JandalsnAll

Last week I bought a fiddle….yes, a fiddle.

This week Im thinking I’d like to purchase a recipe for black pudding and a big blood filled cow, or pig, or whatever the recipe calls for.

There is something nice about walking from place to place, relying on nothing but step after step to get you where you want to go. I dont mean from the kitchen to the bathroom, but from town to town, or inland to coast. And there’s a pleasant sense of acheivement on finally arriving at your destination knowing you did it all by yourself with your own two feet (not that I have much choice), unlike these lazy arses in their fancy cars. Those are the things I think about when I set off walking and when Im almost there. It’s somewhere in between that lies the torment and suffering. But I forget that and hence find myself again and again setting off on these at first and last refreshingly novel yet ultimately arduous stumbles through Ireland.

A few weeks ago I set off on one such delusional walk to climb around the coast and up to the cliffs
. I did visit the cliffs when I was in Doolin last and you may remember my telling of the bikeride from hell wrought with suicidal ratdogs and fifty minutes of agony. The memory of this did not deter me as I would take the track alongside the cliffs, steering well clear of the ratdogs of the road and ambling happily across gentle swaying fields and crossing babbling creeks – how quaint. Of course because it had been raining for two days straight the gentle fields of my mind had in reality taken on a more swamp-like appearance, the innocent creeks shouting and swearing rather than babbling. And so it was an interesting if somewhat challenging and muddy two hour stumble. Specific challenges including one gate (easy stuff), several electric fences (scary), more than one unsteady fording of aforementioned rude creeks and in the animal department – because there are always crazy animals – a herd of obstinate cows right in the middle of the track, watching my every move, waiting for me to take just one step closer before they’d pounce and devour me limb from limb. I walked around them – very far around them. And then there was the demon horse..it had no eye, just a red hole and yet it kept looking at me….

As I neared the summit, the demon horse’s eyeless stare on my back, I found myself on the wrong end of a fence and ended up back on the road. Determined to walk the full track and the most exciting part around the top on the cliffs, I sploshed back across field and over electric fence (somehow without electricuting myself) to find the small path trodden into the grass a few metres from the cliff edge. As I walked along the narrowing path, the cliffedge becoming ever closer I am reminded of the Council sign way down at the beginning of the track: CAUTION VERY DANGEROUS CLIFFS AHEAD The sign I had casually ignored, scoffed at even. I mean what are ‘very dangerous’ cliffs? How can something be more dangerous than ‘dangerous’? I was beginning to see that yes, these were indeed VERY DANGEROUS cliffs. Nearing the tourist area I could see O’Briens castle (and the tourists) and I urged myself onwards. Problem was this part of the track was barely narrow enough for one of my feet let alone two together, as well as being at an apex with the ‘very dangerous’ cliff edge about a meter away down and to my right, and a barbedwire fence down and out of reach to my left. Add to this the extreme gusts of wind blowing unpredictably one way and then another and you can see I was not in a prime position for the balancing required when skirting ‘very dangerous’ cliff edges. Fatal fall to the right, potential maiming fall to the left, I had no lifepreserving choice except to move cautiously forward. And so everytime I felt a gust of wind coming I’d crouch down and hang onto the long grasses either side of the path. I must have provided an entertaining sight to the tourists milling around at the end of the path – so near and yet so far.
But I did make it, climbing the final fence and wading through the crowds to find myself a quiet spot to sit for a while, after which I took the road home…

Incidentally, the cliffs were just as impressive the second time, maybe more so after it had be revealed to me that these cliffs were the very Cliffs of Despair in The Princess Bride movie – movie choice of many an adolescent slumberparty and every girls favourite. Right? That big rat thing was scary man.

