JandalsnAll

If I clean one more toilet will I go mad? Am I already mad? No, they say if you think you might be mad then you’re definitely not mad. But who are ‘they’? Are ‘they’ mad? Maybe ‘they’ are if ‘they’ dont know it. In which case I shouldnt be listening to the mad unreliable advice of ‘they’.

And if my weak NZ summer constitution succumbs to the Eire devil winter, and I get frostbite, how will I clean toilets then? I’ll have to make special gloves for my stumps. And I’ll have to learn to play the fiddle with my toes – or my teeth if my socknjandal innovative footwear cannot prevail against the cold.

Man, I cant wait to go to Dublin tomorrow; finally I will be able to sleep, my dreams free from the distant smell of bleach, and the scratch of the brush on the bowl. Finally I will awake without wondering ‘In which order shall I clean the toilets today?’ Four whole toilet free days.
I hope Darren and Deidre dont ask me to clean their toilet…..

Its over two weeks since I arrived back in the Emerald Isle. So the re-telling of my role as guest in Dublin and host in Doolin since then, may not be entirely accurate. Though a number of notable occasions do stick in my mind. One being Liam’s near fatal incident with an angry/crazy handbag wielding pedestrian. Another being my superb near fatal, near face-plant in the mud. Suprisingly, Antonia passed the few weeks highly unscathed by either mud or handbags, leaving me with very little teasing ammunition. Except for her extreme cow phobia which came to light at every cow encounter in Doolin. Doolin has a lot of cows. Aside from managing to avoid any most unlikely, near fatal cow attack, Tonia also managed to catch a leprechaun in Doolin. Yes, a real live leprechaun. I wonder now if that is the reason for how she remained mud free. And whether its also the reason I didnt…

Let us start from the beginning.

I arrived back in Dublin on a Tuesday night, one night after Tonia and Liam had landed in Ireland. Aside from an outing to the supermarket down the road, I dont think they’d ventured far out of Liam’s brother’s house at all, still recovering from the trip. So next day Tonia and I went to town, and I taught my sister all the important things about living in Ireland just like a big sister should: How to buy a ticket on the bus, how to find the street names, how to buy a plastic bag at the supermarket and (due to the rain and our inherited above-average eye level), how to avoid serious eye injury by umbrella. Liam learnt an important lesson of his own – how to buy half a dozen beer when beer comes in lots of four.

The next day I think was the day we watched the ‘From Justin to Kelly’ movie – as in Kelly Clarkson and Justin Whatshisname from American Idol singing, dancing, reading scripts- a brilliant piece of crap cinema.

One day we went into town, using our newly learnt bus catching skills, and after crossing a road and reaching the curb, Liam comes face to face with a woman with a handbag. For some reason she decided she didnt like the look of him and took a violent swing at him with said handbag – I think I heard her snarl. What it was in Liam that caused such a violent reaction in such an unlikely assailant we will never know, but after that shaky experience, whenever we approached a woman with a handbag, Liam would cower behind me. Tonia said hes been having nightmares about giant handbags too.

The last night in Dublin, Tonia and I went out to dinner at Govinda’s (?), a vegetarian harekrishna (?) run place with good food – and heaps of it. Liam didnt come as it was a Friday night which he reasoned meant a larger number of woman out with their handbags.

Saturday I made the bus trip back to Dublin, Tonia and Liam having decided to follow in a few days time. And follow they did, arriving on Monday night just as I finished my working day. We spent most of our week playing cards, as Doolin was swamped by typical WestCoast of Ireland weather, visiting Jack the donkey and his new friend Little Jack the donkey, and telling each other that yes, tomorrow we would go to the cliffs.

It might have been Tuesday or Wednesday I learnt of Tonia’s cow phobia – but Im not sure as time doesnt exist here in Doolin, until you need to catch a bus somewhere. On which ever day it was we donned our jackets and woolly hats and went for a walk down a local road to the coast, stopping to visit the local dead in the old ruin of a church on the way. When we got to the coast, the sea was impressively wild, the waves smashing up against the rocks, foam blowing in our faces on the equally wild wind. The total opposite of this. (I like that photo and had to fit it in somewhere).

Eventually though, after an hour or so of walking, we had to leave the coast and walk back up the road towards the hostel – but first we had to cross a field. A field with COWS. I thought I was scared of cows, but the difference in my case is that I can reason that cows do not generally attack and eat humans and will walk through a field of them if need be. At first sight of a cow, Tonia started panicking ‘ Its looking at me! Its looking at me!’ And by the time we reached the barb wired gate, she was in a frenzy, flying over the gate like a herd of cows was indeed chasing her. Which there wasnt. If a herd of cows were to attack anyone it would me, as the other two ran off, leaving me at the mercy of the bemused bovine mob. We got Tonia back to the hostel free of cow bites and calmed her jitters with lashings of free tea. Liam tells me she still has nightmares about giant cows.

Our next major excursion was down to MY beach which isnt really MY beach anymore as I havent been there for ages – long enough for someone else to lay claim to it. Actually, this was the second attempt to visit the beach, our first the day prior abandoned when we found we lacked the skills to ford a river. When we finally did get there, we were very happy,
and I was suprised to find my sculptures still relatively intact considering the wind thats been tearing up and down the coast. Tattered but still standing they were.

