I’ve already covered Howth pretty well. Just in case, though, here’s a quick recap.
. “Heard it already. I’m out.”
The first, most important thing you need to know about Howth is fudge. It’s also got a phenomenal weekend farmers market, which is perhaps best know for its fudge.
. Fudge.
This little patch of flowers is locally famous for being the most colorful area for thirty kilometers.
. Recycling jokes because I care about the comedic environment.
We had some absolutely gorgeous weather for our day in the seaside village.
. Relatively speaking.
Here’s the harbor itself. In the background is Ireland’s Eye, a small island uninhabited aside from some ruins.
Weird old churches can pop up almost anywhere in Ireland. Here’s one above a bike shop:
Another angle:
This seagull lives life on the edge:
Ireland is ridiculously strict about cleaning up after your pooch.
. None of these signs make a difference.
An old fishing boat tied to the breakwater.
Check it out:
. More seaworthy than the Plassy, that’s for damn sure.
We decided to walk out on the breakwater towards the lighthouse. Now, if there’s one thing you should know about Howth, it is that the town is exceptionally windy.
. This picture was taken between gusts.
Howth gets more wind than most wind tunnels. NASA considered testing their designs here before realizing the weather surpassed any extreme they could possibly encounter. Residents call Chicago the “Breezy City,” and then only because they’re being generous.
. We were there on a calm day. By our next visit this was all white froth.
While walking out, we got a closer view of Ireland’s Eye.
. Ireland’s a cyclops. Who knew?
The lighthouse:
Past the lighthouse was a little vantage point.
Then we walked back towards the town.
We decided to head up around the bend towards the hiking trails.
This bend.
We’ll get to those in the next post. Until then, I have to go save Brillo from whatever trouble he’s gotten himself into now.
You know when your neighbor stops you and says, “Haha, if you don’t like the weather just wait ten minutes!” and chuckles quietly as he pats himself on the back? It doesn’t matter where you live, two things are guaranteed: One, you have weird neighbors. Two, everyone everywhere thinks their state has the strangest weather. Turns out, unless you live in New England, your neighbor is dead wrong. Also you should probably keep an eye on him. Trouble brewing there if I ever saw it.
Now, I have stories out the whazoo about New England weather. There was the time our house got lifted off its foundation and replaced slightly off-center by a gust of wind. My parents’ trampoline once got blown twenty feet up a tree and bent in half, also by a gust of wind. Some time later, my grandparents lost a two-story barn door and their best maple sap producer to, well, a gust of wind. It’s pretty windy here. But that whole “wait ten minutes” business is not truer anywhere else in the States than here in the Northeast.
This week started at eighty degrees. On Tuesday it snowed. This afternoon our grass turned green. The following photos are all from a single day, within a few hours.
I got off the bus at the Champlain College campus, because it’s gorgeous and also I go to school there.
. Though by this photo you’d never guess graduation was only a few weeks away.
After my morning class, I walked home to get ready for a lunch date.
. A stroll normally accompanied by flowers and warmth.
That morning’s high was twenty degrees with a biting wind. It’s practically tropical compared to the thirty below of this past winter, but still, it’s spring. I was sweating bullets on Monday, and now I’m bundling up before venturing into the frozen tundra beyond my apartment. It’s nuts.
On a more positive note, check out this art I made:
Keep in mind I took these photos well after the snow had stopped. Even though it was cold, the sun was intense and many patches had already begun to melt. We didn’t get buckets of the stuff, but based on the previous night’s exploits I’d guess there was a solid inch on the ground. We also had copious amounts of ice, which I got up close and personal with several times.
The UVM campus is absolutely massive. It covers probably a good half of Burlington and the surrounding towns. The path I take into town goes straight through the heart of the school. Here are some of the dorms.
I love taking pictures of this intersection. I have no idea why. I have like a hundred of them.
Much as I love the architecture of Champlain, UVM is truly awe-inspiring. Check this business out:
. It’s like an Adirondack Hogwarts.
Looking down towards the lake:
Check out these sweet dorms:
This is not a dorm:
. It’s an apartment building.
I got arty with a bush next to the apartment building.
My boyfriend’s apartment:
. Yup, snowed here too.
We went out for Chinese to celebrate the end of his student teaching episode. He’s now just days away from becoming a certified teacher. No jokes here, just pride.
. Eight bucks of all-you-can-eat Chinese food’s worth of pride.
By the time we rolled our bloated bellies out of there, the snow was almost gone.
. From Nanook of the North to San Francisco in two hours.
As I walked home through my suddenly snowless surroundings, I noticed that not only had the scenery changed, but it was at least twenty degrees warmer than when I walked downtown.
