 107 English settlers from the Irish coast in 1600s. Absolutely fascinating. My housemate is great). After a bit of a break, I convinced myself to try and see some of the island. However, I looked at the map and realised that the loops around the island were at least 20km and the longest was 44km. Deciding I didn't have the energy to do another 42km, I thought I'd just head off in a flat-looking direction and see what I found. 

I found a secret garden, the ruins of Castle Grainne and a shady spot to read my book and look out of the sea. 

It was about this time, 2:30pm, that I started to think I should call the bike hire company and get them to pick me up. But there was part of me that was oddly reluctant to do so. Part of me that was thinking, oh, but what if I want to see some more of the island? Or what if I want to cycle back a little of the way to Westport? I'll just wait a little longer and then decide. 

I'm sure you can guess what happened. My brain convinced me that I could definitely cycle the 42km back to Westport again, if I just took it slowly and wouldn't it be cool to brag that I had cycled 100km in one day and wouldn't it be nice to see all those pretty places again properly and I could take breaks for food and I'd be really fit after I did 10km and etc. etc. etc.

To be fair, I did make it back to Westport in one piece. It did, however, take me 6 hours, when the initial trip had taken me 3. I also had to stop in every town along the way, drink litres of water and devour large amounts of sugary, carb-based foods. Bags of dried apricots. Packets of salty potato pancakes. 

By the time I was outside of Westport, it was 9:30pm and the sun was racing towards the horizon. I was only barely managing to pedal on flat bits of ground and the minute there was even the hint of an uphill slope, I'd jump off the bike and walk it up instead. All the bugs were coming out in swarms and were sticking in great numbers to my sweaty, sunscreen arms, or flying up my nose or into my mouth, or into my eyes and taking up residence. In short, it wasn't the most pleasant homeward journey. I probably would have enjoyed myself much more if I had just called the blasted shuttle service. 

However, I did get to brag to the girls in my hostel room about it and the men I returned the bicycle to in the shop the next door were very impressed. And we all know that my main in life is to impress people I don't know, so all in all, I'd say it was quite the success.