It was, I believe, on this particular outing that Antonia caught her leprechaun. Now if someone had told me she had found a leprechaun I would not have believed them, not being one who believes in such nonsense. BUT I believe this because I have photographic proof. As I was walking up the beach, I noticed Tonia had wandered off on her own for an unusually long time, so being the caring sister I am I snuck up behind her to find out what she was doing. And it is at this moment that I catch sight of her little friend. I could barely believe my eyes. But yes, see for yourselves, there she is, with him tightly in her grasp, preventing any escape. I could at this moment have confronted her but, knowing a thing or two about leprechauns (though not believing in them of course) I thought it best not to envoke Tonias nor the leprechauns wrath. So I kept quiet. Little did I know I would soon find out just how powerful that wrath was. If only I had continued to keep my mouth shut.

Tomorrow we finally did end up going to the cliffs, as we had been saying all along. The wind was still blowing strong yet the rain had cleared, though the track to the cliffs was still in a swampy muddy cow-pooey condition. But we rolled up our trousers and set off up the incline, skirting the mud as best we could.
About half way up the track we spy something most unfortunate ahead. Most unfortunate for Tonia that is. More COWS. Sitting on the track. And the land around the cows was so swampy you’d lose a shoe. We were cornered. We couldnt go round the cows, , couldnt go under the cows, we’d have to go through the cows. Again Tonia starts panicking. And I start helping her panick. ‘That cow’s looking at you Tonia’. And indeed it seemed these hungry looking cows were eyeing up Tonia’s juicy limbs.

So I tease her some more ‘That cow looks really hungry Tonia’ ‘Hes licking his lips’ ‘Look out! He’s behind you!’. But shes ignoring me, lost in her cow insanity. Or is she? Next thing I know I feel the rock beneath me move, actually move by itself and I teeter above the fetid mud, my arms windmilling trying to catch my balance. And just as Im about to recover my balance I feel a little hand on my bum give me the slightest push, just enough, and then Im moving, downward, fast but in slow motion at the same time: ‘Nwooooowooo’ I cry as I near the cesspool beneath me. And then I have mud in my mouth and mud up my nose and mud in my eyes. And I look like Im smiling but Im actually crying inside. Tonia turns around and says ‘Are you okay?’ trying to cover a smile as she takes my photo. We both know what happened. I think she must have stashed him in her backpack.

So we made it to the cliffs and back. I washed my jeans and wiped my face, everyone had a good laugh. And not a word was spoken of the unusual circumstances, the unlikeliness of the event – that I, eversteady Em had fallen. And no mention was made by either Tonia or myself of the little man of mischief – Im not even sure Tonia knew I had found her out. Next day we went to Galway for the night, then Tonia and Liam headed home to Dublin and I headed back to Doolin. And I havent fallen in any mud since.

How she managed to catch the thing I still dont know – maybe we’ll never know. Nor whether she took her little friend back to Dublin with her. But I know one thing: Just in case, Liam better watch himself.

Well the days are passing by and the event of the Reunion of Sisters is growing nearer. Possibly not to be quite as Barbara Taylor Bradford as it sounds, but exciting none the less. Actually more exciting than a Barbara Taylor Bradford novel in my opinion, or than I imagine a Barbara Taylor Bradford novel would be….
As soon as next week in fact, I will finally have a little sister in close enough vicinity for me to effectively pick on again (Long distance teasing just isnt quite as satisfying). Oh the fun we’ll have. I’ll pull her hair and she’ll go running to Mum to tell. Except theres no Mum to come to her rescue this time….mwahaha. She might go running to Sandeater but I’ll just pull his hair too.

Tuesday morning next week I plan to catch the bus to Dublin, where I will hassle my two victims for one night (said victims having arrived in Dublin from NZ on Monday), before jetsetting, or at least the Ryanair equivalent of jetsetting, myself away for a week in Venice. Yay Venice! Land of ‘Many Flavours of Gelato of Which I Must Try Every One’, and ‘Many Kinds of Pizza of Which I Must Try Every One’, and also ‘Glass Crap’, as Ang so eloquently puts it. Of course I have a valid excuse for gorging myself on gelato and pizza and looking at glass crap, that being to see the International Art Exhibition held as part of the Venice Biennale which ends first week of November.
As usual I have left everything to the last minute and havent yet decided on a place to stay. But I do have flights so I WILL be there, sleeping somewhere….

As Tonia and Liam prepare to cross seas to see me, let me share some of the lessons I’ve learnt here in Ireland so as to help make their assimilation easier.

Lesson One. Coronation Street. If you are a fan, you’ll love Ireland, if not, be prepared to face your worst nightmare. When walking the streets of Ireland and interacting with Irish citizens, you can expect to find that approximately one in five Irish people resemble Coronation Street characters. Not a statistic that is widely publicized, or even accurate, look around you and you will start to notice the scary truth. I’ve seen countless Martins, Tyrones, Sarahs and Candices, spotted a few Les’s and was once even lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the rare and elusive Fizz. One of my bus drivers even was a dead ringer for that short guy with the goatee and leather jacket that did dodgy dealings with Mike a while back. I cant remember his name…I should have asked him when I saw him. The questions that arise from this peculiar coincidence are those age-old questions of which came first, and nature versus nurture. In this case, are these lookalikes born this way, or are they such fans of the show that they would go to extreme lengths to alter their appearance so as to resemble their favourite stars?
While in Ireland, if you find yourself coming down with a case of Corrie Fever (symptoms include: an involutary cockney accent and disillusions that a Vera-hairdo would bring out your eyes) it is reccomended (by all good doctors) that you take a large dose of quality television such as The Simpsons, three time daily until symptoms subside. NB. EastEnders is not reccomended as a safe alternative to Coronation Street.

