We take a day to vacate with a lazy start. Just roll easy into the day. It’s another bright one, and I’m grateful for the weather we’ve had so far. We can hope it continues.

An hour of yoga for me–the first time in weeks I’ve been able to do planks comfortably on my wrist. Feels just marvelous. Then I settle into work. More solid progress on the second draft and that, too, feels marvelous.

Clean up, change from my workout gear and take a nice walk. There’s another wedding today, and people are arriving for what turns out to be an all day affair.

So much blue sky and sun today, so the mountains are clear of clouds. I call it warm-ish as with my long-sleeved shirt, vest and jacket, I’m warm. I see women coming in for the wedding in sleeveless dresses–and colorful fascinators–I’m not that hardy!

Someone’s mowing the grass, and you can smell it, green and damp and fresh cut.

Wander around to meet up with BW at the bar where he’s having a pint.

I text Kat to see how she’s feeling, if she wants us to get her any food. She’s a bit better, and stocked on soup, so she’ll just rest until dinner while Jason heads down to join us.

Scones for me as it’s tea time. They’re wonderful, and I share with the boys who agree.

Back to the room where I start packing so I won’t be rushed in the morning. I feel more organized, and satisfied when all my gifts fit easily in one shopping bag. Small and shiny, soft and flat–that’s the way to go. And room yet, I think, for more along the way.

I hear the distinctive pop of a cork, hear laughter and voices as I’ve propped the garden door open.

The bride and groom and their attendants stand on the hill across the little path, with the photographer taking pictures. Oh, they’re all so pretty, the bride in her lovely white dress, her maids in sophisticated black, and the men so handsome in their formal suits.

It’s lovely to watch and hear them enjoying this beginning, this start to a life. And they couldn’t have chosen a better day for it, with all that gilded sunshine.

Time to dress for dinner, and well done as Kat and Jason arrive minutes after I’m done. We’re the first in the dining room with our 7:30 reservation, and have a seat by the windows where the sun is strong, and the views are gorgeous. Shining water, hills and mountains.

The room fills up–a few long tables with families of ten and twelve.

Outside the white, white clouds go pink and gold at the edges, and the light softens to that pearly glow, deepening the green hills.

Our Kat, not yet 100%–goes back before dessert. Here’s hoping she’s all the way back today. In addition to our desserts–the warm apple crumble is brilliant–they bring a little tray with three samples. And tell us yes, of course, we can take that up to Kat.

Off to bed.

I wake this morning with sun and gray clouds and wild wind. It’s roaring out there, blowing the gray over the sun and whipping at the flowering shrubs.

Once the rest are up and about, we’ll finish our packing up, say goodbye to Westport, and ramble our way south to Cong, and Ashford.

Nora

It’s bright and cool again as we head out to travel north. Our goal is Ceide Fields, with stops between. The land gentles as we drive, goes to rolling green, bisected with those wonderful stone walls or clumps of hedges. Cows and sheep–and I spot a deep brown sheep. Too bad we can shear it for Kat!

Some we pass is thick forest, deep and mysterious, and a village where they’ll have a big fair the next day. The Titanic village–to honor 14 who went down on her.

We’re after Errew Abbey, follow a sign post that says 5 km. It’s a skinny thread of a road, bordered by high hedges and winding as it goes. If another car comes along, someone’s going to be backing up a considerable way.

But luck’s with us, though it’s much longer than 5 km, past farms and through the hedges. We come to a stop where we can either go back again or park at a little gate beside a horse trailer. It’s a farm–you can hear the cows.

The little stone wall has rough steps. Kat climbs over first to see what she can see, and I go over after. We come to a field and can see the brooding gray stones of the abbey some distance off. We decide we’ve come this far, so start over the field.

There’s a smallish cow in the pasture who takes a long look at us, then stretches out her neck and gives a long, annoyed moo. The cows back in the cowshed answer her. One of them I can see is enormous, maybe a bull, and I’m glad he’s locked behind the gate.

There’s a lot of mooing from her, from them, and after another long look at me and Kat, she turns her back, lifts her tail and shows us just what she thinks of us.

The cow begins to walk, we follow. Carefully avoiding cow pies on the rough, clumpy grass that turns to a muddy track. Both the cow and the abbey seem to vanish.