. “It was a dark and stormy night, and then suddenly it wasn’t.” – Excerpt from Vermont’s memoir
I took some pictures at the same angle as my earlier ones:
. The dorms.. The lake.. The Hogwarts.. The Hogwarts.. The Hogwarts.. The intersection.
New England doesn’t have seasons, it has hourly temperaments. I really can’t stress enough how truly weird it is to have snow in the morning, and walk home sweating in the sun just hours later. We even had green grass.
. For months, the only green I’ve seen is the handle of my shovel.
You remember that snow-covered school from earlier? Well, here it is by the end of the day.
What the hell.
Check back for the exciting conclusion of the Snow Blown series whenever I get around to writing it.
Yesterday was Free Cone Day at Ben & Jerry’s. It’s a global event, but it’s extra-special here in Burlington where the company began. The scoop shop on Cherry (Garcia) Street is arguably the most famous outside the factory itself, and often appears in their promotional material.
. You thought I was kidding about the street, didn’t you?
Well, the snow is just about gone, and to celebrate its death hundreds of Vermonters stood in damp 30º weather waiting for ice cream. In our defense, it is very good ice cream.
I’ve gone to this event every year since I moved to the Queen City, save when I was in Ireland. There’s always a long, snaking line, and it never takes less than an hour. There are tricks of the trade – always go before school lets out, for example – but it’s still an adventure. We usually just play cards while we wait.
This year, though, there was no line in sight. We were early, yes, but even then this was highly unusual.
. Even on Paid Cone Days, this sidewalk is bustling.
As we approached the shop, there was still no line in sight.
Had we done it? After all these years, had we finally beaten Free Cone Day?
. Of course not. Don’t be stupid.
Turns out, this year the line snaked in the opposite direction. But don’t worry! You weren’t worried, were you? Honestly, this is a relatively minor thing to worry about, but in case you were, don’t, because this year the line was super speedy. I don’t know what the lines look like elsewhere, but the wait is legendary in Burlington. It’s hard to describe just how mindblowing it truly was to arrive, be served, and leave, all within fifteen minutes.
As we approached the door, each of us decided on a flavor. I chose Phish Food, because I enjoy the finer things in life.
. Almost there!. The end is in sight!. There’s a band for some reason!. And we’re back outside!
Yeah, I don’t have any pictures of my ice cream. I ate it.
We were considering going to UVM and swinging by their Ben & Jerry’s, but it’s a good thing we didn’t.
Spring has long since sprung, but snow loves the frozen Republic of Vermont more than a Deadhead stoner with a craving for Cabot cheese. Finally though, it’s begun the long process of melting, gradually reminding us that there is soil beneath the permafrost and what a major pain in the ass that soil’s going to be come mud season. The snow has been with us for so long it feels like an old friend. And old friend who everyone pretends to like because nobody can admit that, frankly, they are sick and tired of seeing his stupid face every time they make plans for the weekend. To commemorate and celebrate the passing of our dearly departed inconvenience, here’s a timeline of a Vermont winter more bitter than Almond Tonic-Water Swirl Ben & Jerry’s.
The first major snowstorm hit us mid-November. Here’s the parking lot of my apartment building a few minutes into the dusting:
. You can actually see the windshield reflecting the little spark of hope and joy in my eye before it was extinguished by the next storm.
Oddly enough, by December we actually had less snow.
. Old Man Winter felt bad about the lack of snow and gave us subzero temperatures instead.
The lack of snow did not last, though, and two days later we got this:
. Thank goodness we kept the -20º air.
At this point, all the native New Englanders knew we were in for a doozy. Before winter even started we’d had more storms than I cared to photograph. Lake Champlain froze over, which has happened only a handful of times in decades. And of course we had that pesky polar vortex. Enjoy the next few pictures, because I almost lost my fingers taking them.
. Yup, those are all frozen over.
The new year showed no sign of being any less cold or white. On New Year’s Day I drove back to Burlington after spending the holidays with family. My boyfriend’s parents were getting married, and damned if I was going to miss the ceremony. They couldn’t have chosen a more beautiful day.
. Though considering the temperature, I really wish they could have.
Church Street was no less gorgeous, but much less capable of sustaining human life.
Eventually the snow stopped falling, and froze over instead.
. …turning our cul-de-sac into a skating rink.
Everything froze.
. There’s a metaphor in here somewhere.
Main Street – which is one giant hill from the lake to the highway – was coated in black ice. The sidewalks were impossible to navigate, but the Main Street Slalom was the most fun I’ve had in years. Just avoid the cars.