Lesson Two. Weird Bugs, Man. Just yesterday I saw a walking toothbrush-head. About an inch long and spiky it just ambled across my path, all unconcerned as if it didnt look anything like a piece of dental equipment and just like an ordinary bug. I think the Irish call this thing a catepillar. Though I didnt try one myself, I see a lucrative untapped market in all-natural toothbrushes.
When visiting Ireland be prepared to be amazed, disgusted and fascinated by the assortment of mutant bugs and birds. Also be prepared to have the spooky sensation you are in the middle of a Hitchcock film in which the multitudes of crows, ravens and jackdaws just abiding their time will soon turn on the innocent human population. If one were to look at the individual bird populations in Ireland with relation to those in NZ, one might deduce that crows are the sparrows of Ireland, sparrows are the fantails of Ireland, and fantails are the crows of Ireland. In summary, as in New Zealand there are no crows, in Ireland there are no fantails. But there are robins. Robins are the cutest little birds that like to hop around you hoping for some food while you pretend you are in the remake of A Secret Garden. Significant bird mutations observed include: magpies – Irish magpies dont have the fleck of white on the side of the head that NZ magpies do, gulls – some gulls in Ireland wear a little black masks to preserve their annonymity when interacting with other gulls – that or they like to play Zorro, unlike NZ gulls which have no need for annonymity and dont watch movies. As an avid birdwatcher you can take it on my good authority that this is true fact.
As you will know, St Patrick banished all snakes from Ireland in a year a really long time ago. He did not however deem it necessary to banish the legless lizard. I have been informed that this ‘legless lizard’ does reside in Ireland and that it does in fact have no legs. BUT it is not a snake. Though I do wonder if Ireland’s secret authority on reptilian matters decided to call this particular specimen a legless lizard just so as to prove St Patrick did a thourough job.

Lesson Three. Squirrels. Ireland has squirrels! And I saw a mink once. (This lesson is a sub lesson of Lesson Two devised to give the often overlooked squirrel the attention it deserves).

Lesson Four. The Bus Lady. There is a fine art to riding a bus for two hours in comfort. In my opinion, buses shouldnt be called buses but rather Big Slow Nightmares On Wheels. Though there are ways to make your trip slightly less nightmarish. A major part of this consists of avoiding of the bus lady. The bus lady comes in several forms, though will usually appear elderly and fragile and wearing a scarf – unfortunately this is often a ruse to maximize the bus lady’s potential to harrass unsuspecting passengers .
The Buses Arent for Bags Bus Lady is the lady who is a stickler for the rules and will take every chance she can to catch you out. Take this one example: Woman sits down near the front of the bus and places her handbag and shopping bag on the seat beside her. There are free seats infront and behind her. Buses Arent For Bags Lady comes along the aisle and makes like she want to sit next to Woman. Only problem is Woman’s bags are on the seat. Buses Arent For Bags Bus Lady makes a fuss and declares ‘Buses arent for Bags!’ embarrassing Woman as she apologetically moves the bags onto her lap, and at which point all other polite passengers feel obliged to move their own bags. After which, Buses Arent For Bags Bus Lady carries on and takes an empty seat further down the bus. Another example: Woman gets onto strange bus in a strange country with strange bus rules and puts her pack down beside her. Buses Arent For Bags Lady comes along and squeezes into the same seat as Woman stating ‘Buses arent for bags!’ Woman apologizes and moves pack to the rack pointed out to her. Woman spends rest of the bus trip being scolded by Buses Arent For Bags Bus Lady.

The second form of the bus lady is commonly known as the ChronicChatter Bus Lady. The chronic talker loves to chat, wether it be about the weather or the lack of weather or the two different forms of the word weather. You must be very careful how to respond to the ChronicChatter, a response to the question ‘Whats the Time?’ will very likely prompt a long description of how ChronicChatter had a watch but she lost it and thats why shes asking you the time because she never knows the time now that shes lost her watch but it really was a nice watch, and have you found a watch? because shes lost her watch. A variation on the ChronicChatter is the ChronicallyDeafChronicChatter who after your reply of ‘twenty to three’ to their ‘whats the time?’ replies back in loud capital letters with ‘YOU NEED TO PEE? WELL YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE BEFORE YOU GOT ON DEAR’. If you say ‘twenty to three’ and they reply ‘WHAT? YOU HAVE GAS? WELL IM SORRY TO HEAR THAT DEAR’ which doesnt even rhyme, you can be pretty sure that they are indeed just faking ChronicallyDeafChronicChatter syndrome for their own sick pleasure. Headphones, while a deterrent to a plain Chatter, will not stop a ChronicChatter or a ChronicallyDeafChronicChatter who will continue to ask you questions depite your exaggerated performance of removing your headphones every time they do. Best just to ignore these ones, saves everyone else hearing about your supposed bladder problems.

Picking the right seat is the best way to avoid any bus problems. Too close to the front and you’ll get the Chatters, not close enough and you’ll end up victim of the Bags Arent for Buses Lady. A recently conducted experiment deduced that if you sit a minimum of four rows and not more than six rows from the front of the bus you minimize the risk of any discomfort as a result of the above annoyances, and as well as the seat next to yours will be the last to go giving you extra freedom to spread. The elderly will choose a seat in the first few rows, while others will walk past your seat before they realize there are hardly any seats left on the bus.