We come to the lake, lovely views over it, water lapping at the rocks, and the sun still shining. The wind here is fierce, blowing strong ripples in the water, and snatching at my hoodie. And cold with it.

We spot the abbey again, close now, walk on where the sheep have grazed.

It’s a good-sized, well-preserved building, again with little rough steps worked in so we can climb up and in. Roofless, of course, but there are little archways to explore, then a set of narrow, steep steps. The short climb’s well worth it. We come out on a wide platform with views of the hills and fields and water. Strong sun, strong wind, and miles of green and blue.

We can clearly see the hills of Sligo to the east.

We ramble back, see the farmer who wanders over to say good morning. He’s a young guy, pleased with the company, and chats us up. We answer the inevitable where we’re from, and he’s delighted to tell us he’s been to D.C. for the cherry blossoms. And he lived awhile in The Bronx, loved it, and working in NYC–just being in America–but his father took ill, and he came home to help with the farm.

His father dropped dead this past October–in his words, and now he’s running the farm altogether.

We talk for some time, and he wishes he could go back to America where he feels a man willing to work can make a good living. Farming doesn’t pay. He has horses, cows, sheep, and he’ll be helping out a friend at tomorrow’s fair–which he highly recommends–on the hot dog and chipper van. He asks where we’re bound for the day, and says we’ll enjoy learning about the old ways at Ceide Fields. There are Sweeneys plenty (that question also came up) in the area, in fact he names several, talks about hiking as herself enjoys hiking. He has a thick west county accent, uses ye for you at least half the time. Jason says later when I talk about Noel (his name) and herself hiking he’d thought he’d meant the fish–hake–and couldn’t figure it out.

He’s charming, personable and obviously longing for his time in America.

Off we go again, and before long we’re traveling with the hills on one side and the great stretch of the Atlantic on the other.

Ceide Fields is a huge place, the biggest of its kind, apparently, anywhere. Up a steep road is the Visitor’s Center, with a cafeteria, and many exhibitions. You can see how the bogs formed when the old ones came to farm, cut down the trees to clear the land. And the rain bogged the ground, keeping vegetation from fully decaying to form the rich peat. Nature finds a way to work its will.

Up and up stairs and outside to an observatory with views of the magnificent chalk cliffs, the sea beating at the, the endless fields where archeologists discovered the signs of communities and farms under the turf.

There’s a pink-veined stone on exhibition, and it warms and hums under my hand.

We watch the short film–or fil-um as they say here, grab a snack in the cafeteria, then wander out into the wind to walk one of the pathways. It’s huge and amazing, and I think the farmers and people who settled there must have left some trees or built some sort of windbreaks. The wind’s wild. But the spot itself is glorious, away from anywhere, just the endless sea with its clumpy islands and high cliffs, and the high, high hills rolling up to the sky.

Inside there’s a big, petrified tree they pulled from one of the bogs. You can clearly see its twisted, artistic roots at the base, and where another set formed higher up as it adjusted to the bog that formed around it.

People are forever enterprising. It’s always a mystery to me how anyone figured how to mine rock, form tools from it, how they figured to dig turf and burn it, to tan hides, make bowls, any of it.

We head back, a quick shower here and there, but mostly sun. We stop next at Foxford, the woolen shop. If I had room, I’d have bought blankets galore, they’re all so lovely. And soft as clouds. A few gifts nonetheless, with the mind that we’ll be packing up for Ashford on Saturday.

BW asks about a place to eat in town, and is told there’s only the one, a hotel restaurant.

We decide to go on, try our luck in Castlebar.

And there’s a round tower–and the gray cat who guards it. She–I think she–is small and cute, and friendly, reaches her head down for Jason’s fingers and allows him to give her a scratch. Approving of us, she follows us around, deigns to let us stroke her as we walk around the tall, stone spear.

When we move on, she sits down to give herself a wash.

 We find a little restaurant, take a seat by the window. It’s gone gloomy. BW’s after a pint, which they’ll get for him at the bar two doors down–same owners, same name. I’m after the soup, and it’s just right.

The place has what seem to be regulars, mostly single men I figure stayed with their mothers and never married. The waitress brings BW his pint, says: That’s 19 Euro, and laughs when he blinks at her. It’s a happy place, homey, with good food after a long day. Suddenly the sun comes out like Africa.

