Culture clash

6/10:

I'm racing downhill on my bike to make it back in time for the bbq that's happening tonight. Tears are leaking out the corners of my eyes from the wind that's pummeling my face. I'm looking down and ahead at the same time, trying to avoid the cow pats that are sprinkled across the road. My obstacles are a good sign though, I'm getting close to the dairy, close to home.
My ipod is on shuffle and as I ride faster and faster a corrido comes on, one from the Barranquenhos CD that Chica gave me a few weeks back. The horns and accordions blast in my ears and I smile as I look down at the Atlantic shore and rolling hills of quaint farms. I feel bubbles of laughter inside as I think of this cultural clash, this music in this landscape.
But that's the wonderful thing about Gubbeen. In a minute, I'll be eating sizzling steak with the French intern while talking to Lindsey, Clovisse's friend from Canada/Berlin/Marin, and playing googoogaga with Olin, the little Irish baby with a mohawk. I guess love of food is a very uniting concept.

Cape Clear adventures: Part II

Finally on the road agina, the wild magenta foxgloves and crashing surf no longer interested us as we spent the next twenty minutes discussing the world of Ed. Deep in conversation not realizing where we werwe going, the terrain suddenly changed infront of us. We rounded the bend to find a small gull-filled lake surrounded by cows and horses. Opening our map again we read that it was a magical lake that the villagers used to wash their clothes in. After reading that it was also capable of removing calouses and warts, Marion and I decided to climb down and dangle our feet in the water. Within seconds, a swarm of tiny insects gathered on our skin and begin to nible away! At first we jumped back in surprise but after regaining courage we managed to stay in longer the second time. The pinching hurt slightly but nevertheless we sat with our toes in teh water beneath the "No Swimming" sign for something like ten minutes, way below the suggested 45minute callus-removing time limit.
When our feet had dried off we set off walking again to visit Giana's other friend, Cathy, who had recently opened up a cafe on the island. We quickly ducked in to have a tea with her before running back down to the dock so as to not miss the last ferry home. The way back was peaceful with a soft light and almost no waves we rode back into shore while all the while the captain sang us Irish songs over the loudspeaker.

Cape Clear adventures: Part I

6/5:
The ferry men poked fun at us about our bikes for the majority of the 45 minute boat ride. But as soon as the rocky shores of Cape Clear appeared we realized why. The cliffs of the island towered above the ferry as we pulled into the harbor. One small beach was nestled into the hill while behind it, the spread of Irish green shrubbery sloped steeply upwards.
After a noble quarter of an hour pushing our bikes up a neverending steep grade, we ditched them by the side of the road and continued on foot. Without the bikes our pace quickened and we finally made it to the top of the ridge where a small road took us alongside a sprinkling of tiny cottages. Using our finicky map we guided ourselves to the house of one of Giana's friends, Ed Harper, a supposed goat farmer. Sure enough tangled in the nettle weeds and barely visible by the side of the road, a tiny painted goat face peeped out at us signaling towards a tiny cottage on the left hand side of the road. Cautiously, we opened the creaky gate and went down to explore only to run into a tiny old man whom we found to be Ed. He immediately invited us into the milking parlor with the promise of tea after the goats had been milked. It was only on our way down the windy path when he asked us the number of cats we saw that we noticed he was completely blind. A large barking german shephard named Zach fit into the picture perfectly when we noticed his guide dog vest. But Zach stayed inside as we went to see the goats and Ed carried on perfectly. Both Marion and I looked at each other questioningly when we saw the eight goats lined up and ready to be milked, wondering how he would ever manage. But Ed never hesitated, feeling each goat he named them off to us and then went on about his business, carefully cleaning udders and milking each goat one by one. With utmost patience, the goats treated him like an equal and Marion and I looked on in complete awe. Jaws dropped, we watched as he systematically milked every goat before filtering all the milk to later make into his special freezable cheese and icecream. All the while he talked on and on and we discussed all matter of goat-y things. He explained his recent problems with infertility in the herd and how he blamed GMO soy feed. To add to the series of curious events, the cashier woman from the Schull Eurospar store walked in halfway through and Ed later explained it was his ex-wife. Marion and I once again looked at each other in shock only to look down and notice we had already spent two whole hours chatting! Excusing ourselves, we didn't end up leaving without a 12euro copy of Ed's latest album and two free goat icecreams.

Meeting Marion

6/2:

When the clouds of rain lift, Ireland is a totally different place. I'm in the top field and I look over my shoulder. For the first time, I see the sea! I can also now make out the many farms and cottages that mark the hillside. The flowers are vibrant as they soak up these few rays of sun. Marion (the french intern) and I have the afternoon off so we decide to take the bikes to Schull. The way is not far but walking up the hill we huff and puff until a sweat breaks on our brows. Just as we are getting ready for a break we reach the top house so we mount our bikes and ride full speed down into town. Marion knows the area better than I so she shows me around the piers and beaches. We stop at the pier to look down into the deep water and then walk to the beach where we can put our legs in. After, we bike to eurospar for a cool drink and some essentials.
When we come home, I help Marion with her cheese duties. We flip cheese and pull others out of the brine. Tiny cuts on my fingers burn from the salt. When we are done, we go upstairs to her apartment and we watch the French Open. She teaches me the rules and promises we'll go to a pub on Saturday to watch the semifinals.