Lesson Five. Lingo. Best study up on your Irish lingo before you arrive so as to avoid the potential for embarrassing misunderstandings. For instance, in Ireland someone might say ‘Hows it going lads?’ which if directed at a group of females is not a case of mistaken gender because in Ireland everyone is a lad. If you a with a group of females, one of your Irish friends might still say ‘See you later lads’. Much the same as one might say ‘See you later guys’ to a group of female friends. ‘Where’s the craic?’ is not a request for a mooning, but a general question about where the best fun is to be had. I have it on good authority that you should not say ‘pants’ in polite company here in Ireland though I havent been brave enough to test out this naughty word for myself. Or at least, you should not say ‘My pants are all wet’ or just as bad ‘Oh look, I just got my pants all dirty’ as Irish ‘pants’ are infact the equivalent of NZ ‘undies’. If you are of an Australian persuasion, ‘my thongs are all wet’ as one Aussie male has been known to have said, is even worse. ‘Jandals’ however is a word that is completely safe – as no-one will know quite what you are talking about.

Lesson Six. Ireland is cool, the culture is great and the people are generally more than welcoming.

I woke up early the other morning – about 4am early – to the sound of the wind howling around outside. Usually I like the sound of a storm when you’re tucked up in bed, but this was a more-than-is-comfortable sort of a storm. Windows rattling, wind whistling, tent lifting kindof a storm. As I lay in bed and listened, I thought I heard the sound of someone or something on the gravel in the carpark outside my window. In fact it sounded just like a bike being wheeled across the ground. I knew there were two bikes in the carpark that night. And I knew that the owners had had a particularly hard days biking the day before and would not be going for a leisurely ride at 4am in the morning. Someone was stealing the bikes. I jumped out of bed and moving the curtain open just a slit, looked out to the carpark below me. Nothing. Then the sound of gravel again. I got up, peered out the door this time, making sure there was no-one out on the balcony waiting to get me, then I cautiously stepped outside n my pajamas into the dull grey of the early early morning. Just in time to see the offender rushing down the stairs. I dashed after, intent on the catch, but before I could stamp down a foot and trap the bastard, the wind whipped him up and out of my reach. A plastic bag, and not even a big one, had got me out of bed at four in the morning in the middle of a howling storm. Once more that bag did rush up the stairs swirl around outside my door, running its wispy fingers along my door. And once more did I get out of bed to try to catch it. And once more did it lead me down the stairs onto the gravel in bare feet, before whipping away, laughing all the while. I still hear that laugh in my dreams.

The weather has been violent for the last week at least. Im talking sideways rain ramming the windows kind of violent. Its the wind thats the worst. Ive never seen weather like it. which is maybe why I rather prefer this kindof drama to the boring grey drizzle Ive become used to in Ireland.

The problem with the wind is, combine it with the autumn equinox and a full moon and you have a recipe for crazy. Last weekend when I was working and these three natural phenomena coincided, all the crazies came out of the woodwork. One of them was certifiably crazy – had a letter to prove it and all. Another was sent to drive me crazy and did nearly succeed. Ive never seriously wanted to scream as much as I did when dealing with this particular nutter. I had to consciously try really hard to stop my mouth from opening and letting loose. And all weekend I was hearing stories of people acting just plain loopy. Fearing I too would succumb to the effects of the wind, and already feeling the effects of cabin fever, or hostel fever as may be more appropriate, I decided yesterday that I’d have to blow my recent attempts at saving and get away to Galway sometime soon.

Continuing with the theme of nighttime offenders, three times early this morning someone tried to open my door which opens onto a balcony. The first time I had that horrible horrible experience where my mind woke up and knew someone was trying to get in, but my body hadnt yet awoken and for a nightmarish second I was paralyzed. Then I convinced myself I was dreaming and that I hadnt heard anything and that I hadnt woken up paralyzed. Until someone tried to open my door again. This time I just couldnt be bothered getting up. I figured it was someone who had forgotten the code downstairs and was trying to find an alternate way in and thought my door looked like a possibility. Which makes sense since it is a door. So Im just getting back to sleep and I hear a rattle. No a scuttle. Like some multi-legged scary thing scuttling across the lolly wrappers strewn across my room. I jumped up, turned on the light, examined the wrappers. Nothing. I get back into bed. THEN about a sleep hour or so later (sleep hours often only corrolulate to several minutes of real time) Im almost asleep – who should come a door rattling but the crazy door rattler of the night again! Obviously mine looked like a magic door – rattle three times and it will open. This third time I was just pissed off and figured I’d have to stop the madness, especially since they sounded kind of frantic from the way they were trying to tear my wonky door from its hinges. I got up and sure enough the door rattler had forgotten the code and thought my door was another way inside. Wrong. Back to bed finally for another few sleep hours of rest. And then… a whisper of a scratch….and again…under my bed…I jumped up, turned on the light and pulled my bed out from the wall. Its got to be a mouse right? I did find a small hole but none of the usual small brown deposits of evidence of a mouse. Maybe its a ghost mouse. I blocked up the hole turned off the light and got back into bed, but there’s no way I could sleep knowing there was possibly a ghost mouse under my bed, so I resigned to get up at 6.30am.

I got dressed, thinking this would be a good day to get away, let the ghost mouse have the room to himself for a bit. So I go to put on my earrings and find one of them is missing. I search high and low and finally find it under my bed! And then I see Im dealing with something a little more serious here. This is not a case of a mere ghost mouse, as ghost mice can make noise but have trouble moving inanimate objects (unless they are of the poltergeist variety), this is obviously an alien mouse with the telepathic power to move objects. An alien mouse who likes to dress up at that. Possibly even a transvestite alien mouse. Sounds a bit crazy really doesnt it?I mean of all the accessories a transvestite alien mouse could choose, my earrings are not exactly high fashion…..