This winter may have been the coldest in ages, but I’ve found a way to keep warm.
The other day I was walking downtown for a meeting, when I reached the end of the world.
. “This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but at the corner of Battery and Maple.”
I found myself drawn to the blankness, walking out on Perkins Pier and looking into the vast expanse of nothing.
In that moment, I felt hopelessly small. Helpless, even. I was a tiny, insignificant dot on an immense lake, on a massive continent, on a gigantic planet that barely registered an existence in the overwhelming enormity of space. I was forgotten, forsaken, and lost.
Actually, I was just really fucking cold. I made that other stuff up.
Interestingly, this is what that view normally looks like:
. It’s a significantly less existential but definitely warmer experience.
People seem to enjoy hearing about my city almost as much as I enjoy bragging about it. Thus, the newest feature on Pavlov’s Hair Conditioner turns the spotlight to the beautiful and bizarre town of Burlington, Vermont.
The Queen City is gorgeous even by New England standards.
. Figure 1.1 Perfection.
It’s a city of friends and farmers, of green living and great restaurants…
Now, I have nothing against the Masons – my own family has a lengthy history of membership – and the temple is no longer active anyway. But look at that massive mound of mortar and tell me you could stand in its shadow without feeling crushingly overwhelmed.
That building dominates one end of Church Street – the beautiful pedestrian shopping area at the center of town.
. There’s usually a lot more going on, but it’s incredibly cold and no one wants to go outside.
Burlington is very much a city of churches. There are four or five around Church Street alone, including the Unitarian building that gives the shopping center its name. And that’s just the start of it. As part of a required religion course, sophomores at Champlain College visit centers of worship around the city and learn about their culture. Despite hundreds of students flooding the holy buildings around town, rarely do any of them cross paths. There are more than enough beliefs present in the city to accommodate everyone. I’m not terribly religious myself, but I think there’s something beautiful about that, and it says a lot about the nature of the Queen City.
I’m rubbish at ending posts. Please contemplate the following pictures.
So the other day Lake Champlain froze over. For those not familiar with the lake, it’s pretty damn big. It spans two states and two nations. There are enough islands to form an entire county. It has its own climate. It was once the sixth Great Lake. And it used to freeze over every year.
See, used to be that when the lake didn’t freeze, people freaked out. On a February day in 1932, boats could actually sail from one side to the other. Not a single living person could remember that ever happening before. These days, though, thick ice is something of a novelty. In the past two decades, the lake froze over, or “closed,” only seven times.
Today was number eight.
This is apparently so bizarre that it made news in San Francisco.
Boy, do I have some pictures for you folks.
. Not this one. This is Reese’s Puffs.
I climbed down the pier onto three-foot-thick ice, and instantly got a view of Burlington you can’t normally walk to.
. On a typical day, this photo would be substantially wetter.
The Spirit of Ethan Allen is a local tour boat. Their service was somewhat limited today.
. “And on the left you’ll see exactly the same thing you saw two hours ago.”
It was really bizarre…
…to just walk around…
…to the other side of the boat.
I couldn’t tell where the land ended and the lake began.
A few other brave souls were out there with me.
. And one dog.
The ice was so thick in places that construction vehicles operated on it. While we joked about walking across the lake, others drove there.
. Bumper crop this year, yessuh.
Here’s the marina, only slightly less in use than it would otherwise be.
Looking across to the Adirondacks:
Normally, ferries shuttle people and cars across the lake to Plattsburgh. Not today.
. They’re somewhat redundant at this point.
My ultimate goal was the breakwater, a long chain of rocks that protects our little harbor from the weather and currents of the lake. Past that, the ice wasn’t entirely trustworthy. This of course didn’t stop me, but I’m not proud to admit how far out my actual goal was.
Along the way, I met the nicest little couple. We’d stepped onto the ice at about the same time, and walked more or less together towards the breakwater.
. Adorable elderly couples make my day more easily than a calendar or the rising/setting cycle of the sun.
When we got to the breakwater, I took their picture and they took mine.
Past that frozen chain of rocks lay the wasteland. Instead of the nice, smooth ice of the sheltered harbor, the lake beyond the breakwater had frozen into jutting chunks and uneven footing. I wanted to reach the halfway point, but soon discovered that would probably leave me too hospitalized or dead to upload these photos later. See, I care about you guys.
. And think of the tragic loss to my Facebook photo albums.
The breakwater was completely unrecognizable:
. Normally, it just looks like a long pile of rocks and concrete.
The ice covering the wall was surprisingly thick and chunky.
