Tag Archives: retirement

Beyond the Pale*

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*the English Pale: that part of Ireland over which England exercised jurisdiction before the whole country was conquered. Centered in Dublin, it varied in extent at different times from the reign of Henry II until the full conquest under Elizabeth I. (macOS Dictionary)

Bray Head: our destination is the teeny-tiny cross on the peak

We have left the city and have begun our clockwise, eleven-week route around the island! First stop: Bray. Okay, we only made it thirteen miles south of Dublin, but we had to get used to the driving—Marcus to turning right into the left lane and merging left into roundabouts, and Cindy to stop shouting “Watch out!” every time Marcus passed anything. American drivers talk about the difficulty of driving on the left side of the road, but consider for a moment how difficult it is to be a passenger on the left side of the car. I feel like I am riding astride the white line on the edge of a road with no shoulder. Every tree limb, every bus pulling out from the curb, every sideview mirror on a parked car is doomed. I envision large gashes where paint has been removed from some unsuspecting Dubliner’s car. I think of the 5000 euro authorization on our credit card to cover any damage to the rental car that we dismissed as something that would never become an actual charge, and I think about all the much more entertaining ways I could spend that kind of money. [Note: I finally promised to quit shouting out if Marcus accepted full responsibility in the event that we actually hit something. I now just close my eyes and wait for the impact.] But I digress….

view of the Irish Sea, with Dublin just north of the peninsula at the far end

Bray. There’s an outstanding walk up Bray Head with stunning views of the Irish Sea. You can even see the Howth Peninsula on the north side of Dublin Bay in the distance. The skies had finally cleared, and we had a gloriously sunny day. 

gorse is in bloom

There’s a 640-foot elevation gain from the beach up to the cross at the top of the Head. I hadn’t done so much as a calf stretch since leaving home. Was I up for this? We sought out local knowledge—a guy emptying the trash bin at the car park.

“No worries!” he said. “The whole path is paved. It will take you 15 minutes. Sometimes I do it during my lunch hour. I run most of it, and walk some.”

I looked up at the cross doubtfully, but who was I to question a local? So we began. After ten minutes the paved path became a muddy track. Fifteen minutes in, we were picking our way up tree-root steps, then scrambling up rocky cascades. 

the teeny-tiny cross

You know, we’re still growing accustomed to the Irish sense of humor, so I’m wondering (as we scrambled): Is anyone who asks advice from an Irish person presenting themselves as the butt of a joke? I had to laugh. Perhaps we had asked for it. But one thing he said was absolutely true: the views from the peak were spectacular.

Newgrange

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Newgrange on the horizon on our approach

England has its Stonehenge. Ireland has Newgrange. Built 1000 years or so before Stonehenge (based on carbon dating), or around 3200 BCE, Newgrange is completely different in design. It is a passage tomb, with underground burial chambers and a central stone passageway. The remains of five bodies were found inside, but there is no way to know who these people were. The tribe that built Newgrange had no written language or other means to record their thoughts or ideas. One thing is for certain, however: around 9:00 in the morning on and around the winter solstice, the sun’s rays come streaming through the window box over the entrance to Newgrange and fill a carved stone receptacle at the far end of the central passageway, today as it has for millennia. So perhaps this tomb was used for rituals, as well as burials.

Newgrange was discovered in the 1690s by His Majesty’s (King William of Orange) troops who were digging into the plush green earth along the River Boyne looking for stone to quarry. They found stone, alright, but unusual patterns of black and white stones that caused the men to alert their commanding officer. He halted the digging until they had a chance to excavate more carefully. Over the centuries, Newgrange has been excavated and reconstructed to archeologists’ best guesses at what the original design would have looked like. Can you imagine their delight when they discovered the winter sun shining through the window box?

window box over the entrance

There are other passage tombs throughout Ireland that have been discovered by farmers tilling soil or digging peat in bogland. At one time these structures were above ground, like Newgrange is today, but over time they have gradually been buried by accumulating detritus. The Irish government to date has not set a priority (i.e. funding) for excavating more than a few. Newgrange is their pride and joy, and it draws thousands of tourists every year. 

the top of another subterranean structure across the road

In a way, I like the mystery of not knowing what may be lurking beneath the turf of these subterranean discoveries. Like in the undisturbed fairy rings (ringforts) in Ireland, there could be entire communities of little people living under there—a veritable hornet’s nest of mischief—whom it’s probably best not to disturb. 🧚‍♀️

What a craic!

