JandalsnAll

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.

A How To for Kiwis and Specially for Little Sisters.
Disclaimer: Em takes no resposibility for the injury or insult to any persons brave/stupid enough to actually follow her advice.

PRE-DEPARTURE
Before one actually sets out for the big journey over yonder, there are some steps, mostly tying up of loose ends and the like, necessary to make your leaving a smooth and successful event, for both yourself and those around you.

STEP ONE
Sell all your worldy possessions. Or, just sell the things you dont really like and find sucker(s) to store the really important things like your collectors card album, your cool volkswagon model car and other items you just cant live without. A garage sale will do the trick. But be wary not to undersell your prized possessions – remember $1 will buy you five elephants in India. By the way, parents fulfil the role of ‘sucker’ beautifully.

STEP TWO
Decide on your destination. Maybe one of the most important elements of travelling, selecting a destination will ensure you are not doomed to wander aimlessly neither here nor there, never stopping, never starting – a most unrewarding form of travel. I’d suggest starting with somewhere that speaks some English, or at least somewhere that deems the consumption of human foreigners indecent. But then I guess it depends on how much of a challenge you’d like to set for yourself.

STEP THREE AND ALL THOSE LITTLE THINGS
Sort out your accounts and pay off any debts. Or dont and pretend you never left.
Plan ahead and get any necessary visas, credit cards etc.
Cancel any mailouts etc or leave them for your designated suckers to sort out.
Be really nice to everyone so they miss you alot when you leave.
Get internet banking, a really handy way to manage accounts from overseas.
Gmail is a great email account to use as you dont have to worry about junk mail or mailbox limitations – you do need an invite though but if you ask me nicely I might just send you one.
Find a good travel agent who will go out of their way to help you – dont bother with the ones who just give you a quote then leave you to it.

PACKING
There are just some items you really must never leave your country without. The national flag of your country, a photo of the primeminister/president, your traditional national costume. As well as those things, you can study up on what to take here on the ever-helpful BootsnAll site: About three pages on theres a basic list of what to take. Heres another list – maybe a little too overexagsh but it seems to have everything you could possibly think of that you might need and some good ideas.

Some things that are really really useful or that I wish I’d brought:
large microfibre towel – unless youre wanting to travel really light I’d get the largest size. Those teeny little ones are just a pain to use and dont cover up anything if someone nicks your clothes.
sleepsheet for sleeping anywhere grotty
torch (a headtorch would be useful if you’re camping – but theyre quite expensive and make you look like a caver)
small scissors/tweezers/pocket knife
notepad and pen
watch with alarm
copies of cv, passport, tickets etc in one of my email folders
jandals
Marmite – tastes great and has added bonus of freaking out non-Australasians
Photo of PrimeMinister Helen Clark.
Rechargable batteries and small travel battery recharger (only if you’ll be needing batteries of course)
Lonely Planet Guide
earplugs – necessity
longjohns (lyserious) its frickin cold away from home.
International credit card

Things that havent been useful at all:
adaptor plug – because I didnt actually bring anything electric from home.duh.
packsafe – I havent used my once yet, though I will carry its leaden weight around with me just incase…..
books – much easier and lighter to buy over here or ‘borrow’ from a hostel.
Anything that you cant bear to part with in the event that you have to throw things away – and you will have to throw things away.
Basically anything you can buy with ease in your country of destination eg. sunscreen, soap, laundry powder, chocolate. Unless your fussy like me.
Sewing kit – you’ll find a sewing kit on all the lists but I brought one and havent used it once despite now owning several holey items of clothing. Mending clothes is for Mums – so if you do bring a sewing kit try to bring a Mum with it. Safety pins and needles are handy though.

Basically fill your pack with the essentials (deciding what these are is the tricky part), then add anything you might want extra but that you also dont mind throwing away later on down the track. Dont fill pack to capacity or you’ll have no room for buying pressies and more useless junk to add to your collection back home. Plus it gives you extra room if you cant be bothered rolling everything up as small as small and prefer to shove everything in side and shut it without even having to jump up and down on it..