Kat, who’s getting what she thinks of as her day of Travel Sickness, asks the waitress for a supermarket, and is shown just where to go for the garlic and honey she wants.

And it’s back to our Westport home, and an early night for Kat. We’ll stick close today, and I’ll get some work in, Kat will sleep. We’ll end with a dinner in the fancy restaurant before we pack it up.

Tomorrow we head south, toward Ashford.

Nora

And the competition is fierce with everyone sending their snaps.  Today’s collections are from NR and BW.

 

 

The weather looks promising enough my gang decides to take the ferry to Clare Island. Though I have Dramamine, the results are iffy for me when it comes to boats, so I opt to stay back.

My life-long motion sickness deal is an annoyance. I love the water, but just can’t travel on it comfortably. I like trains, but am inevitably sick on them. It does get me out of wild amusement park rides I’d rather skip anyway, so there’s that advantage. Always a silver lining.

I get in an hour’s workout, using various DVDs I brought along for a nice mix of everything. Then I spend most of the day in the bitter winter of New York in the dawning days of 2061. Make some nice progress on the second draft. Still lots of work needed, but the progress tells me the story makes sense. And where I feel it doesn’t, I fix and fiddle until it does.

Housekeeping comes along while I’m working, so I ask her to just do the bedroom and baths. Hotel work is always productive work for me. No real interruptions or distractions.

But I’m on vacation! So when I hit a satisfying point, I shut it down.

The shower here is stuck on Very, Very Hot. Initially it was stuck on Very Hot which is pretty perfect for me. Not so much for BW. They came up to fix, but the fix bumped it up instead of down. It’s a bit much even for me, so I try the big tub, and it’s nice.

I take a little walk, which is also nice, though it decided to drizzle seconds after I stepped out. Still it’s all cool, damp air and mists, and a nice change from sitting in front of my laptop. I enjoy the flowers, and the view from the little hill in back of our room. At one point I round the back path and get a jolt with I see a man crouching in the hydrangeas. Then see he’s weeding.

After the walk, I settle down to check mail, play on my iPad, and hear the gang return.

Lots of laughs here as they describe their day.

Kat agrees it would’ve been a rough passage for me, however short. Once there, they think to rent bikes. But the bike rental place is out of them. They think to check out the Heritage Center, but it’s closed for the afternoon.

Stunning views–high cliffs, long spreading beaches–and the pictures I see prove it. There’s one little store, at least that they’ve seen, a few shops, a couple restaurants. A lot of people, I’m told, swimming. Hardy souls, no doubt with the temperature of both water and air.

They tour Grace O’Malley’s castle, which is quite small, but looks charming to me in the photos. They take a cab (van) tour, brokering a deal to include a couple from I think they said Letterkenny. The driver is actually the daughter of the driver, but her Ma is off-island today. Kat found the number for the service, called, and said she actually heard the phone ring in the cottage.

Rain came and went there as it did here, and they sit out some with lunch in one of the restaurants.

Sheep, cows, water, crashing waves, a long beach. A solitary, independent life for the under 150 people who live there. I wonder what it would be like, the quiet and solitude.

And according to the driver, when asked, many might be the Pirate Queen’s descendents as nearly everyone who lives there is an O’Malley.

Apparently the lighthouse was sold and is being fashioned into an up-scale hotel. Wouldn’t that be interesting?

We opt for dinner right here, and go down to the dining area of the bar. Our waiter is dryly funny, tries to talk Kat out of the vegetarian meal as he doesn’t think it’s worth the price. When she asks if it’s tasty, he deadpans that everything on the menu is tasty.

I enjoy my little dish of pasta, and try a glass of the organic champagne. It’s very nice, so I order a bottle. I get another glass. Hmm. It’s still very nice, and so’s the company. It’s a fun, casual meal, with plans beginning for the next day. I walk back to the room for the guide books so we can sort it all out.

And there’s a third glass of champagne. Oh my. When we try to sort THAT out, we’re told they’ve got the bottle on ice for me. We think maybe we’ll drive to Ceide Fields–I’ve likely spelled that wrong as I don’t have the guide right here. (Laura’s note — she got it in one.) It’s pronounced cage-a. It’s a distance, heading north, but sounds like just the thing. And there’s stops along the way if we want.