. Like a good chowder.. “Anyone got a really big scotch glass?”
I began the walk back only to find that my two lovely companions were halfway there already.
. “Ten bucks says that kid fell through the ice by now.”
Looking back at that great hill Burlington was built on:
. We call it “The Inconveniencer.”
The Echo Science Center, a Lake Champlain-oriented museum that I can’t say I’ve ever seen from this angle:
One final goodbye to the Spirit of Ethan Allen:
And with that, I slipped and skidded back up the hill and back to work. I’m not going to narrate that part of my day.
The days flew by like small birds that make you appreciate the little time you’re given on this planet, which is something no bird I’ve ever heard of does but that doesn’t mean there isn’t an undiscovered species in like the Amazon or somewhere that can do this. Pretty soon we were approaching Superbowl time. Thousands of miles may physically separate me from the team I love, but giant TV screens in a stadium-seating pub have a way of bringing you closer to your heroes. Also to the Patriots, who let me down and will not be mentioned again.
. From our perch we saw it all. Shameful.
Pub life in Dublin is something that I have yet to replicate in the States. We found a pretty close match, but close only counts in horseshoes and after I’ve had more beer than I can afford.
Much as I love barhopping, there’s quite a bit to be said for Dublin’s restaurants, as well. Gerard’s was a great little sandwich shop on Lower Leeson Street. I have them to thank for many a great lunch eaten in nearby St Stephen’s Green.
. Brillo thanks them for being so understanding when he spilled his mealworms.
Far and away my favorite place to eat was The Fryery. A traditional chippy just a short walk from our flat, The Fryery served fried Mars Bars and that’s really all you need to know. It was the most comfortingly heavy food I’ve ever had the pleasure of stuffing myself with, and leaving it behind was like quitting a drug that has also become, quite literally, your best friend and also husband.
. Actually, that would be preferable to knowing you will never have their chicken again.
In those first few weeks, I went on a Smithwick’s-fueled whirlwind tour of the city, where I discovered manyoftheodditiesI’vealreadyposted. If you don’t feel like clicking on those life-changing links that you’ll totally regret not clicking on later, here are some more photos of the city.
The Banba Toymaster, where I rekindled my undying love for Playmobil:
.
The outside of the Church, the restaurant covered in Part One:
.
Ireland gets my vote for Most Bizarre Mannequins. Just wait till we get to Waterford – I’m pretty sure those models aren’t even human.
. I tried to get a shot with me high-fiving these lil’ buddies, but I got kicked out of the store.. The classic Irish Two-Pants Finnegan.
Ireland may be a historically Christian nation, but they’ve still got a healthy dose of diversity.
. …a healthy dose of diversity, a healthy dose of diversity…
Did you know that Nestlé sells Rolo pudding cups? Because I didn’t and now I’m ruined.
. Brillo has the most adorable little withdrawal symptoms.
Ireland has some beautifully medieval ways of keeping birds of their damn windows.
. Considering this is at the Department of Foreign Affairs, it doubles as an immigrant deterrent.
A purple-tinted streetlamp, for some reason:
.
Being a classy motherfucker in Ireland is much cheaper than being a classy motherfucker in America.
. The cheese was €2. I don’t even like cheese.
The love I developed for Rowntree’s Randoms is unmatched anywhere else in my life. I’m sorry, Russell Crowe – try again when you’re filled with delicious jelly.
. Between Guinness and the local chippy, I miss Randoms most.
For the uninitiated: You know Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans? Well, Randoms are basically that, except instead of every flavor they’ve got every shape. From ice cream cones to garden gnomes, any object you can think of has probably been in a bag of Randoms at some point. I’ve gone through the biggest bags I could get my hands on without eating the same thing twice. They’re magical.
In any case, Brillo got as much of a kick out of them as I did.
. “I’ll eat you last.”
Those first few nights, we still hadn’t found a pub to settle into yet. Eventually, we found a few to call home – Sin É, O’Neill’s, and O’Shea’s, to name a few. But in those early days, we experimented as much as we could.
One such experimentation led us into a pleasant enough pub of cheerful anonymity, where our American identity was quickly revealed. Now, in general, the Irish love Americans. American food, American music, American Americans – very popular. So I certainly hope it was an honest gesture of hospitality when they invited me on stage to sing.
I enjoy singing. I’ve got a bit of experience and am halfway decent. Nothing to write home about, but I’ve got a national anthem and a few other appearances under my belt. As I stumbled up to the stage, though, I realized in some distant part of my sodden brain that five pints and a scotch do not a singer make.
I failed to consider the consequences of this in time.