At this point you’ll probably be very relieved to know that I did make it to Galway for a bit of a sanity review. I spent the rest of the day after my eventful morning in the city, sheltered from the wind. And today back in Doolin, the sun is shining and probably will do for a record of five minutes today. The wind is still here. And my earrings are all where I left them. I guess my friend the transvestite alien mouse realized his mistake and found someone else with a decent jewelelry collection.

Ive never really understood what that means so if anyone would care to enlighten me, go ahead. Well I mentioned Em’s Junk Symposium a few weeks ago – and I wasnt joking. Yes I AM actually playing with rubbish. (photos coming tomorrow). I went down last week to check out how things were holding up with the latest storm and to make a few repairs and was highly suprised to see that I seem to have started a trend. I dont think I’ve ever started a trend before.

The first thing I noticed as I approached the beach was a tall object sticking out of the ground in the distance. I got closer to my gallery and saw someone had erected my comfy artist’s sitting log by supporting it with stones and other pieces of wood and rope. Interesting. Or rather – just a really big piece of wood re-contextualized in a rather prehistoric megolithic sort of a way (cue correction from geek) if you know what I mean. Next thing I noticed two separate piles of junk a short distance apart, in which I could see objects tied together and lying across the stones . From what I could tell these two assemblages had once stood upright, a higglety-pigglety conglomeration of assorted objects strung between two or more posts, but the enduring wind and less than secure fixings had blown them over – and yes they were like that when I got there. I didnt push them down.

So this is all very well and Im happy to be promoting the recycling of rubbish through art, only problem is these artists have chosen (or randomly grabbed) all my best pieces of hard earned flotsam and used most of my painstakingly collected fishingline and rope! And to make things worse they’ve taken all my interesting inspiring objects and thrown them together haphazardly, stringing odds and ends together, stuffing a piece of wide black corrogated pipe with everything they could lay their hands on so bits of rope and metal and vacuumcleaner hose spilt out of it, the uniqueness of my treasures unrecognizable amongst the total rubbish mass. Quite frankly it seems to me these ‘artists’ were more intent on creating an artwork based on very little concept at all and trying to make up for this by using as much junk as possible. Quantity not quality. No rhyme or reason to it – its just madness it is. Those were my first thoughts. Unless…. What if these are more than just two relocated rubbish piles? Could the concept really be a rejection of the aesthetic conventions of Modern Art? A spit in the face of Minimalist sculpture, a kick in the guts of those obssessors of the aesthetic? How can I continue in the face of such brilliance? How can I compete with this anonymous yet obviously contemporary art collective who are so ahead of their time? And well, feck, I couldnt possibly vandalize such masterpieces to retreive my pieces of junk from their brilliant entanglements – to do so would be to go against the artist’s unspoken code of honour (Rule number one: Dont touch the art man), not to mention envoke the wrath of the artist geniuses who would no doubt take their rage out on my own inferior artworks.

And so in the end I am resigned to hoarding away my precious findings like the true hobo stick lady I always knew I was. One hiding place would not do. Oh no. I must distribute my treasure in multiple secret spots along the presiding cliffs so if one is discovered and infiltrated by the enemy artist geniuses I will still have more. They’ll never find it all. Its mine, all mine I tell you. Eh he he hee heh!!

And the sad thing is its all true. I really have resorted to hoarding and hiding rubbish. Feel free to deny knowing me until Im dead and all my artwork is reverred and sells for millions – then milk our relationship for all its worth.

‘ I look back and peering into the shadows I see a figure emerge. Is this a spectre, a dream, do my eyes decieve me? An enthusiastic hug proves to me that this visitor is flesh and bone – and that Lex is in Doolin! A week back from Mongolia, and still on holiday with his whanau, he was staying in Galway and after asking at two of the other three hostels in Doolin he managed to tracked me down. What a great suprise. And there I was thinking it was going to be just another regular old day in Doolin. He only had a few hours in town so we went for a walk in the rain to a cafe that was closed, then drove up to the cliffs and walked in the rain up to the track that was closed (while they build the new visitors centre and walking track) then drove back to Doolin to a cafe that was open and feasted on carrot cake and chocolate. His trip sounds like it was amazing though it seems like he is still trying to get his head round it all. I think he was headed up to Scotland then back home to the real world. It was such an unexpected suprise and and so good to see a familiar face. Thanks Lex, you made my day!

Last night I went to my second concert in Doolin. This one was in aid of five County Mayo farmers jailed for contempt of court as a result of their protest against Shell’s plan to lay pipes through their land to transport gas to a proposed oil refinery 10 miles inland. Local musicians from around Clare put together a concert to raise money for the families of the imprisoned men. It was very looong but featured some really good musicians, singers, dancers. The fiddlers I paid particular attention to – maybe there’s some secret trick to all this fiddle playing, an anti-braying remedy – if I could just spot what it is…
Highlight of the night was the Israeli fiddler who played a couple of Irish songs but totally jazzed them up so he was playing all this crazy stuff. It was cool. Actually the real highlight came close to the beginning of the concert when your general Irish band was playing and they got this Irish man up to dance. This guy was maybe 60 – 70 odd, white hair, long white beard and not someone you would take particular notice of were you ever on the lookout for a dancing type but I wish you all could have seen him go – Ive never seen anything like it. There’s nothing like seeing a grown man jigging like his life depended on it and thoroughly enjoying himself to put a smile on your face.