Anyway back to my walking. The next expedition I took up was a walk from Doolin to Lisdoonvarna – home of the infamous September match-making festival – but thats not why I was going there…well kindof but just to see what kind of town holds a matchmaking festival, definitely not with the intention of finding myself a match. And also because it sounded like an interesting place to walk to when one has nothing to do and fancies a walk. Remind me to stop fancying walking. Actually the walk there was rather nice. The day was overcast so it wasnt too hot. I spent the first half an hour or so admiring the countryside and the view over into Doolin with the ocean behind. Other delights included a tractor making haybales (do we have haybales in NZ? the big round ones?) which for some reason I do find delightful, a gray pony with a pink nose and a man smoking a pipe while atop a stepladder painting the side of his house. Yes, this is the world Im living in, where ponies have pink noses and farmers can smoke a pipe while simultaneously holding onto a ladder and a paintbrush. In my mind he even has a plaid shirt and braces, but I may be letting my imagination get away with me. After the excitment of the pipe sighting, things got a little mundane. Same old honey coloured fields and stupid cows eyeing up my limbs. The torment was setting in and I began cursing my Godgiven feet – why cant you go any faster? Why god, why did you make feet so slow? Why didnt you make a rocket booster where my arse is?
Just as I begin contemplating hijacking some other form of transport (tractor? cow?) I see the highway sign announcing I am 1 km from Lisdoonvarna town centre. Lucky for me- and the cow for that matter.

The town of Lisdoonvarna is not as intriguing as its name makes it sound. It has a chinese takeaway, a chemist, a couple of dairys, a few pubs – one being The Matchmaker Bar ‘come on in and meet your match’ – um steering clear of that one. So I milled around trying to find the exciting underground of Lisdoonvarna with no sucess. I did see some young girls in a car with the stereo going in view of a group of schoolboys across the road. Right before my very eyes, an authentic example of Lisdoonvarna matchmaking in its initial stages. So I can say that even out of festival season the matchmaking scene in Lisdoonvarna is alive and well if anyone is looking…..
I bought some decent food at a shop at least twice the size of the Doolin Deli and caught the bus home, sparing EU1.35 to spare myself the not yet forgotten agony of walking.

All in all it was a sucessful morning expedition. I found some vegetables and learnt several new things: 1. Together, Lisdoonvarna and Doolin are the host town to Ukraine – who would have guessed? 2. If I need a match The Matchmaker Bar in Lisdoonvarna is the place to find one – or not – depending on whether I have need of a farmer who can paint a house and smoke a pipe at the same time. 3. Yes these feet WERE made for walking but Id much rather have a rocket booster arse.

What a wonderful peaceful lazy day Ive had. Before breakast I took a walk through the misty and rather unpromising morning to a spot along the beginning of the cliffs called Tralacken. I’d been told the secret way to get there (which wasnt terribly secret I must say) as its apparently a favourite swimming spot of the locals in summer. A footworn path leads out from the main track up to the cliffs across to the coast and down over the edge. What I found were rocky terraces in staggered layers reaching down to the water. Down the middle theres a small flow of water creating little waterfalls here and there and I sat beside one of these for a while and watched two stags watching me until I got too cold and had to move again. Its a really pretty spot – it feels like something out of the movies – like there should be mermaids lazing on the rocks…. and singing dancing crabs with little top hats … and rapping fish with the voice of Will Smith- so an animated Disney movie then. I meandered back to the hostel stopping to say hello to R’s donkey in a field nearby. Im not sure why he has a donkey but I will try to slip the question into conversation sometime. But now I finally have an animal friend to give my apple cores to – I used to give them to Brie (puppydog of my heart with strange but healthy eating habits) and everytime Ive eaten an apple here in Ireland Ive had this odd sense of loss and confusion like I just dont know what to do with my apple core. But all is now right in the universe thanks to my donkey friend.