. Sorry, but you don’t get to see the video.
From some dusty pipe in an unused corner of my body screeched forth the worst rendition of “This Jesus Must Die” that has ever plagued the earth. The Jesus Christ Superstar highlight has long been my audition song, so I’m no stranger to belting it out. But after a drunken apology for being just so bloody drunk, I lapsed into a comatose eruption of sottish half-music. I masterfully created the illusion that a goat had wandered on stage and begun crying for help. Fortunately, I’d invited my guitar-playing friend onstage too, so I didn’t suffer alone.
. “This next song is called My Flatmate’s Sleeping in the Street Tonight.”
But it’s all good, because later I discovered that if I get to Tesco at just the right time, I can buy these cream-filled donuts three for a euro.
. They called it a Boston creme pie. I called it perfection.
Let’s get this out of the way now: I have just eaten a pound of meat between two slabs of fried dough. I am not proud of the monstrosity I just crammed into my face, and I plan on making another next week.
Stage One: Planning
My flatmates and I are pretty avid culinary explorers. Andy’s a doughmaster and king of anything Italian. Silas is a potato wizard. I make meat – burgers are a personal specialty. After watching an episode of The Boondocks featuring the Luther Burger, we decided we’d lived long enough and had to have one.
. The only meal in which every ingredient will kill you.
For the uninitiated, the Luther Burger – named for musician Luther Vandross – consists of a burger patty, cheese, bacon, and often a fried egg. Oh, and instead of buns you cram that business between two donuts. It’s terrible. Don’t even try to pretend otherwise. The glazing and red meat go together about as well as hot dogs and motor oil. With this in mind, we improvised.
Where Andy’s from, doughboys are a particular delicacy. So we figured, instead of donuts, why not throw burgers between fried butter and flour and then eat whatever that makes?
Stage Two: Preparation
After a long battle between sanity and our taste buds, the cravings won. We bought ingredients and got to work.
.
That’s Andy making the dough, and Silas readying the mac and cheese. Oh, yeah. We stuffed mac and cheese in there, too.
Look at this perfection:
.
Making the burgers:
.
My one complaint about this apartment, other than the wall that detached itself from the other walls, is that we’ve got nowhere to put a grill. Sadly, this means I can be less experimental with my meats, because cooking on electric coils is my single least favorite type of cooking.
Here’s the bacon:
.
And the dough:
.
Ready the cranes, ’cause it’s time to put these greaseballs together.
Step 3: Construction
We gained five pounds just fixing the ingredients. My stomach invoked the 8th Amendment’s cruel and unusual clause. I had to shower off a film of grease. But we had come so far already. We were building the Everest of hamburgers.
First up, the mac and cheese:
.
In our pledge to gorge ourselves on the worst kind of wonderful, we shunned the Kraft Dinner and went straight for store brand. Hell, we could have made it from scratch. But we’d committed to quality trash, and damned if we were backing out now.
Next, the patties:
.
Yeah, slap some more bacon on there.
.
Topping it off:
.
The finished product:
. Oh, that’s the stuff.
You may have noticed two very important things about that last photograph. First, we absolutely did add a second patty. These bad boys weighed over a pound apiece. Second, the picture’s a little blurry. It’s not out of focus – that’s a layer of grease on the lens.
Here’s mine:
. What it is is beautiful.
Step 4: Eating the damn thing
No longer fearing death, we jumped in.
. “Jumped” in the way molasses “jumps” from a jar.
With the speed of a morphine-addled manatee, we trudged through the single most amazingly terrible idea three bachelors could come up with.
. These photos were taken over a two-week period.
Slowing down:
.
I’ve got huge eyes and a tiny stomach, and was out of the running almost immediately.
. Out of the plodding.
The last bite:
. I will never again doubt that Andy and Silas are stronger men than I.
That night, we learned a very important lesson: We should absolutely do this again.
Oh, and in case you were wondering what the fate of that lone patty on our counter was, we fried that shit up. At this point, you really should have seen that coming.
Our fourth day in Ireland was spent in the small seaside town of Bray, a delightful little trip that I covered in more detail here, here, and… oh, what do you know? That was another storyline I never finished. Huh. Well, after staying tuned for Part Three of the retrospective, stay tuned for Part Three of A Day In Bray. My longtime readers will have gotten pretty damn good at staying tuned by this point.
Moving on from my incredible inadequacies, we spent our fourth day in Bray. For those who haven’t read A Day In Bray and have no intention of giving me the pageviews, Bray is an adorable little seaside town a short train ride outside of Dublin. It’s known for its seafood, beach, and Bray Head, which is still not a mountain but is a phenomenal day hike.