Today I was woken early so I dragged myself down to the beach determined to do something useful with my last day of freedom before 4 days working in a row (!!) and ended up spending most of the day there. I spent my time collecting and assembling junk and am proud to annouce the inauguration of the 2005 Em’s Modern Sculpture Symposium. If you want to visit the address is: Dirty Beach to the Left of the Pier, Doolin, County Clare. Entry is free but donations of junk are welcome.

Yes Im still alive and yes I still have all my fingers. Though my first index finger on my left hand has started to go numb everytime I play my fiddle so I may soon lose that one, but I still have seven fingers and two thumbs at the time of writing with which to type so I have no excuse except that I have nothing to write about.

Well of course there are things I can write about if you want me to… I mean I could tell you what I had for breakfast this morning (rolled oats) or the book Im reading (Bookseller of Kabul). Or how I went to see Charlie and the Chocolate factory the other weekend and I had the best costume out of anybody there. OR how last week I managed to flood the hostel and drown my cellphone in two separate incidents – my water qi is obviously out of balance. Speaking of water, I just filled my bottle up from the tap and its green. Must be authentic traditional Irish water. Do you want to buy some for exorbitant prices? But green is a vegetable anyway so its okay. (And purple is a fruit).

Last night I went to my first Doolin concert – very civilized, no headbanging here. The musician was Luka Bloom, a talanted singer and guitarist whose songs, though some be rather slow and downbeat have a nice folksy Irish feel to them. It was a really nice atmosphere – just 50 or so people at the local music cafe – and all in all the night ended up being worth my 18EU.

Today I visited Ennistymon, one of many small towns in Ireland with a funny name. Try saying it – I bet you’ll say it wrong. Anyway I just went to stock up on veg and chocolate – highlight of my week.

But other than that the truth of it is life in Dools is rather routine just at the moment. No dragons or sword fights here. Nothing exciting or escapist to occupy your minds. Maybe I should buy a sword and challenge someone to a duel. Basically I eat, I sleep, I flood the hostel, I contemplate the universe according to Swami Em.

You can however look forward to an exciting new series of entries designed to educate the un-traveleducated on the ways of travel and hostelling in Ireland according to just plain old Em.

The Irish summer has decided to stay. I dont think its rained in a week, which completely ruins my reputation as a credible weather predictor (based on my working days) – though I do expect it to still be sunny over the next two days while I work indoors, catching but a glimpse of daylight with longing in my heart, stretching forth my pale lifeless hand everytime someone opens the front door to enter, confined to the darkness of my labour.

It has been so hot infact, that last Tuesday saw me going for my first Irish swim. I caught a ride up to the cliff trail with a couple of girls staying at the hostel, and we walked (or rather staggered in the heat) along the cliffs and down onto the rocks to find a suitable swimming spot – suitable being one not already occupied. We ended up in a spot that was indeed isolated, but was not actually very good for swimming – a small pool into which the swell rushed, crashing against surrounding sharp and pointy and most-likely flesh-tearing rocks. But there was enough space between swells for one to get in, swim about frantically, then rush out, hoping ones gammy leg didnt give out, leaving one at the mercy of the incoming monster wave. Thankfully my gammy leg held out fine and there was no tearing of flesh by hungry rocks. (And luckily so as one of the more adventurous three swimmers was exposing rather alot of flesh – the French one – hence the neccessity for a ‘suitable’ swimming spot).
So what have I to say of my first Irish swim? In the words of the Irish, It was feckin freezing. And they tell me the water is warm for this time of year. Crazy Irish. I might compare it to rolling naked in the snow if I had ever done such a thing. I can compare it to a swim equivalent to one in the oceans of home – in the middle of winter. That kind of handnumbing, heart stopping cold. The only thing that made it bearable was being able to crawl (slowly with frozen limbs) towards the rocks and thaw out in the heat of the day on a scorching hot rock.

Today I went in the other direction to the coast and just hung out and poked around in some rockpools again – I cant help it – why dont they move?. I was tempted to go for a swim (in my undies) but after testing the water with a toe I chickened out… maybe just as well, to save anyone passing by the spectacle of very pale me swimming in my undies – though I saw only one person in two hours. There were horses though, who might be able to tell the difference between togs and undies so best I didnt. I spent my two or so hours instead painting in-the-field with watercolours, just like a real artist. First attempt not so successful and abandoned, but second not too bad – recognizable as sea, sky and land anyway.

The next two days I will work and then on Tuesday its off to England where the queen rules over her people with a ‘funny wave’ (as opposed to an ‘iron fist’), people say things like ”ere what?’ and ‘jolly good old chap!’, and everyone looks like someone from Coronation Street. I’ll let you know how mis-conceived my pre-conceptions are soon enough.

Not alot to report this week Im afraid, life goes on as usual, though Im sure I’ll find something inane to babble on about. The wretched weather and the international events of the past week have left me rather unenthusiastic, content for the moment to lie around reading or eating scones, or even both at the same time. Ive been back to MY beach once and to my disappointment recovered skulls numbering zero, and carcasses also numbering zero. And also alas, someone stole my poking stick. Either that or I forgot where I secretly hid it, proving my secret hiding place to be an exceptionally good one. I found another stick but it didnt fit just right in my hand like the other and it chafed so I threw it into the air with a cackle and a shake of the fist.