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Garda dog

I blame myself. I neglected to tell Marcus about the most important, and likely the most frequently used, word in the Irish language. Craic.

So we were walking in downtown Dublin, and Marcus stopped to talk to a man walking a dog wearing a Garda (police) canine vest. As most Irish are wont to do, he asked how long we were in Ireland. 

“Tree months, is it? Now, why would you be staying here for tree months den?”

“For the weather,” Marcus replied, to which he received a hearty laugh.

“No, it can’t be for the weather,” the man chuckled, looking up at the rain-saturated clouds. “I’m sure you’re here for the craic.” [pronounced crack].

Marcus looked taken aback. “Oh, no, I’m not into that!” he declared.

The man looked at him oddly and said, “Well, good day to you den,” and walked off with his dog.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. As soon as the man left, I burst out laughing. “Do you know what craic means?” I asked.

“Are we talking about drugs?” he asked.

“No. C-r-a-i-c, pronounced crack, is Irish for ‘fun.’”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Marcus speechless before.

Rebellion

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Dublin’s General Post Office

The Irish War of Independence came to life for me when watching the mini-series, Rebellion, released on Netflix in 2016. Told from the perspective of three Dublin families, it highlights the impact of the revolution on three economic levels, from the affluent to the tenement. Brilliantly told, it details the six days of the 1916 Irish rising against the British government who had ruled Ireland, often tyrannically, for 800 years.

On Easter Monday, April 24, 1916, Irish rebels occupied the General Post Office in downtown Dublin, proclaiming Ireland’s independence from Great Britain and forcing Dubliners who generally were not in favor of independence—and certainly not open rebellion—to sit up and take notice. Heavily outmanned and outgunned, the rebels knew they could not win this battle and were booed by their countrymen as they were carted off to prison upon surrender. But public sentiment changed when seven of the rebel leaders were executed by the British in retaliation. James Connolly, dying of wounds received in the skirmish, couldn’t even sit up to face the firing squad. He was tied to a chair to be executed. They became martyrs in the six-year war that ensued.

The sequel mini-series, Resistance, was just released on Netflix this year, and is even better than the first one. It advances the story to 1920. We’re hoping they continue the saga. There’s a lot of fascinating history yet to tell. If you’ve got Netflix, it’s worth having a look to better understand the birth of this young republic, barely 100 years old.

We visited the General Post Office’s Witness History Museum. The exhibits, as well as the 15-minute film dramatizing the action all over the city as rebels squared off against the British Army on the day of the rising, were very well done. The Irish are extremely proud of their history, as well they should be. It takes a lot of courage to stand up to 800 years of suppression.

Cúchulainn

Displayed in the front window of the General Post Office is this sculpture created by Oliver Sheppard of the mythical Irish warrior Cúchulainn (as best as I can tell, pronounced Koo-HOO-lin). In one of the best loved Irish legends, Cúchulainn defended the Kingdom of Ulster (northern Ireland) against the armies of Queen Maeve of the Kingdom of Connacht (western Ireland) in the famous cattle raid of Cooley. (Keep in mind, in those days cattle were money and entire kingdoms went to war over a single bull.) Cúchulainn died in battle, but he stood up against the enemy to the very end by tying himself to a pillar as he died to intimidate the enemy. It wasn’t until they saw a raven land on his shoulder that they realized he was dead. This is the sort of valor the Irish cherish. It’s what defines them as a people, and how they came to see the rebels who sacrificed their lives to end the oppression the Irish had endured for centuries.

Anna’s voyage

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the Jeanie Johnston

The barque, Jeanie Johnston, sitting at dock on Dublin’s River Liffey, is a replica of a ship built in Canada in 1847 and later sold to Irish merchant John Donovan of County Kerry. Donovan’s original intent was not to haul human cargo, but rather than sail empty on its voyages to North America to purchase timber, he chose to assist the hundreds of thousands of starving Irish waiting to flee their homeland during the worst potato famine Ireland has ever known.