Brillo was crazy stoked to begin another day of adventures.
. “Yippee…”
The train station was in the classic There Should Really Be More Smog And Young Chimney Sweeps In Here style.
. Seriously lacking in the roguish charm only found among a ragtag gang of ten-year-old pickpockets.
The faces on this Coke machine creep me out to this day.
. This was like the one Coke advert the company shipped to Ireland. It was everywhere.
The train ride supposedly has one of the most dramatic views in the world, and is known as Brunel’s Folly because it was hard to build and even worse to maintain. On one side is a sheer cliff face, on the other is the Irish Sea. The man who designed this scenic monstrosity is an equally intriguing man named Isambard Kingdom Brunel. First off, that is hands down our favorite name in the historical record. Secondly, in the 2002 BBC special feature 100 Greatest Britons, Brunel ranked #2. Save Winnie Churchill, he beat out literally every single person in history ever to have anything to do with Britain – even non-British notables were eligible for the feature. Princess Diana, Charles Darwin, William Shakespeare, Isaac Newton, Margaret Thatcher – none of them stood up to Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s towering dominance over the British historical landscape. Or it could have just been students from Brunel University, who rabidly campaigned for their school’s namesake.
. He was beating even Churchill until the last few days of polling.
Brillo found the train ride slightly less interesting than I did.
. “Bo-ring.”. “Sigh.”. “Try pointing me towards the window, dingus.”
We arrived at the seaside village of Bray, population: rain.
. And site of the 1066 Battle of I Can’t See Anything in this Bloody Fog.
Bray was once a resort town, easily accessed from Dublin by one of the oldest train routes on Earth. Once plane travel simplified access to the continent, however, Bray gradually fell out of favor. It’s still one of the larger towns in Ireland, but its golden days are done.
It is, however, known for Bray Head, which features several hiking trails, the last and most treacherous leg of Brunel’s Folly, and a cross at the summit. It’s also suspended in the clouds by the delusions of the townspeople who still think it’s a mountain.
. The Irish Alp.
We were told this is Sinéad O’Connor‘s house. It’s probably not.
. Those rainbow bricks make slightly less of a statement than she tends to.
We started the climb to the summit.
Looking back at Bray:
Part of that famous train line:
. On top of the terrifying cost of maintaining the line, the area is also prone to rock slides and fog as dense as the minds who thought any of this was a good idea.
Here’s Brillo demonstrating the relative size of a fence post:
Bray Head, like much of Ireland, experiences more cloud coverage than most clouds.
. It almost gives it the illusion that it’s a mountain, an aspiration it knows it can never hope to achieve.
We had hiked a good way on this gorgeous trail before realizing we’d taken a wrong turn towards the next town over. The summit would have to wait.
. Probably for the best.
After a gorgeous walk with unparalleled views of the water, some rocks, and good god that train line who thought that would work, we turned round and headed back to town for dinner.
. Hide in the bushes all you want. You’re not fooling anyone.
Even in the mist, Bray is a gorgeous little community.
Of course the clouds cleared right after we left Bray Head.
That night we had dinner at a local hotel. I’ve never seen so many different colors of mystery juice.
...
Brillo got dessert.
... “I liked pavlova way before I signed on with this two-bit gig.”
A year ago today I left America on a great Irish adventure. With the combined power of my mates from the States, we conquered everywhere from Dublin to Galway, the North to the South, and a decent chunk of continental Europe. Never have I met such an overwhelmingly kind, inviting, hilariously open group of people as the Irish. Now that I’m back stateside, I find myself missing that beautiful island like a 27-year-old misses being on his parents’ insurance. I’m about to get all sappy, so before my keyboard starts dripping syrup let’s begin.
I left behind fond memories of America, and even fonder memories of AMERICA! The Store:
.. A bottle of water taught me that freedom is decidedly not free.
Speaking of overpriced things that don’t serve much purpose, how about a Best Buy vending machine?
. “Let me just find some quarters.”
Though I left my fear of flying on a bolt and metal sheet RyanAir called a plane, I began the trip absolutely terrified of getting higher off the ground than I can jump. Seeing this on the wing of my 737 helped my confidence about as much as performing vigilant CPR helps someone whose only problem is being madly on fire:
. It’s probably for the benefit of the maintenance crew, but I have no way of knowing for sure.
If anyone were up for a bit of wing walking, though, they’d have to dress warm. In case you were interested, this is the temperature 30,000 feet over the North Atlantic:
. It’s the windchill that gets you.
Finally, after 24 hours awake and a relaxing message from the flailing child behind me, we arrived in Dublin.