This afternoon I took another walk, this time down to the pier and around the coast to a little bay I’d seen from atop a cliff. The weather had taken a complete turnaround, summer in Ireland finally. The overtold joke in Ireland (just mention the word summer and someones bound to say it) goes ‘ I remember summer last year – it was on a Friday’. Well this year its been on a Monday and a Thursday and thankfully I dont work on a Thursday. So I spent the afternoon lying on a warm rock in the sun like a big fat lizard, on my own little beach. Then I wandered back, stopped in at Magnetic music cafe (the last music cafe for 3000miles apparently – well thats got to be worth a visit if it’ll be 3000 miles before I get another chance) and had a horrible coffee and a delicious piece of cheescake. And then I shopped at the Doolin Deli (the one food store in Doolin) for Mars bars and stamps. Just so you know, the days of tea and scones are over. Now its all Mars bars and cocopops (the stamps are irrelevant). Though I did break down and buy a scone today as well…. Dont you think its strange that NZers say scone as ‘scon’ when they should really say it ‘scone’ like ‘tone’ or ‘phone’ or ‘cone’. I encourage all NZers to start saying scone the way it looks. No matter if you feel silly, speak proud in knowing your interpretation of the ridiculous English language is surely more correct than those heathens who insist that scone rhymes with con.

Speaking of foods that could possibly be had for breakfast, and cons for that matter, on Wednesday I had my first morning working at the B&B down the road – cooking meat for people who eat meat – unlike myself. And I dont think it went at all badly. It was organized it so all I had to do was microwave the precooked sausages and puddings of both black and white variety, grill the bacon and fry the eggs. All of which I did – how well did I do it is the all important question. And to be honest I wouldnt really have a clue. Bacon is supposed to bleed right? But it was okay because my first guinnea pigs were Japanese, so the odds were that, one: they didnt have much traditional Irish breakfast experience to compare with mine, and two: they prefer their food raw anyway.

So I have two and a half days of work a week and the remaining four and a half are more often than not so far, spent in the manner described above. As you can see, its a hard life here in Doolin, and its a suprise I have time to blog at all. But don’t worry I wont let it stop me writing for the people.

The problem with free tea is its always there, whispering to you ‘drink me, driiinnkk meee’ I did go sober for a few days but now Im back on the brown stuff, though I try to keep it to 8 cups a day. And dont mention the scones…

The hostel itself sits quietly on the banks of the Aille River (Aille means delightful) not much more than a simple cottage with two storeys and a patch of grass for camping alongside the river. From what I gather the original building is over 300years old – take a moment to think about that – it was built before NZ technically became a country. Inside theres a kitchen, a cosy living area with two long tables, some benches, a old ironstove fireplace, and two rocking chairs. Now one of the rocking chairs is boring and not very good at its job, its kindof wobbly and rocks backand forth but also side to side as rocking chairs should never do. I triy to avoid this one. BUT the other rocking chair is the best rocking chair chair in the world. It is big and handmade to perfectly fit my behind, has a lovely weight to it and is right in the corner by the fire. AND the best thing? It has been sat in by the obviously very talented Andy Riley, the guy who wrote/drew ‘The Bunny Suicides’ and ‘Return of the Bunny Suicides’ books. So when I sit in it, its kindof like Im sitting in his lap – kindof. Hows that for fame?

In the evenings round the fire is the place to be just to chill out, dry your shoes, get warm, drink tea…..
Highlights in the living area have included: several impromtu traditional Irish music jam session last week with R leading the pack on the guitar, C the fiddle player a guest passing through and A another traveller on the bosouki (spelling?). That was great – no need to go to the pub. The excellent yet rather inappropriate named card game of Shithead has also become a popular pasttime. I learnt it from an Australian, but it seems to be a worldwide phenomenon amoungst travellers, with Germans and Belgians adding their own twist on the game. And despite there being no words for shithead in German or Belgian, its still called the same. Strange. Those travellers who have never heard of it are at first taken aback after asking the name of the game, only to be verbally abused, but they soon give in to its mysterious powers and find themselves playing endlessly.