Climbing Croagh Patrick

Today, I'm moving away from the 'heart-on-sleeve-so-honest-it-makes-you-uncomfortable' style of post that proved so controversial a couple of days ago. Instead, we're back to the 'fish-out-of-water-tourist-Jenny-makes-amusing-mistakes-but-still-manages-some-weird-understanding-of-the-world-around-her.'
Yay! Tourist Jenny! She's my favourite Jenny.
Much more fun than Honest Jenny.
Or Identity Crisis Jenny.
Or 3:30am Jenny.
ANYWAY.
So, yesterday was my last day at Fishamble, which was quite sad *sniff sniff*. But, I'm meeting up with the Literary Manager again next week to talk over the internship, so its not all over, not quite yet. Dragging out that ending as far as it can go.
Anyway, as I have a week and a half before I head off to Alaska and not much time in Ireland when I return, I thought I would try and squeeze in as many Irish tourist things that I have wanted to do all year and never have for one reason or another. I wanted to see Co. Mayo, Co. Sligo and Co. Donegal and I wanted to do it all in 6 days. Ambitions? Yes. Do-able? Just.
My final shift at Fishamble turned into half a shift and going to see a lunchtime production of 'A Galway Girl' at Bewley's Cafe Theatre, which was quite fun. Now, that is a full-length play, not just someone singing the Steve Earle song over and over for an hour. In fact, there was absolutely no mention of that song, which is kind of a relief. Not that I don't like the song, but... well, its all about context, people. Something that you might enjoy after a couple of pints whilst surrounded by American tourists may not be exactly what you want to hear when you are going out to the theatre completely sober.
After the show, I headed home, picked up my bags and walked to Dublin Heuston station. The sun was blazing. I mean, it really was blazing. It was warm. It was HOT. Its funny, that's the time I miss Australia the most, whenever Ireland is most like Australia, that's when I get homesick. Maybe its because I don't know what to do with myself in Ireland when its warm. Or maybe all my Australian memories are indelibly tied to blazing, uncomfortable heat. Whatever. To make things worse, when I saw down at Dublin Heuston station, with the blazing sun blazing through the glass roof in a blazing manner, three Australian women sat down next to me. I desperately wanted to talk to them, but, at the same time, I had a strange desire not to be so needy ('I couldn't help but hear... are you Australian? So am I! Perhaps we could discuss superficial cultural things that we may have in common. Umm... the ABC? BBQ's at the beach? I know, Vegemite! Or thongs, with me safe in the knowledge that no-one is going to get uncomfortable because they think I'm talking about underwear? I'll even talk about Tony Abbott for a bit, if that's all you've got!') I pulled out my Lally Katz collection of plays on the off chance that they happened to be Australian theatre buffs with a passing interest in the new generation of Australian female playwrights and would recognise me for the Antipodean I was. Turns out they didn't get the reference. Still, it was nice listening to them talk. Reading my (Australian) book, listening to the Australian accent and with the blazing sun blazing away, I got a strange sense that if I just closed my eyes, enough Australian things would conspire into some sort of vortex, transporting me back to Central Station, waiting for the Newcastle and Central Coast line, heading home to see Dad. I think the Katz plays were affecting my sense of reality. Those things are trippy.
Anyway, I was actually getting a train from Dublin Heuston to beautiful Westport, which is the closest town to Croagh Patrick (croagh=mountain). Croagh Patrick is a place of pilgrimage for many Catholics, as Saint Patrick is meant to have spent 40 days and nights up there one Lent many a moon ago. It was my plan whilst in Westport to walk up Croagh Patrick, visit Achill Island and then head to Donegal. I had decided that if there was any place that I really, really, REALLY needed to hike up in Ireland, it was Croagh Patrick, for what I would assume would be obvious reasons.
The evening in Westport was just as beautiful as it had been in Dublin. We're moving into that wonderful part of the year in Ireland when the sun stays out until 10pm. I still find it a bit confusing (I think one of the reasons I've been staying up so late is because I'm not used to going to bed so soon after it gets dark), but it is glorious when the sun is out. And the sun was out.
After dumping my things at the hostel and getting a little dolled-up, I headed out to find a pub my housemate had suggested I check out (as a side-note, I've decided that the reason I like my new hair colour some days and not on others is because it really needs me to wear make-up with it for it to look right. My hair + no make-up kind of looks like wearing a gold lame disco top with tracksuit bottoms. It doesn't quite work. As I often go about without make-up, it sometimes looks a little odd with my party-bright-disco hair. But, that is by the by). The pub is called Matt Molloy's and is owned by the flute player from 'The Chieftains'. I checked it out on the map and it looked like it was just opposite my hostel. Easy. I set forth, full of optimism.
Of course, this being Ireland, maps are not to be trusted, street signs are non-existent and you're better off just following your nose. I circled the inner block of the town 3 - 4 times without seeing the pub, gave up and wandered into a random place that seemed atmospheric and had music going on. As I walked in, an American tourist told me I looked lovely, which just added to the charm of the place, really. As I was ordering my drink in this pub, I looked at the barman's shirt, and, of course, it was the pub I had been looking for. I must have walked past it four times without realising it was the place I wanted. Oh well.
There was a fantastic band playing, who also happened to be Norwegian, which meant that they were doubly fantastic. Of course I went up and tried to talk to one of them in Norwegian, but he couldn't understand me and I couldn't understand him. He was from Trondheim, which I am telling myself was the problem and not the fact that I've probably forgotten most of my Norwegian through lack of use. The bass player was the most typically 'Norwegian' looking man ever, he had snow-white hair, blue eyes and the jaw bone and facial structure I associate with the Norwegians, so I developed a special fondness for him. He noticed and kept shooting me smiles, too, which was nice. All innocent, people, he was probably older than my Dad. Not that you are old Dad, all I mean is just..  oh, dig UP, Jenny, dig UP.
So, yes, where was I? Sorry, Facebook interlude. Umm... yes, I had a lovely time at Matt Molloy's pub and a man from Atlanta, Georgia told me that he could tell I was 'an adventurer', which I very much appreciated and would like to put on my business cards, please. 'Yes, hi, I'm Jenny and I'm an adventurer. A man from Georgia told me so.'
This morning, I woke up to a blazing hot sun (BLAZING) which was coming right through my curtain-less hostel room and interfering with my dreams. I had learnt the day before that my travel plans for my days in Westport were not going to work out as I had hoped. The buses to Achill Island only departed at 4pm in the afternoon, presumably because no-one goes for day trips, they only ever stay out on the island for at least a night. Well, that is to say, they are FORCED to spend a night out on the island because the Irish don't run a bus service that caters to day-trippers. A cunning plan, Tourism Ireland, or, at least, Tourism Achill Island.
Not knowing how else I could get out to Achill Island, I started looking at the information available at the hostel. And I came up with a plan. The other way to get to Achill Island would be to cycle there. Now, it is 42 km from Westport to Achill Island, so it would be no mean feat to cycle there and back in one day (84km. Seriously. Do the math). However, it seemed my only option, so I decided if I got up really, really (REALLY) early, I could take it slow, with lots of breaks and of course, there was the glorious sun that would stay out until 10pm, giving me plenty of time to complete the marathon cycle if necessary. I then realised that if I hired a bike today, instead of just on Saturday, I could not only start cycling really, really (REALLY) early towards Achill Island, but I could also cycle to Croagh Patrick instead of walking there and shave a good 3 - 4 hours off my travel time. Part of me was thinking, 'Now, come on, Jenny. I know you've started back at the gym, but who are we kidding? You're still pretty out of shape. Can you really cycle 84km in one day? After walking up Croagh Patrick the day before?' I decided to ignore this voice. 
So, off I pottered to the bike shop. I'm ecstatic that I did. They'd only just opened when I got there and the man who helped me was a bit flustered. The good weather had meant the place had been very busy and he wasn't sure which bike, if any, he could give me. 10 minutes later, though, he had me set up with bike, helmet, lock, panniers and high-vis vest. He showed me the best way to get to Croagh Patrick and off I headed into the blazing Irish sun. The bike man told me that they could also arrange a pick up for me the next day, meaning I would only have to do 42km and not 84km if I wanted to see/get to Achill Island. I was delighted with myself for taking the chance and not stopping myself before I'd even tried. 
Really, the money for hiring the bike the extra day was worth it just to get the bike-man's advice on how to get to Croagh Patrick. I would have taken the main highway, but the bike shop man directed me to an old railway track which is now a pathway/cycleway and then onto the coast road. It was a quieter, safer, and most importantly, more picturesque route. I had the magnificent Croagh Patrick in clear view on my left pretty much the whole way.
Now my camera has finally given up after 8 years of faithful service (it had still been working on and off in the last few months, but it was starting to make everyone and everything look like you were viewing them whilst on an acid trip, so I decided to retire it), so I'm relying on the friendly internet to give you a sense of what I saw today.