. “zzz…Is a there?… We have… to the bed…”
The first picture I took on Irish soil:
. Much like the film, it could have been better.
When we got to the flat, everything was clean and pristine and neatly set up. Major shout-out to StayCity Serviced Apartments. They put up with shit in seven languages and still managed to provide friendly, helpful service. There was a, uh, bit of a snag with the washer, though.
. It’s really not that bad if you set a towel down and never wash your clothes.
By the way, this compartment serves as both the washer and the dryer. Sharp-eyed readers may notice that drying your clothes in a wet tube doesn’t produce outstanding results. Because of this, each room comes equipped with a drying rack. Believe you me, we used it.
The really fun thing about traveling across multiple time zones is jet lag. If you hate joy and want to counteract this wonderful gift, most people suggest going to bed at the same time you would at home, but in your new time zone. So if you go to bed at 9pm EST, you responsible little buddy you, then you’d be crawling under the covers at 2am EST – 9pm in Dublin. This is a roundabout way of saying that I crashed and burned.
. Guess which bed I didn’t stay up until 9pm in?
We had a pretty kickass view from our balcony.
That’s a soccer (football) pitch down there. We didn’t use it because those kids threw rocks at us. In our defense, they all had wicked throwing arms.
Later that night, we decided to get lost in the city. The whole place was brand new to us. Though we eventually got well acquainted with much of Dublin, those early days were pretty killer on the whole directional front. My terrible navigation skills won me the nickname Falcon, because like a falcon – a blind, deaf, mute falcon with no wings and no claws and at least one psychosis – I get lost crossing the street.
I really wish that were hyperbole.
In any case, as we explored, we were much more concerned with all the new sights and sounds and smells than with taking photos, any thus have only three. Of those, this is the one you folks really need to see:
If I had turned right around and gone home after seeing this, I would have considered it a successful trip.
We got back to the flat a few hours later and left for a pint at the Brazen Head, which is a fine pub and even better tourist attraction. They claim to be the oldest pub in Ireland, dating back to 1198, though much of that claim is up for debate. And what better place to debate than at a pub over a pint of Guinness?
. Pictured: Fierce debate.
Several pubs stake the same claim as the Brazen Head. The adorably named Sean’s Bar in Athlone has a fair claim to the year 900, and another pub across town claims to be the oldest in the Dublin with an 18th-century founding date. Older than the Brazen Head and founded later? That’s some serious time traveler shit right there. But no one can argue that, although the Brazen Head attracts tourists like the Guinness factory attracts tourists and Irishmen, it’s a pretty fun place every now and then.
. Fun.
That night’s sleep couldn’t have been better if I’d been chloroformed after eating turkey. The next day was all about exploration. And explore we did. Just walking around Dublin’s shopping centers, we saw…
. …a towel throwing the whole display into a violent chaos… .. …a regular customer just shopping around. Not really sure why I even took a photo of something so mundane… .. …this book based on that Twitter phenomenon everyone’s talking about… .. …the British Dennis the Menace… .. ……and a book that to this day I can only read as “Bill O’Reilly.”
Then we went to check out St. Stephen’s Green. Remember that name, because it will feature pretty prominently in this recap. Probably. I never plan anything. I might completely forget to mention it ever again. But remember the name anyway because it’s a good one. It was pretty grey and gloomy that day but check back in later to see if I’ve remembered to upload a brighter photo.
The lake at the Green:
. The weather isn’t normally like this. It’s usually raining too.
A crowded Dublin sidestreet:
. Coming from a small town, I’m pretty sure this is busier than New York.
That evening we had a fantastic dinner at a swanky restaurant called The Church.
. It was built in a church.
The next two pictures are a bit shaky because at this point in the trip my blood was made of alcohol.
.. Must’ve been a hell of a communion.
And that was the night I got a view of heaven.
This is Part One of a one-year anniversary retrospective I’ll be compiling over the next several weeks. Stay tuned for the rest, or for more detailed stories of particular places we visited, poke that link in the black box at the top of the page that says “Pavlov’s Hedgehogs.” Until Part Two, Brillo and I wish you a good night.
After talking with the dogs, we discovered that while we may not understand their unique bark, Adorable is a universal language. Also, dogs apparently love kelp.
. Who knew?
Before we left the beach, a friend of mine left a message for posterity.
. “We are not tourists.”
We also snapped some pictures of these really weird rocks.
.. The Stoney Sponges of the Sea.