This weekend is the Irish June bank holiday weekend. I have no idea what these particular holidays are for but they have enough of them. Theres one in May, June, August, October and then they get all the usual holidays too – crazy Irish. Anyway its the time when everyone in Ireland goes away for the weekend and all the accomodation is booked out and things are crazy busy.

I left Kilronan at 5pm on Sunday evening with mixed feelings and a pack that surely weighed the equivalent of several small children – or one grown man – or a pack filled with Inishmore rocks – or just something really really heavy. Heavy enough that I did wonder as the ferry began to roll rather violently from side to side despite the seemingly calm waters if it was actually due to my extraordinarily weighty luggage putting the boat off balance and whether I should move into the centre of the boat? But we – my luggage and I – made it to Rossaveal harbour without sinking the ferry and its full load of passengers, and after a small struggle between myself and said rogue pack, also made onto the bus. And so it was I found myself once again in Galway city. As I walked back into the main street towards Barnacles hostel, I could feel the stares of the people on the back of my pack…’What an enormous pack’ I could see them thinking, and hear little gasps of amazement. ‘What on earth has she got in that thing?’ they whispered behind hands. Shoes people, its all shoes and handbags. No – Aran sweaters and my Inishmore rock collection.
I spent all of Sunday through Tuesday doing not a hell of alot – sleeping, watching tv, destressing and recooperating.

On Tuesday as planned, I caught the 10.30 bus to Doolin (after once again going through the Eternal Struggle of the Reluctant Pack – AND aswell as my pack I had also to contend with my overfilled daypack, shoulderbag, guitarcase-turned-library and jacket-turned-saddlebags. It felt like gravity had been altered and it was a struggle not to just let myself be flattened into the ground). I was purposely trying to not get my hopes up as I travelled towards a place where I have felt the most content during my Irish travels so far, not wanting to be disappointed on arrival and find goodtimes had in Doolin were more due to the people I spent time with rather than Doolin itself. But as the bus came round a bend in the road, out of the gloom I could see the sun was shining on Doolin. The pastel coloured houses dotted the green landscape (still greener than peas) the Atlantic ocean spread out blue beyond in the distance and I was not disappointed.

My arrival here in Doolin feels like the exact opposite experience of arriving on Inishmore, where the weather was bitter and the hostel much bigger and rather cold. Here, (though its raining now) the sun managed to shine for my arrival (especially for me) despite stormy surrounding skies and huge swells down at the pier. At the hostel there’s an amazingly homely and friendly atmosphere, especially at night when the fire is lit and the living area is full. Oh and there’s free tea! Who could ask for anything more….

I cant believe Ive been here on this island six weeks already. But not for much longer. Due to unfortunate and somewhat inexplicable circumstances I will be leaving this Godforsaken island and my hostel abode and workplace of the aforementioned six weeks, in just two days. I can’t say I’m sorry to be leaving and I look forward to what’s ahead – hopefully another job in another place that suits me a little better. Im heading to Doolin (sweet Doolin) next week to meet the owner of the hostel and hopefully if I like them and they like me I’ll jump straight into another hostel job to tide me over the summer months.

Im uncertain how I feel about Inishmore at this point. In the sunshine it’s unbelievably beautiful, but when the rain comes in and the wind is blowing it’s bitterly miserable. And Ive had some good times with some amazing people who have come through the hostel, but Ive also had times when Ive felt alone and unwelcome here. All in all it’s been an experience and I’ll take what I can from it and move on.