Unlike many who transported victims of the famine to North and South America and Australia, Captain James Attridge did not operate a “coffin ship.” He never carried more than 254 passengers—the maximum number steerage could comfortably handle with five people sharing a six-foot by six-foot bunk—and had a qualified doctor on board who knew how to prevent typhoid and cholera and insisted on regular hygiene. While Donovan owned the Jeanie Johnston, between 1848 and 1855, the ship did not lose a single passenger on its sixteen voyages to Quebec, New York, and Baltimore.

My great-grandmother, Anna Fife (likely age ten at the time), her sister Isabelle (age 20?) and brother Edward (age 7?) were fortunate to be aboard a ship, the Lady Franklin, with such a captain who insisted on the well being of his passengers. The Lady Franklin was a larger ship than the Jeanie Johnston. Launched in 1851, the same year Anna and her siblings sailed, it could comfortably carry 400 to 500 passengers. And it was a steamer, which gave it the advantage of speed. The shorter the voyage, the less time exposed to disease. Regardless, thirteen people died on Anna’s voyage.

Sometimes I take for granted that I am on this planet, especially when I consider how healthy my parents were and the overall quality of healthcare in the 20th century. But when I think back three generations—to a woman who was just a name I found inscribed inside the front cover of the family Bible twenty years ago, but who is also the mother of my more tangible grandmother and the grandmother of my very tangible father—I have to marvel at the tenuousness of life and consider how fortunate I am to be here at all. I think about how brave our Anna was to step foot on a ship that was to take her away from all she knew, in a day when people did not leave home. She had no way of knowing that fifteen years later in New York, she would meet and marry an Irishman from her home county of Londonderry and they would have ten children together. She risked so much in search of a better life, and, as a result, laid the path for mine. For that, I am grateful.

Rhythm and blues

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About a week before we left home, I started thinking about jet lag. As someone who suffers from insomnia, I’ve read quite a bit about sleep—and the lack of it. And I’ve tried just about every trick in the books to help me sleep better. Some of them actually help, or at least my brain thinks they do, and that’s all that matters. So as I lay awake last week recalling sleepless nights in cities around the world, I pondered what I could do to alleviate jet lag with my newfound knowledge.

Probably the most effective trick I’ve tried is establishing a regular bedtime and wake-up time. I’m so proficient at this now that I can easily drop off to sleep at 10:30 each night and wake just prior to my alarm at 6:30. What would happen if I gradually started altering that circadian rhythm, shifting back an hour every few days or so—before we leave home? After all, I’m retired. I have nothing better to do with my time, right?

The first night of my experiment, I set the alarm for 5:30, instead of 6:30. No sweat! It was almost magical getting up in the dark before the rest of our world. We made coffee and [bonus!] I got an extra hour to read in the morning while I sipped. By 9:00 that night, we were drowsy and easily drifted off to sleep by 9:30.

This worked so well that two nights later we shifted again. I set the alarm for 4:30. We got up with the alarm, and fell asleep by 8:30 that night. We kept this schedule for another couple of nights. Piece of cake!

A couple of days before our departure, we were all set to pull back another hour until I realized that our flight to Dublin didn’t take off until 7:30—what would be our new bedtime. Dinner on the plane wouldn’t be served before 8:30, and we probably wouldn’t get to sleep before 10:00. We opted not to escalate our plan any further in order to minimize how much sleep we would lose on the night we traveled.

So, how did this little experiment work at our destination? Our bedtime at home had been pulled back to 1:30am Dublin time, which wasn’t ideal, but certainly better than the 3:30am bedtime it would have been without the experiment. And getting only three hours of sleep on the plane and exhausting ourselves by walking seven miles around Dublin the day we arrived also helped. We were asleep by 9:30 our first night. I set the alarm for 7:00—which I chose to ignore at 7:00—and woke more organically at 7:50. Not bad! On our first morning, my body was telling me it was time to get up at what was 2:50 at home. 