The magnificent Croagh Patrick. But today, there was not a cloud in the sky. NOT A SINGLE CLOUD. Its some sort of modern-day Irish miracle. Found at: http://www.boards.ie/vbulletin/showthread.php?p=78452809

The ride was beautiful and almost exclusively downhill which gave me a false sense of confidence, whizzing away, going, 'Oh, I don't know why I was worried, this is going to be a breeze'. I kept ignoring the voice that pointed out I would have to climb back up these hills on the way home...
At the start of the ascent of Croagh Patrick is a car park, where I locked up my bike, feeling very smug as I walked past all the people who had merely driven to the mountain. Oh, I was so feeling so fine, so fit and healthy on this glorious sunny day.
I started the hike up and almost immediately came across this:

Found at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tomszustek/3857084609/

My first thought was that St. Patrick was pointing a pistol at me. I think, is this a message from God? That he wants no heathens on his holy mountain? On closer inspection, I realise St. Pat is holding out a shamrock, but I was sufficiently unnerved to wonder if the whole expedition was actually that good an idea. The ascent is very steep, the mountain is very high, I'm not very fit, I'm using my handbag as some sort of demented backpack because I forgot to bring one and the sun is... well, did I mention that the sun is blazing? Yes?
But, on I go. Ten minutes in and I feel like I'm dying of thirst. I drink half my water and I'm not even a third of the way up the mountain. Again, I think, maybe I'm not fit enough for this anymore. But I convince myself to keep trying, taking it slowly, stopping now and then to admire the scenery (and catch my breath). It really was a magical place. Despite there being a fair few other people on the mountain, it was so quiet that all you could hear was the hollow whooshing of the wind through the grasses. Oh, and the occasional sheep. You could tell why people would think it might be a place to become enlightened, to converse with God or have a religious experience.
By the time I've finished the first ascent and gotten to the only flat bit of the hike, I'm feeling good. A Cork man in a black shirt who was powering up the hill before is now stopped and waiting for his brother. He seems intent on letting me know that it's his brother holding him up and not exhaustion on his behalf. He adds in that he did a long run yesterday too, so he's feeling a bit tired. And it's hot. Otherwise, the implication is, he would be bounding up the mountain with the speed and grace of a runaway gazelle. It was an interesting conversation, because, of course, once upon a time, climbing Croagh Patrick was meant to be a religious experience, about pain, suffering and penitence, whereas now its just about the challenge, the exercise and the achievement. You can do runs up Croagh Patrick, you can do 7 day challenges, where you climb it 7 days in a row and all sorts of other things. I guess its still a religion of sorts. The religion of personal achievement and self-improvement. But, still, within this religion, you don't want to show that it's any effort. Or, you want to grunt and groan the whole way but never stop. Ok, so, maybe its exactly the same as the religious pilgrimage just without the praying. And with shoes (many pilgirms walk up without shoes, because the walk is basically just sharp rocks. Now with extra suffering and penitence! What fun religion is!)