On a somewhat less serious note, last night while relaxing infront of my tv in my shed, I was introduced to the extraordinary event that is the Eurovision song contest. Id heard of this in NZ and had a vague idea of what it was but could never have imagined the reality. Let me share. Basically, the competition consists of all the European nations battling it out through song and dance. Thats nothing unusual. The thing is, Im not sure what the criteria is when it comes to the content of the song and dance. There were far too many na nanas and la la laa la laas and ney ne ney ne neys for it not to be compulsory to include non-words for at least half the song. As is it apparently compulsory to sing all harmonies excrutiatingly just out of tune. The dancing and the clothing do nothing to improve the song quality (sample lyric: ‘Lorraine in the rain’ sample group names: Vanilla Ninja, Wigwam, Feminem…). Far too many open shirts, sequins, unneccessary sunglasses (it was held inside) and swoonful looks for any of the acts to be taken seriously – by me at least. Is it supposed to be taken seriously? Does anybody know? The whole thing is intriguing. The acts were so bad I just had to watch to see if they could get any worse! Maybe Im in the dark on the whole thing, maybe its a big joke – I just cant work it out. Though the Irish commentators were sorely disappointed that Ireland didnt make it into the finals ‘Latvia?, come on’ one of them says in disgust as the last finalist is read. Im not sure which ones Latvia were but Im sure they had sequins, bad lyrics and worse harmonies. All in all it was not a comfortable 2 hour experience at all and yet I could not look away. Think a hideously mutant Steps/Wham/Shakira/Gareth Gates monster and you’ll have some idea of the fascinating creature that is Eurovision. Scary.

Yesterday I biked to the Eastern end of the island. Initially I thought the island went alot further so I was surprised to find myself at a small bay with only water before me. From the bay there is a great view of Inish Maan, the second of the Aran Islands (and the land I had thought was an extension of my island), and I stopped here for lunch and to take a break from biking.

On the way to the Eastern end I passed a cemetery I had stopped at a few days earlier. There are apparently 120 saints buried there, though I could find nothing readable dating before 1843. There were odd slabs of rock here and there which may well have been ancient grave stones – particularly around the remains of a small chapel(Teaghlach Einne) sunken low into the ground. The chapel is barely visible from the roadside because of the many Celtic crosses and the tall grasses that grow among them. Its roofless but otherwise intact. I had to stoop down to enter the curved archwayand found myself standing in a space only a few metres wide and a few more long, with an inscribed alter before me and the open sky above meView image. Its a special place to be and after taking some photos I left a coin in one of the small stone bowls on either side of the the chapel interior – my coin sat shining bright and new on the top of a pile of tarnished copper coins half submerged by rainwater. On the way out of the cemetery I read some of the gravestones. There are alot of young people buried here which is rather sombring. People’s children, aged 13 and 3 and 23 – I cant help but feel sorrow for their families I’ve never met.

The day I biked to the end of the island I was intent on finding a natural phenomenon known as a puffing hole. I had a vague idea of where they were in relation to my map and leaving my bike against a stonewall by the roadside, I start to trek up toward the middle of the island to reach the cliffs on the otherside. As has been my experience in the past crossing the width of the island, once over a few paddocks and walls, as the ocean disappears from view behind me the land becomes rockier and more barren, the limestone foundations of the island are revealed where the grass has worn away. Scattered around this area are huge boulders taller than myself, seemingly fallen from the sky – a giants discarded playthings. I can only conclude these have some sort of historical significance being prominent objects on an otherwise sparse landscape. I follow my own path which takes me past three such boulders, spaced 50 metres or so apart and seemingly forming a straight line pointing out to the coast. As the stone walls become less frequent, the ground is covered with more and more loose rock, piles of them here and there and large flat slabs that tilt as I move my weight across them. The familiar smell of salt air takes me home for a few seconds – I breath deeply. I hear the ocean crashing against the cliffs before I reach it and then its one more wall to clamber over and Im there. I find myself standing between two semi-circle inlets carved into the rocky coast and assume I’ve been lucky and led myself straight to my intended destination because of the way the swells roll in, hit the hollow inlets and water is flung into the air– or ‘puffed’ one might say. I would later find out that these were not the puffing holes, but they were impressive none the less.