I collect my bottle, we pay the bill, and come back here to map out the route, which by Jason’s googling, is about an hour and a half. Into the little fridge with my bottle. I’ll enjoy a glass after today’s adventure. And all tucked into bed by eleven.

The sun’s shining again–at least for now. BW’s down at breakfast. Time to get dressed and see what the day brings.

Nora

And now some of Jason’s photos from Clare Island.

 

Our first full day in Ireland starts with a drive to Croagh Patrick. Kat takes shotgun and navigation, and we finally discover something she doesn’t do well. She can’t read Irish. She’ll likely be fluent before we leave, but for now she stumbles over the site and road names and makes us all laugh. Despite it, she guides BW to the very popular spot for what’s billed as a two-hour climb–for normal and average hikers–to the summit. The parking lot at the visitor’s center is jammed, but we get lucky and find a spot on the road that winds along the bay.

Even at sea level it’s all so lovely, with the water shining under the sun, the wind kicking up waves. We cross over where an enterprising soul is selling or renting walking sticks. We pass this by, certain we’re all fit and above average. The ground’s level for a bit, and the trail’s bordered with wild fuchsia madly blooming in bold red. Then the ground rises.

 

Steeply, very steeply, and comes to a steep set of steps leading to a wide platform where a statue of the saint stands watching. I’m surprised how quickly this steals my breath–I work out every day! But I’m not alone here.

We look back, and already the view back over the bay is more impressive.

And on we go.

Now the trail is rough. Seriously rough and comprised of ditches and outcroppings of rock so you’re scrabbling over and up, around and up, and up and up. Now and then you make way for those picking their way down.

Heather, pretty and purple, clumps on the side of the hill, and the sun shines. Then the light rain blows in before the sun breaks through again. We pause again, to catch our breath and take pictures of the view. As the sun shifts it hits a far off patch of green to the east so it goes as bright and shining as emerald. And to the west, under clouds, the green is deep and rich. The water of the bay is every shade of blue, and houses and cottage bright white. And so tiny already.

We climb on, and there’s a stream on one side, tumbling little waterfalls, bigger outcroppings now along the trail. My quads are singing a tune, but I think: I can use a spot like this in the next trilogy that hasn’t yet fully formed in my head. But this spot, this rough, steep trail with heather on one side, the quick, narrow stream on the other–and the summit high, high ahead could work in somehow.

We stop every now and then to look back. Shining water, those knuckles of little green islands floating, the dark clouds where surely it’s raining far off, the blue sky bumping against the gray. It’s amazing, a living post card.

When the trail widens, we think surely we’re half way, and discuss whether to go for it or not. We’re pretty sure we can do this. Jason asks a couple on their way down how much farther.

We’re only a third of the way. A good 30 minutes and a third only. And we all agree we don’t have another 90 of steep, scrabbling climbing in us. More, there’s the steep, scrabbling descent.

We take more picture, enjoy the view, and start down.

Now we see where walking sticks would’ve been handy. It’s not as rigorous going down, but it’s a lot trickier. The descent invites slips, falls and turned ankles. Another light shower makes the rocks slick. I use those out croppings now, bracing against them, watching for footholds. The sun’s in and out on the trip down, and the wind has a real kick.

We make it–no falls–and wander into the visitor’s center. Not a minute after, the skies open up and pour rain. We made the right choice.

I check my Fit Bit. I get credit for 50 flights of steps! Steps alone are over 8,000. That’s a damn good workout. We decide we’ve earned lunch and go into the pub another enterprising soul plopped down at the base.

It’s hopping, but we find a table in the back, settle happily down. Our waitress is hustling, takes our orders, hustles away. Before long I have a very nice glass of wine. Kat opts for tea, Jason for the hot chocolate and BW a pint.

I get the soup of the day–I love pub soup. This is pureed veg, smooth and creamy and wonderful with a slice of brown bread. Chips for the table.

It’s warm and dry and noisy inside, just the perfect break after the climb.

Revived, and the sun’s back, too, we walk across the busy road, take the path to the Famine Monument. This is both beautiful and heart-breaking, a bronze sculpture of a three-masted ship with skeletons stretched over it like sails. Brilliant and brutal.