On the flat bit of the hike. Found at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Croagh_Patrick

 At the top of the mountain (I did get there eventually), is a little church and a rectangular square of concrete guarded by low metal fences that is supposed to mark St. Patrick's bed. It looked rather uncomfortable. The second 'station' was next to it, the first being on the flat bit of the hike and the third bring past the summit. The stations are kind of like activity stations when you're on boot camp. Except, with like prayers 'n stuff. They were asking me to say a set number of Our Fathers and Hail Marys whilst walking round in circles or kneeling or some such. I didn't much fancy kneeling on the rocks, so I said what bits of the Our Father I could remember in my head, which was about 4 lines and on I went. On the other side of the church, I found other hikers and a collection of dogs. One dog, a sheepdog, was the calmest, more centred, blissed out dog I have ever met. Seriously, this dog looked like a guru in an Indian ashram. I felt like this dog had it all worked out; he understood more about life then I did. He was just hanging in the sun, looking chilled and wise. When I sat down next to him, he immediately rolled slowly onto his back, one front paw raised and making a patting movement in the air whilst he watched me. Not demanding or excitable like many puppies or dogs, just, 'you will do this for me now.' So, I rubbed his belly for a few minutes which he enjoyed. When I stopped, he sat up, put his paw out again and made the same patting movement, as if saying he still wanted me to pat him. I patted his paw and then he put his paw on top of my hand, bringing it down to the ground with his paw, as if comforting me. 'Ok, we'll stop with the patting for now, my child, if that is what you wish.' We sat like that for a few minutes, like the guru and disciple. It was ridiculously silly and made me so unreasonably happy I couldn't stop smiling.

Church at Croagh Patrick summit. Found at: http://banner25.redbubble.com/sets/36465/works/1908882-croagh-patrick-church

After a short break, I headed down the mountain again. You always think walking downhill is going to be that much easier, but the ground was so slippery and the gradient of the hill so steep, that it required a great deal of balance and stress on the knees to get down again. I was caked in dried sweat, bright red and my hands were so swollen that my ring was in danger of cutting off the circulation to one of my fingers. But, I still made it down in good time. In fact, the only difference I think between unfit me now and Andean-leaping-fit me of 2008/2009 was that I had to go a bit slower and possibly my recovery won't be quite as easy. I'll leave that to tomorrow to worry about.
Anyway, because of the bike, I had many more hours than I had expected to have after finishing the hike. So, I took a breather, had some lunch and headed out again.
I saw the National Famine Monument, which was very sad. Its in the shape of one of the coffin ships and has all these flying raggedy skeletons over the top of it. In fact, it looked so sad and miserable I decided not to go in and look at it too closely. After all, the sun was blazing and I didn't feel like being miserable. There were all these signs up for the Clew Bay Archaeological Site Trail, which I had never even heard of, but I decided that was as good a trail as any to follow and went round ticking off the sites that I could find. The trail is meant to be driven though, not ridden, so I eventually had to give up when the signs started asking me to ride 10km to the next site. I headed back to Westport, taking any side roads that took my fancy, finding myself on a pier, then on a beach, then at a quay and many other places. I saw so few people. The coastline was all mine.  Well, mine and a couple of cow's.

Clew Bay. Found at: http://www.mulrannyparkhotel.ie/fishing-mayo

The sun was so, so glorious and the sky so blue and clear that it didn't seem quite possible that I was still in Ireland. I started to think about the other sunny days that I'd had in Ireland and I realised something interesting. Because gloriously sunny days are so rare here, I could actually remember all the details of all the sunny days I had experienced. That might sound depressing to someone back home, but I thought it was miraculous. As if each sunny day was as important and unique to you as every single one of your lovers, meaning you could recall every single detail.
This particular lover has a sting at the end, though. It always happened to me in Australia too. The first really sunny, hot day of the spring/summer, I would wander around in a happy, slightly mindless daze for hours and completely forget what happens when one wanders around in the blazing sun for hours. One gets sunburnt. And I got spectacularly sunburnt today. I'm now wearing a delightful summer dress, the effect of which is ruined by the bright-red sleeves on my arms, the angry red circle around my neck, the red-clown nose and the snow-white shoulders and decolletage they are contrasted against. Oops.