Our destination was the MV Plassy, a steam trawler that ran aground carrying a cargo of whiskey, stained glass, and yarn – a combination that could only be more Irish if the boat beached itself to the tune of “Molly Malone”. Ever since her final voyage in 1960 left her more out of place than Mr Bean on an episode of House, she has slowly rusted away to her current state. We’ll see the Plassy soon enough. This trip, friends, is more about the journey than the destination.
. It’s basically The Hobbit.
Fitting with the general theme of the place, the houses of Inis Oírr strongly reflect the traditional Irish style.
. Stucco, thatch, and the central Irish palm tree.
The island has its fair share of abandoned buildings, though whether this is due to the current economic troubles or something else entirely, I’m not sure.
. “Leave the house to the cows, Martha. They’ve earned it.”
We passed the island’s airstrip, which is used for emergencies that can’t wait for the ferry.
.“Airstrip” being the Irish word for “chunks of pavement on a field.”
We found a real Neolithic tomb that wasn’t even fake.
. Due to limitations in the stone-age diet, prehistoric humans averaged four inches in height.
Brillo promptly made himself at home.
. The basement contains a reading room and the most adorable wine cellar.
Eventually we passed into a less-populous area of the island. Farmer’s fields stretched out to the sea.
. And my tall friend stretched to the lower stratosphere.
Now, here’s an interesting tidbit about those fields. Dry stone walls (as opposed to those held together with mortar) are extremely common land divisions in rural Ireland. The first thing most people notice about the fields is that they are surprisingly tiny.
... The fields on the hill are used for growing houses.
According to my Irish friends, the majority of field divisions date back to the Bronze Age. Of course there was no mega-farming back then, so fields were kept manageably small. In a country with so much visible history, this holdout from thousands of years ago should come as no surprise.
See? We learn things here.
. For example, before the introduction of the potato, rock fields such as this one fed almost 80% of the population.
As we neared the Plassy, we looked back at the hill we had come from.
.
This next photo doesn’t have a story. I just think it looks nice.
. I do weddings too, folks.
Close-up of one of the stone walls:
. If you counted every rock used to construct Ireland’s famous walls, at a rate of one rock per second, you’d get bored really fast.
Brillo kept getting shifty looks from cows.
. Never trust a Hereford.
Getting farther from the hill:
.
Our first sight of the Plassy:
.
A closer shot:
. That’ll buff right out.
The MV Plassy ran aground during a storm one day in 1960. Fortunately, all 11 people on board were safe. The ship, however, was left to nature.
The Plassy highlights one of the most marked differences between American and Irish culture. In America, if such a ship were to wash ashore, we’d have groups campaigning to remove the hazard. We’d have mothers worried for their children’s safety, petitioning the town council to finally remove that bucket o’ tetanus before it can convert their loved ones to socialism or whatever. Point being, safety freaks would come down on it so hard that the ship would Titanic in half under the pressure.
Not to mention the lawsuits. Oh, boy, people in the States would have a field day. Thirty-year-old develops a rare blood disease? Must be that scrape he got as a kid climbing around the decaying hull. And the shipping company would have to pay. At the very least, some organization would swoop in, put everything behind Plexiglas, and charge admission to see less than half the interior, with the remaining bit cordoned off as “offices.”
But the Plassy is there for all to see. No admission fee, no restrictions. Not a single lawsuit, as far as I can dig up. And it was a magical experience.
. “Aslan?”
Coming up in Part Three: A look inside a shipwreck, a castle that wasn’t meant to be, and Father Ted.
Any guesses as to where Brillo is in this picture? Guess it right, and win a lifetime supply of self-satisfaction!
Twitter’s not for everybody. Some people just can’t be constrained to that pesky 140-character limit. That said, you’re missing out. To prove it, here are nine celebrity tweets you may have missed this week. Yes, they are all from me.
Bagels are the most delicious food on the planet, along with Nutella and hamburgers and Nutella burgers on a bagel bun. But you know what? Can’t trust them half as far as you can throw them. Here are six bagels who lied on their job applications.
1. This bagel bit off more than it could chew
It is totally unqualified to handle the social media presence of a midsize company.
2. This bagel has been spreading more than lies
It knowingly comes to work sick, infecting the whole office.
3. This bagel thought it could handle everything
But it’s quickly learning how wrong it was, at great emotional cost to itself and its friends.
4. This bagel has no moral fiber
It also lied about the other applicants, one of whom was a close friend.
5. This bagel is caught in a ring of lies
Its web of falsehoods is quickly crashing down around it.
6. This bagel is just awful
It enjoys neither telling the truth nor spending time with family.
Half humor site, half travel blog, and probably the best use of your time right now
Pavlov's Hair Conditioner 