 From there we walk down to Murrisk Abbey, the old stone walls, the gravesites old and new. In a field beside it two mares and a stallion crop the grass with a pair of foals. Lovely horses. I see a man, gray hair blowing in the wind walking the field.

 

We explore the ruins, the gravesites and again the views of the water, the islands. As we circle around, the man wanders over to us. He tells us the field and the horses are his uncle’s, talks horses a bit and how canny they are. Asks if we’re Americans or Canadians. He tells us a long, funny story about being arrested with his friend Declan in Charlotte, NC where at the time they were studying medicine, there were no bars handy, so the lot of Irish med students would pile in cars–his was a Thunderbird–and drive like madmen to a bar miles off. And his and his friend were well plovered when the cops stopped them one night on their return. The next day the lady judge, impressed with his courtesy and stories of coming from a little village in Mayo and not being used to American roads and such, let them off, but took their American driver’s licenses. To save lives, she said, theirs and others. Declan is still in the US, a head of his hospital department in Norfolk. Our charming story teller was a neurologist who now enjoys walking the field with his uncle’s horses.

We ramble on, decide to check out the ferry to Clare Island. Just get some information there. I’d love to go–Grace O’Malley, the pirate queen is a hero of mine, and this is her place. But boats are not my friend. We find our way there, under bright skies again, and Kat runs in the little hut for brochures.

We’re asked if we’d move our car so another could park in a specific place, so we swing around, park ourselves. The man comes over, a Dublin man, and tells us of his adventures. How he ferries over to an island each day, stays in B&Bs at night. Shows us on our map which islands he’s explored, how lovely they are.

We all climb the headland where the sea below crashes against the rocks, eats at the cliffside. It’s already claimed much, eating deep chunks out of the wall. And the views, again, are amazing.

The drive back is full of winding roads, sheep and cows, flower-decked houses, and those marvelous mountains, in and out of small villages until we’re in bustling Westport again.

A little breathing time in the suite when we realize it’s 8:00, and opt for dinner in the bar.

A table this time, and a steak for me. Delish, but I can’t eat all of it. Still my dessert stomach has room for cream brulee. Oh, yum!

I’ve racked up near 90 flights of stairs and over 14,000 steps so earned the yum.

We’re blessed this morning with more sunshine, though I’ve heard the wind howl a bit. We plan to drive to Clifden and Connemara. I’d better get ready for it.

 

I’ll eventually finish the RWA recap, but I know you’ll all be thrilled with the substitution: Nora’s Ireland travelogue.  Here’s Part the First:

We had the smoothest flight over the Atlantic I’ve ever experienced. An excellent start. Zipped through the airport in no time, and walked outside to a bright and breezy day. Took a nice, deep gulp of Irish air and said ahhhhh.

We rented the biggest SUV available, and when BW pulled it up in front of our mountain of luggage (four people, two weeks. And we’re American), I wondered if it had an expansion option like my suitcase.

Our Kat claimed this was no problem, and proceeded to arrange big-ass suitcases, smaller duffles, camera cases in the back. To my eye this was never going to fit. To Kat’s there’s always a way, and indeed she made it work.

She claims it’s Tetrus skills.

It’s a straight shot from Knock airport to Westport, and with BW at the wheel, off we go. Blue skies, puffy white clouds on one side, thick gray on the other above lush green countryside. The green changes hues as the clouds shift. Bright, then deep, then dreamy. Lots of cottages, flowers blooming. Hydrangeas are plentiful, and I catch a big swath of wild purple loosestrife on a little slope.

With those shifting clouds we drive into rain, and a few minutes later, drive out of it again to arrive at our hotel in under an hour.

Our home for the next week outside of the busy little town of Westport is a spreading Tudor-style building with wonderfully lush gardens. Inside the big lobby lots of people, and many young children are out and about. I see they’ve had a wedding.

We’re far too early to check in, but they take our luggage to store. We wander around a bit, settle in The Drawing Room. We’re very quiet, all playing on various devices, but the gentleman who’d been in there alone heaves a mighty sigh and departs. Now it IS loud in the lobby. Lots and lots of excited post-wedding morning conversation, lots of kids running around, but we were quiet. LOL.

One of the suites comes ready, so we’re shown up to the second floor.