Last Friday I did as intended journey to Galway where I stayed with my friends at the Salmon Weir, took myself out to the movies on Friday night and perused the Saturday markets. The movie was Batman Begins (as intended) and the verdict was ‘great despite the excessive voice transformation that came with the batsuit’. I went to see the movie at the new Eye cinema which boasts many technical sounding things and the chance to ‘escape into your dreams’. Basically it had a screen and seats that didnt leave me contorted in agony and so I was happy. Adding to my happiness were the hot pink bathrooms with space age technology taps that didnt work when you put your hands under them – but I liked the hot pink which is rare for someone such as myself. I also had the opportunity here (at the cinema not in the bathrooms) to experience the icecream heaven that is Ben&Jerrys that Ive never had the pleasure of experiencing before. Part of the fun was asking for Chunky Monkey flavour, which was good – banana with walnuts and chunky chocolate pieces. But the cookie dough was my favourite – just like Mums which I have a habit of picking at when shes not looking (ay Mum) – but with added icecream!

The markets promised more pleasurable food experiences and did indeed deliver. (I sense this entry is going to be more food orientated than anything else so if you’re on a diet stop reading). I began by wandering down through the markets making note of the more tastebud tingling morsels on offer. I compared price, aesthetic nature (colour, texture, movement), preparation environment and attractiveness of server and narrowed my choice down to one ultimate winner. The prize being to be eaten by me. The winning lunch choice was a food called Kitchiri from a HareKrishna-run stand offering vegetarian food. It was the ‘a complete meal in one’ description that got me. Just what I need. And the server though not overly attractive (nor unattractive) had an inner calm that often radiates from such people of religion and I concluded that this could only be beneficial to the food. Anyway, you want to her the details. Well it was a mixture of rice, carrots, potato and some other mushy things cooked into mush with mustard seeds, coriander, chilli and similar spices, and topped with pinapple chutney. I’d buy it again. After my complete meal I stocked up big time on sundried tomatoes, dolmades (Angs fav), olives and feta from the stall outside the cheese shop. Only the best sundried tomatoes, dolmades, olives and feta youve ever tasted. Then fresh organic veges, then best for last the elusive Galway market sushi which I carefully transported back to Aille River – my prized possession. Which some monkey stole and hid pretending he’d eaten it. So cruel. Its now a week later and my food stock is dwindling. I had potatoes for dinner tonight and I’ll most likely have potatoes tomorrow too. Though I can garnish them with my few treasured remaining sundried tomatoes. Tuesday will call for another food trip, maybe to Ennistymon where Ive heard they hold produce markets.

On a more serious note, I heard about the London bombs a few hours after they occurred only after an email from a friend. It fleetingly crossed my mind that the email was some sort of joke, but after checking the BBC website I learnt the details of what had happened. At that time only two people had been confirmed dead – that number steadily grew throughout the day. My mind was put at ease to hear from you guys over near London at the moment, that you’re all fine. These attacks seem to have affected me more than those in the past. Maybe because I have friends there, maybe because its closer to home, maybe because I was thinking about travelling to England in a few weeks at the time. But what has also struck me, is how often this sort of thing has happened in the Middle East or even up North here in Ireland with far less media attention. I am also curious as to the way life seems to go on regardless. We forget. Like sitting in the living area of the hostel the afternoon after the bombs occurred listening to conversations about bus timetables and Irish breakfasts, or finding myself looking at a recipe for pancakes on the web and then remembering – and almost laughing out loud at the absurdity of it. But then what else can we do? Life goes on and it should.

And back on a lighter note, today, that is the day after I was feeling rather unenthusiastic, I am feeling more enthusiastic. The sun, like clockwork decided to show its face the day before I start work – Im sure tomorrow will be dazzlingly sunny as always just to rub it in. But at least I got to enjoy some summer today. I walked down to the coast through fields overgrown with wild flowers of many shapes and colours, alive with the buzz of insects. The fields struck me with such a summery feeling I felt like lying right down and having a good old roll around. But the massacre of many living creatures for one’s own rolling pleasure is against the teachings of Swami Em. Besides the grass was kindof wet. I spent most of the day down along the coast under the blue sky watching sea snails traverse the rocky contours of rockpools (funny that they should be rocky) – that took a while as snails tend to move quite slowly. Then when I got bored watching the snails I poked a few things (as I have a habit of doing) just to see if I could make them move. Then having irritated enough of the local sea life I wandered back to the hostel, bought an icecream, read a book, met some people who lived on Gordon Rd in the Mount – small world. Then I had my potatoes and now I will sleep. Goodnight. Sweet dreams.

Greetings, and poge ma hone to you all. I have much news of little consequence.

Last week as I walked along MY beach I found a decaying baby horse. At first I thought it was a decaying baby cow but I thought about it and decided no, its a decaying baby horse. I made this decision based on the half revealed bone of the skull which was long and straight like a baby horses would be and not as much like a baby cows would be, and because it had hooves that weren’t cloven and I think a baby cow would have cloven hooves. If it still had more hair on it and if I felt like pulling its bottom out from under some rocks so I could see if it still had a tail, I might have had more evidence of it being a baby horse but I was quite happy with my decision not to touch it and to just trust my assumptions were correct.. though speaking of horses and their related cousins we all know why you should never assume. It was definitely dead though. And it definitely smelt like it was dead.