In reality Ive found you dont need much at all but there are still things that are nice to have with you if you dont mind compromising in terms of weight. Even in writing this, despite my efforts and yours, I know that you will manage to bring at least one completely useless thing with you, maybe your own NZ to Europe adaptor – in some situations, sure, it may be very handy but I can tell you now it is utterly useless when you arent bringing anything electrical from NZ ….and you arent going to Europe….

DEPARTURE
The first step in actually travelling is obviously to leave your current place of abode and this is as easy as simply picking up one foot, placing it down in front of you and following this with the other foot. Of course you could also travel on your hands and knees or wriggle about on your stomach if you so wished, but these methods are most suitable for use only over very short distances and preferably not in view of other people. When travelling long distances such as between countries most people choose to fly overland and sea.

Give yourself two hours to get to the airport then give yourself one extra hour if you are me and then two more extra hours if you are Tonia and Liam. That way you should arrive just on time.
Say goodbye to your poor family, look at all the tears. Walk away quickly and dont look back – this way you avoid risking catching them in the act, jumping around like children cheering ‘Shes gone! Finally shes gone!’ – better put your hands over your ears too.

Hopefully youve requested an aisle seat with the extra legroom with your trusty travel agent especially if you too are a giant freak and hopefully your trusty airline has actually given it to you and not stuck you in the middle seat in the middle aisle between two rather overweight men like they did with me. If you do find yourself trapped and desperately needing to pee, which you most surely will, and at which time both overweight men will be asleep (and snoring) there is nothing for it but to save yourself the agony and, very carefully now, give the one who looks least likely to go into a rage at the event of being awoken a gentle poke with your forefinger, being sure to keep all other fingers well clear, and ask them politely if they’d mind letting you past. And then make sure you dont drink anything else for the rest of the trip.
Other aeroplane tips:
Vege meals get served first.
Hot towels are a gift from God.
Little kids on planes are not a gift from God.
Toilets are best used during the first half of the trip then avoided at all costs.
The flight attendant demonstration provides as much inflight entertainment as it does valuable safety instructions.
Of course do the sensible walking around thing.

ARRIVAL
Leave the plane in an orderly manner or as orderly as you can manage after 25 hours on a plane and proceed to customs. If your lucky, and if youve kept a good eye on your bag, youve no need to worry. If your unlucky, deny all knowledge of any baby possums and good luck to you.
After landing, but before leaving the airport pop into the toilets and change into your national costume so as to provide your new friends with a positive and lasting impression of your beloved country. Ignore the points and stares – theyre just jealous of your pois.

Follow the exits and find transport to your pre-booked accomodation. If in doubt ask! Especially in Ireland people will go out of their way to give way too detailed directions. Theres no point wandering around in a daze when there’s a walking talking human map at every step just begging for you to ask them for directions so they can put their vast geographical knowledge to use.

And now, take a moment to look around, breathe in all those foreign pollutants and enjoy your first steps in a new country.

Coming Soon: ‘Good Guinness its a Leprechaun!’ Em’s Guide to all things Irish.

And so it came that on the 15th day of the 9th month of the one thousand, one hundred and senventy nineth year I was given unto the world that I may show you the truth and the way of all things chocolate and thus that you might have eternal sugary goodness through me.
Yesterday morning, I awoke to the sound of the rains falling on our humble hostel, and the delightful if persistent trumpeting of angels – which I soon realized was actually some person blowing their nose in the bathroom next door. I peeled the dreadlocks from my face, peered out the window and saw that it was indeed pouring from the heavens on this most glorious of days. The Gods must be crying with joy. And with good reason, for on this day I was to open many presents. I scrambled to the end of my bed, dug out my hoard and with a victorious shout that stopped the noseblower mid-trumpet, I began to rip and tear, pull and push at my packages until they spilled forth their treasures. And oh the treasures! Sugary delights of every variety, with such brilliant colours that did nearly blind my eyes and that did make my body tremble with anticipation of a sugar-induced, foodcolouring and additive enhanced coma. Oh and there were some clothes and some shoes and books and jewellery and things in there that were good too.