It’s a lovely space, all that wonderful light pouring in big bow windows that look out over the gardens, the bay and onto the impressive mountains. We have a little kitchen area so will buy some supplies in the village later. I especially like the two glass doors. We can walk right outside and into a garden area. It’s so beautifully quiet.

And convenient as the bar is close through the maze of corridors that will take me a day or two to conquer.

In the bar we settle into cozy sofas, order some drinks and a light lunch. The adorable bartender brings the drinks, tips the tray just a big. Over goes my glass of champagne, soaking his pants and the table. He brings another, and mopping up tells us it was his birthday yesterday, and maybe he over-celebrated.

Jason and I split a lovely salad, BW and Kat both have the soup. Revived, and with the other suite ready, we head up, directly above our suite to Jason’s and Kat’s space. It’s wonderful, too. A fabulous view, with that extra height of Clew Bay and the mountains, and a HUGE tub Kat will make good use of.

BW and I go down to unpack. I absolutely overpacked, knew it, but on packing day I had Fried Brain due to unexpected reality complications and pushing to try to finish the first draft of the wip before I left. Plus, you never know how many layers you’re going to need in Ireland.

BW and I opt for a walk down to Westport while Kat and Jason take a nap. Ten minutes from the hotel by foot, first through a lovely green tunnel of trees, down a steep slope, then a sidewalk along the busy road. It feels just marvelous, the sun, the air–warm and bright and a little gift. We’ve hit summer in Ireland which can often last about five minutes.

There’s a little river with a stone bridge, the walls decorated with hanging flowers, the water decorated with happy ducks. Pretty, pretty, and shady. We’re scouting around for restaurants, pubs, shops. See a pizza place that will likely suit us for our first dinner.

And I see her–or BW sees her first.

She’s so beautiful, so unique. A lady in a soft-looking wide hat, a lovely flowered dress, holding an open book in her two hands. She stands in a shop window, and speaks clearly to me. I think I would have bought her on the spot, had her shipped home, but she deserves a proper place. I have to think of that proper place first, make sure I have it for her at home. I’m pretty sure I’m going to MAKE that space.

 We hit a Dunne’s for sodas, wine. Don’t buy too much as we’re walking back.

And that walk back is STEEP. I actually get hot–this may be a first over here. My quads feel it, too, and I figure it may be a pretty short walk all in all, but I got in a decent workout without breaking out my DVDs and yoga mat.

 We’ve heard there’s another wedding today, and see the bride and groom drive by in their decorated antique car, with some of the wedding party blasting horns behind. I suspect they married in the pretty church I spotted in the village.

 We make it back, plop down, me with my Ipad, finally figure out the TV remote. After a bit I have to wander outside, take some pictures with my phone of the flowers. They have some hydrangeas here in a deep, deep rose pink. They’re glorious, and some are ten-inches across (BW measured).

 I want some for my own at home, hope to find them next spring.

 I text Kat we’re up and about, and down they come. They’d been watching a Brit show called Tumbled. Sort of Dancing With The Stars, gymnist version.

 It’s fascinating. The celebs are paired with a professional, train, then do a routine. This week was floor work and the big ring. It’s pretty impressive what these actors pull off. And we feel the judges–Olympians–are far too hard on most.

 Time for dinner. The wedding reception is in full swing as we leave to drive down. The village is much quieter now, and we find a parking spot a block from our pizza target.

It’s a fairly big place, smells great. The walls are all hand painted with sketches of Italian figures, little sayings, bigger words like PIZZA. It’s clever, creative, attractive.

 We all get individuals–me with my purist cheese pizza, Jason with the addition of pineapple as he’ll save half for his breakfast LOL, and Kat and BW each with combos with all manner of toppings.

 We dive in. It’s really nice pizza, just the thing. A happy restaurant, happy food, happy us.

 The moon’s up and full, sailing in a sky where the clouds are few as we head back. I try for a picture. Jason gets one infinitely better. We hang out for a short time, but BW’s nodding off. So it’s off to bed.

 I slept like a rock until nine. I never sleep until nine–even with the change of time. Feel great! BW headed down to breakfast, and just got back.

Today we’ve going to take a nearby adventure once we all get up and about.

It’s another bright and breezy day. It may stay that way.

Nora