Consulting my map I become unsure about my find and decide to walk to the beginning of the cliffs on the eastern side of the island and make my way back around the cliffs from there, tracing the shapes of the coast on my map as I go. The first natural wonder I nearly miss. I hear the boom of waves battering the cliffs and feel the vibrations through the ground and edge closer to the cliffs to get a better look. I have to get within a metre of the drop before I can see anything. About 30 metres below me is a perfect rectangle worn into the side of the island through which water is rushing in, ricocheting off the three sides and sweeping out to sea again. At first it doesn’t seem like much of a find but after a few minutes perching precariously on the edge of the cliff I am rewarded when the flow in and out builds up and crescends in one powerful wave which on hitting the back wall sends water high into the air
before me and everything is whited out with spray and foam. Its exhilarating to see, so much so that I risk my life to take a photo – thankfully there were no sudden gusts of wind or careless errors on my part.

Moving onward round the coast I come across something else I had been hoping to see, the remains of a stone circle built by artist Richard Long in 1975. I had been keeping an eye out for the stone circle but the problem faced when in a landscape such as this is that everywhere you look, with a little imagination random piles of rocks could easily be the remains of a Richard Long stone circle. This was definitely it though.

I then came to two more inlets in the coast -despite not really doing much, these I decide, are the puffing holes. Looking carefully I see way down another rectanglar recess in the surface of the rocks from which water is being forced up then sucked back down. Nothing airborne though. I notice the water is actually rushing under the bottom of the cliffs in the inlet furtherest from me and walking inland across more rocky shingle I come across a large hole in the ground maybe 3 metres by 3 metres. It is such a straight narrow chute into the earth that I can barely see the water rushing in at the bottom but I can hear it as it runs under the ground beneath my feet. A short distance from this hole I find another smaller hole which Glen aptly describes as looking like a bellybutton. Its wider at the top then narrows as though the land has been sucked down. These Glen also tells me later, are the puffing holes. They do not puff. And they’re the only thing I didn’t take any photos of. Heading back across the island I find one more hole, only by the echoing sound of water – its only about the size of a basketball. Its amazing and slightly worrying to realize that all this water is running freely below the very land I am walking on, especially since I recently read that limestone is watersoluble (thus the reason the caves and the crevices in the landscape developed).

As I head home I disturb a lizard sunning himself, he catches me unaware, and I catch only a glimpse of his tail and hind legs as he slips under a rock. Ireland has no snakes but it has lizards. I leave the salty air, the harsh coast and the power of the ocean behind me and make my way back down the otherside of the island towards my bike. For the first time in the three hours I’ve been exploring I see people. The isolation is incredible – it really is like being alone on the edge of the world. This is by far the most beautiful part of the island I’ve visited so far – its places like these that make me feel like I could stay here for ever……or at the very least come back some day.

Two days out of the five days that G was away last week, J was also away, leaving me with far too much responsibility. If for instance the hostel had caught fire, I’d be the one left with the responsibility of calling the fire brigade – wait, is there even a fire brigade on the island? I’d be the one with the responsibility of running round in a panic spitting on the flames to try and put them out. Of course there are other ways to put out a fire….
Or lets say 100 angry tourists arrive in the foyer banging on my little office window and all demanding of me the one free room I have inexplicably and considerably overbooked and they’re armed with the readily available rocks – I’d be the one to have to call the one Guarda (police) on the island to come up with his one shield and one baton to ward off the enraged crowd. And if the plumbing went and the hostel flooded I’d have to call the plumber with no legs – dont ask.

So A and I were alone. Though A is fully capable she occasionally has trouble with English which is why Im sure any emergency phonecalls would be left up to me. As were any bookings and requests from guests and basically the entire running of the hostel. Must…not…let…power..go…to…head. It did occur to me that here I had an opportunity to turn this place into a rockin hippy artist retreat but I decided one day was not quite long enough to round up enough hippies and grow my underarm hair. Anyway, Im not sure J would wholly approve (of the rockin hippy artist retreat).