I threw on all my new clothes, rushed down stairs and ran through the hostel shouting hysterically, ‘Its my birthday! Its my birthday!’. Actually I didnt but the temptation was strong…. No, deciding to leave my fellow hostel-stayers in peace, I instead grabbed the phone in the laundry, rang home and shouted hysterically down the receiver ‘Its my birthday! Its my birthday!’ After and hour or so juggling the regular phone, my cellphone and other general hostel distractions as calls flooded in from all around the world, and the washing machine beside me jumped for joy out-of-control around the floor, I retired to my cave for a good old fashioned breakfast of sugar. So began my celebratory day.

The rest of the day was actually fairly uneventful as I slipped back and forth between coherent thought and the magical world of candy. Though I did receive best wishes from the members of my surrogate family here in Dools, and was at one point during the day subjected to the strangest of rituals from one of our older Scottish guests. Upon hearing that it was my birthday, she rushes up to me and says ‘How old are you? Quick tell me so I can give you your bolms’ Or ‘poms’ or ‘barms’ or something equally unintelligible. She had hold of my arm as I bewilderedly told her that I was 26, so that I expected a hug or some similar expression. But what does she do? Still gripping my arm so I can’t escape, she starts pounding me on the back with brute Scottish strength, the way your mother might do if that piece of lego got stuck in your windpipe. ‘One, two, three, four, five…’ she counts up to ten. Then she goes for my left ear and proceeds to tug on my earlobe the way… well the way nobody in their right mind would ever do and nobody has ever done before. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six….’again up to ten. After that, thankfully, she goes back to pounding my back ‘one, two, three, four, five,six’ And then the madness just stops, she lets me go, and Im standing there like a stunned mullet staring at this strange grinning woman, wondering why, why shes been touching my earlobes. That apparently is how the Scottish say Happy Birthday. I can only thank God that Im still in my twenties and that I didnt have to find out what kind of tugging or pinching proceeds the back slapping…

That afternoon I was given strict instructions to have a shower, have a shave, put on my prettiest dress and be ready at 9 o’clock. And so abandoning my much anticipated dinner of pancakes I instead spent the afternoon wondering what the evening held in store for me. At about 8.30, K tells me to follow him and we head up to C’s house, where I walk in to the sound of Happy Birthday and find C and R there with a delicious looking sponge cake complete with candles for me, for me! Ten candles in all of course because I was turning 26. Well that was a lovely suprise and I would not have expected anything more but wait, there was more. At 9 oclock, washed, shaved and in my prettiest pretty party dress, I am driven into Ballyvaughan and treated to a great meal and the equally great company of C, R and K, at a great vegetarian Italian cafe called ‘The Holywell’. How spoilt am I? After stuffing ourselves silly we headed back to Doolin where I retired to my sugarcave full of good Italian food, too full to make a dent in my mountain of sugar even (NB. We are talking real sugar here, not ‘sugar’ as in a Neil Young’s Sugar Mountain kinda way – just so we dont get our wires crossed).

So ended my first birthday in the Green Isle – my first birthday away from home. In the days leading up to it I did expect that it might turn out to be a bit of an emotionally charged day, with me missing home more than ever. But while I would of course have liked to have spent the day at home with the whanau, opening and not sharing my presents with them, my birthday here in Doolin was a good substitute, and I suspect that when I leave here I will feel a homesickness for Doolin aswell.

And the date of departure may not be too far off – possibly the end of October but we’ll see what happens. On the art front, Ive got two blank cavases staring at me in my room, taunting me to paint them. Down at the gallery the two sculptures (here and here) in my permanent collection are holding up fairly well though I have had to spend a bit of time on restoration and maintainence of the works. I do have two more planned and Im just waiting to get them out of my head and into reality but everytime this week Ive set off for the beach with the the sun on my back, upon entry to the gallery, the weather betrays me. The wind itself is cold enough – must be straight from the antartic and it numbs my fingers til I can no longer hold my hobo stick lady stick. Then when Im on my knees the fascist anti-art clouds roll in and pummel me with their icy drops. Of course just after I make the mad dash back up the side of the cliff and bike like a maniac back to the hostel, the weather clears, the sun’s rays stabbing me in the back as I stumble soggy and exhausted upstairs, dragging my blankie of un-realized sculpture dreams behind me. Such is the suffering of the artist.