Now, can we successfully repeat this experiment in the opposite direction when it’s time to go home? I have no idea, but I have twelve more weeks to lose sleep over that one.

Passing time: Dublin, Day 1

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trying to be Spring

So, flights from the US get into Dublin early. Ours, before 7:00. 

Good news: no lines at Passport Control and Customs. In fact, Customs was not even open for business.

Bad news: Neither was anything else. What to do to while away the hours until we can check in to our apartment at 3:00? [This from our Airbnb host after I had already booked the place: No early check-in! NO EXCEPTIONS!!!]

First order of business: Check bags at Tourist Information so we can start to explore Dublin unencumbered. Took a cab from the airport to downtown. Hmm…TI doesn’t open until 9:00. It’s not quite 8:00. Fortunately there’s a Starbucks next door—the size of a broom closet. We, and all our bags, filled the shop for an hour precluding any other customers from sitting to enjoy their cuppa. I nursed a small coffee for an hour. The kind baristas never said a word.

great spot from which to watch Dublin go by

9:10. Off on an explore! We crossed the River Liffey to Dublin’s Southside: the shops of Grafton Street, a walk through St. Stephen’s Green, and a spot of lunch at the Camden Bites & Brews. We’d been told that the Guinness served in Ireland is nothing like the tasteless stuff we get in the US. I wanted my first Irish Guinness to be special, so I turned on my pub radar. No travel guidebook, travel app, or advice from friends is as reliable. It’s not just good food and drink, but the atmosphere in which you enjoy it, that makes a gastronomical experience, and to accurately assess the atmosphere you have to pound some pavement and peek in some doors. The results are worth it. And so was the Guinness!

first Irish Guinness

It’s 2:00 now, and I’m starting to get fuzzy around the edges. I only got about three hours of sleep on our overnight flight. My feet are tired. It’s cold and windy and starting to rain. I’m not hungry. Another beer and I’ll be curling up in a corner of the pub. I’ve had all the caffeine I can safely consume. There’s nothing else I’m interested in doing at the moment. We wander around Trinity College a bit, barely seeing the stately stone buildings around us. 

Trinity College

2:15. If we show up at the apartment early, will we be left standing in the rain or will there be somewhere we can take shelter? We’ll take our chances. We retrieve our bags at TI and hail a cab. The driver recommended a coffee shop in a grocery store near the apartment.

2:20. We’re toasty and dry and reading the grocery ad.

2:25. I break down and text our host: Is it at all possible to meet us earlier than 3:00? It will take him 25 minutes to get there, he says, but he’ll meet us at 2:50.

2:47. We drag our bags down the street and plant ourselves outside the apartment building.

2:50. Our host is prompt. Happy days!

Dublin, Day 1: Eight hours. 14,777 steps. 6.9 miles. A shower and bed never felt so good!

Happy days!

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Dublin from the air

I have read nothing but Irish literature, history, and mythology for the past five months, and enjoyed every word. (Well, almost. The Gaelic, or Irish, words are mystifying. Even when reading to myself, I try to hear them in my mind. Inevitably there are either too many consonants or too many vowels sequentially to even know where to begin. In the rare event that the author tries to help by spelling a word phonetically, I am dumbfounded. How do they get a “w” sound out of “dh”? A “c” followed by an “e” or “i” has a hard “k” sound, as in the Irish word for church, cille (pronounced “kill”). Irish, apparently, is not related to any of the languages I’ve ever studied.) So you can imagine my excitement on my very first introduction to Herself.

Upon our wake-up call at 6:00 on our approach to Dublin, Marcus noted that sunlight was edging over the horizon. I flipped up the window shade and watched the curtain going up on Ireland. The buffeting winds and thunderclouds we had been promised by the captain as we tumbled off into dreamland only a few hours before were only cottony wisps revealing teasing glimpses of fairy villages in the darkness below, twinkling like the proverbial pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. As Ireland rolled over to greet the sun, the darkness became a deep, emerald green. I smiled. Something tells me this is going to be an amazing trip. As the Irish say, “Happy days!”