One special responsibility I was given was the task of changing the beds in all the private rooms. The private rooms are special thus so was the responsibility. The decor all matches and there are colour ‘themes’. Before J left for Galway he did me the courtesy of laying out all the appropriate linen, immaculately ironed and in order of room numbers. You’d think me being a student of the visual arts that matching pre-matched linen sets to their pre-matched rooms wouldnt be a problem. You’d think so. The problem is my training under the broad umbrella of Visual Art doesnt stretch so far as to include a diploma majoring in Co-ordinating Curtains and Towels, or even a minor in Pillow Arrangement. Add to that my poor hand/eye co-ordination skills when it comes to the actual physical making of beds and you may understand how it took me all of three and a half hours to change 6 rooms. Thats an average speed of 35 minutes per room. Not an Olympic record Im betting. Lets just say if making beds was an Olympic sport, you wouldnt want me on your team. I could possibly be the person who carries the sheets for the athletes but even then…I’d likely bring a double instead of a single, or mismatch the duvet sets.

The worst thing is having not inherited my mother’s expertise in the area of hospital corners I had this awful sense as I was making each bed that I may wake the next morning to find myself responsible for the death of one of our patrons. The newspaper article reading ‘The deceased was found early this morning entwined in a purple and white striped sheet. It seems the sheet freed itself easily from the mattress as a result of irresponsible bed corners and slowly worked its way around the innocent sleepers neck, strangling him as his cries for help were muffled by the equally untamed duvet. The police are treating the circumstances as suspicious due to the fact that the green checkered duvet cover had obviously been brought in from outside the scene of crime’
Im not sure J was terribly impressed with my skills either because the second time he was away he laid out all the linen again but added post-it notes stating which room each set belonged to. With the aid of the handy post-its I managed to cut my time down to two hours twenty three minutes and forty six seconds. Now thats impressive if I do say so myself. How many athletes can say theyve chopped one hour six minutes and fourteen seconds off their time? Maybe I should try out for the Olympic team.

The one thing I am very good at is ‘Cleaning Associated Sound Effects’. (Also a genetic disease passed down through the females of the family, diagnosis of CASE is determined by putting the patient through a series of cleaning tests, the resulting grunts, groans and snorts indicating the progression of the disease – the only cure being confinement in a complete sterile and isolated environment (a big white box)).
I was always slightly amused at home to hear the noises coming from my mother as she went about doing the house work, and now I can say I understand where these noises were coming from and quite frankly I would rival her for both volume and effort. And we are still talking about noises emmanating from the vocal chords – nowhere else (Mum would win hands down in any other area). There’s the ‘mattress-lifting grunt’, the ‘crouch-and-stand groan’ and the ‘moving-furniture snort’. All of which I am a natural at. Hey its in my genes.

Of course I’d rather be good at really anything else, even Pillow Arrangement but hey youve got to make do with what talents you’re given right?. And if its my destiny to become a champion grunter Im going to give it all I’ve got. You wait and see, I’ll make all those Hungarian weightlifters jealous.

The days are flying by on my little island in the Atlantic. They seem to blur into one big cleaning fest. Though this week G (man who knows all regarding hostel and workings) has a week off so my responsibilites have grown to include more than just cleaning toilets. I now have the joyous task of manning the office and taking bookings and getting myself into a right little mess. Nothing too serious yet, though I dread the day when 100 angry tourists arrive in the foyer banging on my little office window and all demanding of me the one free room I have inexplicably and considerably overbooked. Hopefully the window is bulletproof – or rockproof as is more likely to be the case here, the hostel being surrounded by rocks – they’ll have ammunition readily on hand.

Last week before G left I did have the afternoons off and took the opportunity to visit Dun Aengus fort – the main tourist drawcard on the island. I know I wouldn’t ever be able to consider myself a real Aran Island hostel worker without having seen it. Dun Aengus (Dun Aonghasa) sits above the cliffs on the southwest side of the island. It consists of three ringwalls and lots of rocks. It’s not too small and was built by some people a long time ago. I didnt read the tourist information but I definitely saw three rings and lots of rocks – and someone definitely built it.