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.

It all began with The Curious Incident of the Fork in the Toaster. Now you and I and most everybody know that you should never stick a knife in a toaster and most would presume that this warning holds true for forks and spoons as well. Apparently this did not occur so to one guest at the hostel on a fateful Monday morning. The culprit: Rogue escapist piece of toast. The accessory to the crime: Man with fork. The chronological events leading up to inevitable disaster: Toast escapes reaches of toasting-eating man, Man lunges at disrespectful toast in toaster with fork, Toaster reacts violently to the assault sending forth barrage of sparks before dying a pointless death, Fuse objects to death of companion and commits electrical suicide taking down computer, phone and washing machine in its last violent throws. Just what I need the day before I set off to England. So I figure out with my limited electrical knowlege how to reset the fuse and hoorah, the washing machine is revived. We need not wallow in our filth any longer. Alas the internet and phone were no better off after my attempts of rescuscitation, and the remainder of the day was spent on cellphone to one and all trying to find a qualified phone doctor while fending off angry internet-deprived patrons. Turns out somewhere along the way someone had pulled a plug loose out of the portable phone base and the internet was just being stubborn but that was no help to me four hours later.

ANYway, that night I packed up my pack and made ready to set off to the Land of Tea and Scones – thats England. Early next morning I boarded a bus, then another, then somehow found myself at the airport cafe eating a cardboard muffin, sipping coffee coloured water. Mmmm. Such is the airport way and who am I to fight it. I boarded my RyanAir plane surrounded by the very natives I would soon be sharing a country with – I felt like I was trapped in an Eastenders nightmare – and airborne with nowhere to run to. Thankfully this version of hell lasted only one hour before I was safely on the ground where I could run, run free like the wind. And straight into the arms of Kiwi saviour Winston waiting to whisk me away straight into the ultimate danger zone. I knew it as soon as we drove up to Gary’s house. Not that I could tell which was Gary’s. Now I was in England. Where houses arent really houses, theyre just joined narrow cloned boxes for putting all your stuff in. At least they have numbers or imagine the chaos, people wandering aimlessly, searching door to door for their homes. Inside I was pleasantly suprised to find colour – and an especially cool orange bathroom. Also inside was Patrice – no suprise really but still pleasant. Out the back there was grass, albeit a small patch but a welcome glimpse of nature. That night we dined in vegetarian/vegan bliss at a small cafe in Nottingham called Squeak. One of those places where the food looks too good – Id rather lacquer it and hang it on my wall than eat it. But it tasted great nonetheless.

Next morning we set off for London….But not without a stop in Birmingham to visit Cadbury World! Oh how I have waited for this moment all my life. The chocolate lovers dream realized in all its chocolate coated glory. Well thats what I hoped for anyway. Em, Trice, Winnie and the Chocolate Factory it technically was, though much lamer and with no-one getting sucked down the chocolate river – though if the opportunity had arisen I dare say Winston may well have dived right in… What it did have that Wonkas factory didnt was a cart ride through cocoa bean town – look at how the cocoabeans sing and dance in the snow, in the sun, on a bus. And it has the most boring ever 3D movie about the machinery in the factory. Where are the dinosaurs? or even the dancing cocoa beans in 3D would have been more exciting. It wasnt all bad though. I learnt a few things about chocolate – mostly about the white man plundering and stealing all that is good and chocolatey. There was free chocolate at the beginning and the end, and thus 100 screaming sugarhyped kids to accompany us on our journey through the wonderful world of chocolate – some of them I noticed in costume as Mike TV from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, you know with the little cowboy hat and scarf? So cute. I wish Id thought of doing that. At least I think they were in costume, maybe its just the trend with the young folk these days – Im so out of touch. To be honest – and I wouldnt admit this to just anyone because quite frankly Im rather ashamed, but by the end of it all, after 2 hours wandering through the place and getting high on the smell of rotten chocolate coming from the factory I felt rather ill. And though I bought up large in the Cadbury World chocolate shop I would not eat another piece of chocolate the whole day. Spooky.