Well I went back a week or so later to see if I might retrieve its skull but it was gone. The smell was gone too. Maybe someone else beat me to it. But I think it most likely was washed out to sea as the swell was quite big and had pushed all the rocks up into a steep bank. So maybe it is buried under the rocks. Maybe one day it will rise again from its watery or stony grave and I can have its skull.

MY beach is my chosen haunting place of late. Its a stony little bay
I found round to the left from the pier and beneath the beginning of the cliffs. At first I was disgusted by all the debris I found washed up onto shore and lying among the stones, and the field directly behind it you need to walk through to get to MY beach from the road that has been used as a dumping ground at some time. Now however, since my baby horse find, Im intrigued by what I may stumble across. Ive found an old rusted metal shopping basket, a vacuum cleaner hose (actually several), an old chair leg, an old dolls leg, wheels, plastic buoys, one of those round red and white rings that hang on boats, a big rusty spring and shoes. So many shoes. Somewhere out there are alot people looking for a shoe and they really should come visit my odd shoe graveyard. You know the black hole that odd socks disappear into never to be seen again? Well there’s one for shoes too and MY beach is where it ends. Ive seen them, the shoes, falling from the sky.

So every so often I go down to MY beach to see what else I might find. More dead animals? Treasure? A human hand? I know I’ll always find shoes. Maybe one day I’ll find a sock aswell but I think thats fairly unlikely. Ive started sorting some of the interesting things(wheels, legs, dead animals) from the mundane (cans, bottles, shoes) with the view to possibly create some sculptures in my spare time. I wander over the stones with my stick I found, which is the perfect height and has a bend in it just like a walking stick and I poke at things like a crazy woman. Occasionally I’ll see someone come over the hill behind the beach or standing above at the edge of the cliffs but they never venture down for fear of the crazy hobo with her stick. But I leave my stick at the beach and bike back to the village and resume my ‘normal’ facade and the locals will never know Im really the crazy hobo stick lady. Ive met a few more of the locals. This week I met Heidi the SouthAfrican who works at the Village Craft Store and Joan the Dooliner who works there too and is Carol’s sister-in-law. But none of them will ever know about my secret hobo stick lady life.

On the 23rd of June, the day after Midsomer’s Day, Doolin lights its bonfires. Im still not sure why, I think its something to do with St John? Or maybe just a good time to burn stuff. Robert the hostel owner lit a bonfire in the field behind his house and he, Carol, Karl, some of the hostellers and myself sat around it leaning against piles of freshly mown hay, watching things burn and passing around a guitar. Its fun to burn things. For the record, hay and haybales are NOT delightful. I retract all my previous comments regarding the joys of haybales. They are evil poisonous things and have smote me down with hayfever of the most literal kind. Everywhere you look here there’s hay. Hay in the back field, hay in the front field, hay moving up the road on the back of a tractor. Its one giant hay conspiracy to make me sneeze and never stop. And when you sneeze your heart stops so I would die. Or maybe its just that its summer and people like to mow hay in the summer.

The last few days have been so hot, so sunny that I was convinced summer had finally arrived. I really could not stay outside for longer than 20 minutes the sun was so searingly hot, and I wandered around in jandals and a singlet. Alas it was all a cruel joke and this morning I awoke to see familiar grey drizzle out my window. Of course it will continue to rain over the next few days as these are my days off. If anyone is coming to Ireland and needs a weather report I can guarantee come Sunday and Monday it will be summer again and I can guarantee Tuesday will bring rain. The good weather made for some amazing sunsets though. One night I walked down the road that passes the hostel about 20minutes then over a couple of fields (past a sign saying Beware of the Bull) to the coast. There was absolutely nobody around and I walked for about an hour round the rocks to the pier while the sun began to set. At the pier there were too many people so I carried on round to MY beach (hoping I might find the skull this time) and up on to a hill to see the whole of Doolin and the cliffs lit up by the fire in the sky. Bright oranges and pinks and more subtle purples further out. It was amazing – and I didnt have my camera.

I recently acquired a fiddle practice partner to join me in making a variety of the most hideous of sounds known to man. Sarah from France, has also recently purchased a fiddle and as she is staying at the hostel long term we will together endeavour to produce a sound that is bearable to the human and animal ear. Our first practice we struggled through several songs, assuring each other it didnt sound so bad while wincing in pain with every stroke of the bow. Sarah has had a few lessons when she was young but my fiddle is better than hers so it all evens out. I can play two songs – Merrily We Roll Along and German Polka which may come in handy as we always have plenty of Germans staying. When I say I can play those songs, I mean to me they sound like songs, to everyone else I would imagine they sound like Roberts donkey when he’s harrassing the cows across the road.

Last night I went out to McDermott’s pub for the first time in ages. There was a band called The Caley Bandits playing who were very good. The unusual inclusion of a double bass along with the usual bouron, bousouki and fiddle made for a great sound. Sarah and I studied the very accomplished fiddle player’s (Yvonne) technique intently with the hopes of picking up some secret quick fix but unfortunately I think the only cure is many years of practice. Many many years before my fiddle sounds more like a fiddle and less like a donkey.

Tomorrow morning I head to Galway to bank my meagre savings so far and spend much more on a night at the movies (Batman Begins), stocking up the food cupboard, and the elusive Saturday market sushi – the only sushi in Galway. They also have great crepes and olives and handmade chocolates and vegetarian takeaways at the markets so I think I may have to spend the day there for breakfast, lunch and dinner….and morning tea and afternoon tea – I’ll start saving next week.