A and I timed it right arriving as the tour buses were leaving so there werent too many people around, giving us opportunity to take some cheesy tourist photos. Its a nice enough fort as far as forts go and rather impressive in terms of structure and theres a really effective outer ring of spikey rocks dug into the ground, sticking up like broken glass to impale the invaders – thats cool, but I dont like it nearly as much as I do the ‘Black Fort’ – the humbler and less frequented fort down the coast. The security guard, steel gates and entrance fee at Dun Aengus detract somewhat from the magic of the
place. We walked back along the coast road on the opposite side of the island hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive seals said to chill out on the rocks, but there were no seals. This is the third time there were no seals. There were rocks that looked like seals….maybe thats what everyones going on about. But its a nice 1 1/2 hour walk anyway and we passed a beautiful little turquoise beach down the coast that I’ll have to go back to.

The weather on that day and most of last week was totally summery. Blue skies and sunshine give this island life. Its a good feeling to wake in the morning and see blue sky out the window, despite the fact that it can change so quickly here. I woke up the other morning and looked in the mirror suprised to find a slightly redder version of myself looking back. An afternoon in the sun had left me sunburnt – every Irish person’s dream, and the promise of summer to come I hope. That was the afternoon I wandered into the wilderness behind the hostel. The hostel sits on the edge of the main road atop the island and behind it the desolate rocky landscape typical of the island stretches right out to meet the cliffs on the otherside of Inishmore. There’s probably two kilometres of nothing but tussock and grey limestone divided into grids by old stone walls between the hostel and the Atlantic Ocean.

I found myself a nice flat plateau just out of sight of the hostel overlooking the village of Kilronan. I sat on my flat rock, looking out across the water towards the coast of Ireland with the ‘Twelve Pins’ of Connemara clear in the distance and I wondered how I came to be here on this particular island and how it will change me. I discarded my shoes and took the lotus position, let loose my dreadlocks of peace and began to compile my doctrine. Let all who follow it be blessed with many chocolates. Gifts, donations and letters of utter adoration may be sent to:
Swami Em
On the Hilltop
Inishmore
After my spiritual transformation I lay back and watched the clouds crossing the blue blue sky, as everyone should now and then. There be some interesting things in them there clouds. I dont know if the psychology behind it has any relation to Rorschach inkblots but I saw a monkey gnawing off its own leg, a naked discus thrower, and a chipmunk in a robinhood costume -make of that what you will.
Such is the life of a hostel worker – its a tough job but someones gotta do it right?
Apart from being blessed last week with the Eternal Sunshine (and my appointment as Swami of the Hilltop), I also received my first two paychecks. Each one says EURO on it several times. And my name with a substantial amount of the aforementioned EUROs assigned to it. And so on Wednesday I went down to the Inishmore Bank, because Wednesday is the only day the bank is open on Inishmore, and now I have a brand spanking new Bank of Ireland account with EUROs in it. Much as I do love cleaning, I love EUROs more.

Yes, for your viewing pleasure, I now present the All New JandalsnAll – with added photos. Actually its not all new – its not new at all. It just has added photos. So let me present to you: the Its a Bit Different Now JandalsnAll Cos its Got Added Photos. You’ll find most of them in the Skibbereen Inbetween entry and maybe a few others but I wont tell you which ones – just to force you to go through the entire blog searching endlessly for what might never have been there in the first place…..
You need to study up on my blog anyway – you never know when I might throw in a popquiz….
And apoplogies for the quality of some images – in all my photographic genius I managed to use a new filter in exactly the opposite way to which you are supposed to use it so a few photos are a bit dark – which means unfortunately I’ll have to start back in Dublin and retrace my experiences exactly without the filter.

And if there are any viewing problems with the images please please somebody let me know so I can quickly correct them thus preserving my image as someone who actually knows what they’re doing when it comes to computers.
Happy viewing.