Next stop was Stratford-Upon-Avon to take a photo outside of Shakespeare’s house. Why? Because I could and because everyone else was doing it. I didnt want to look like a geek.

Final stop on the tour to London was the illustrious motorway petrol and food stop as the car slowly gave up on life and spluttered its objection with a noise incongruent to that of a happy healthy car. We enjoyed the place so much we stayed for two hours before having the bastard car towed to Kaynes place in Barnett London – arriving at the timely hour of 12.30 AM. Poor Lex opened the door to us in a sleepy daze, I think Nardia grunted once or twice, and we settled in to sleep spread across the floor of Kayne and Jasons small living room. It crossed my mind to start a pillow fight on Nadias bed but I imagine she would not have found that terribly amusing.

Next morning we head to London via train and tube. London is BIG. Thats about all I can say. Its BIG. So we meet Lex there and go to get lunch, noticing the subways seem to be closed and surrounded by official looking people, and cellphones are not working as they should…..
After lunch the transport situation is looking no better and no explanation is given. Its about 2pm when we start heading back to Kaynes via bus. Nardia needs to be at the airport at 5.45 for her flight home to NZ. Bus after bus, inching slowly through horrendous traffic we get to Kaynes work 3HOURS later (a trip I gather would normally take less than an hour by tube??) and Nardia is whisked off to the airport in the nick of time. I hope so anyway – Nardia are you there? I do hope you made it home and have not become a member of the Heathrow Airport homeless family. We had gathered from Kayne via phone that the underground had been closed because of another four bombs that had not exploded. I got the impression then that it was someone playing some sick prank but after seeing the news when we got back it seemed rather more serious. No-one seriously injured but apparently terrorist-based and intended to harm.

Thursday night we had a lovely Indian meal the six of us – Kayne, Jason, Patrice, Winston, Lex and myself. A nice end to a hectic day. And how easy it is to forget and enjoy oneself while evil is afoot. Suprisingly I didnt really feel affected by the incidents of the day at all though I felt like I should have been.
I had considered going back into London the next day to see the Tate Gallery – the only thing on my list but decided against it and thankfully so, as we heard the news of the subway police shooting of a man on the underground and transport was suspended all over as the police searched the city. Patrice, Winston and I dropped Lex off at the airport via hired car to set off on his way to Mongolia/China before setting off on our own way back to Nottingham towing formentioned suicidal car. I had the exciting job of steering the towed car. Of all my experience steering towed cars, this one would have to be the best. Five hours later, five? Maybe six, but alot of hours later we arrived back at Gary’s – I knew it was his house because of the number (actually Patrice had to tell me). Great lasagne for dinner thanks Winston. Then time well spent gorging myself with much missed television. Mostly auction shows on – actually oddly enough I didnt see any Coro or Eastenders while I was there. And to finish the night off a great video (depsite the cover – never judge a video by its cover now) called Harold and Maude (despite the name even) – highly reccommended especially if you’re into the whole 18yr old male – 80year old female relationship deal (and I dont mean grandmother- grandson) and the art of faking ones own suicide. What more could anyone ask for in a movie.

My final day Winston and Patrice accompanied me into town and saw me off on the bus to the airport where I would catch my flight back to the Emerald Isle. And so ended my transport nightmare. Well, not quite. My plane was over half an hour late so I missed my first option bus. Of course my second and last option bus broke down and was another half hour late leaving me stranded in Ennis for three hours until Karl could ever so graciously come and pick me up after work. And there, finally, at 10pm back at the hostel in my cosy cupboard room, ended my transport nightmare. I’ll stick to my bike thankyou very much.
So London was not what I expected. Except that it was BIG. I didnt see the Tate, I didnt see the Queen or any Coronation Street actors which would have been the next best thing, I didnt even have Tea – though it was offered thanks Winston. I DID at times feel like I was stuck on the set of any one of the English soaps Ive seen. TV is real-life see?
But I did get to see some friends of mine which is why I went in the first place. Really it was just a taste of London and while I may go back during my travels it will not likely be anytime soon.

So life goes on til my next exciting adventure: Galway in a week to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. So Ive got one week to get my costume ready.

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.