one thousand words: April 2015

Thursday, April 30, 2015

Life in Donegal

Ireland brought our first Work Away experience, and I can now declare with absolute certainty that it will be a hard one to beat. Our hosts, A--- and P---, welcomed us to their house as one of their own, making sure we were fed, watered, and warm at all times.

Life in Donegal County proved a 180-degree turn from the bustling atmosphere of London and fast-paced New York before that. But Jay and I found our brains quickly settled by the peaceful silence (apart from our very communicative sheep neighbors) and stunning scenery that composed the north countryside. Fintown, where we made our final turn-off, might have been missed if we blinked at the wrong time, as the saying goes. At first, I was actually a bit worried -- Would we have enough to do here? Why hadn't I brought another book?

I neededn't have feared; these concerns was quickly quelled when we met C----- and E--, the six-and two-year-old inhabitants of the household. They were both a bit shy at first, but once we became buddies, I knew we had our work cut out for us. C----- responded to my interest in his ninja-dance skills by picking a bouquet of daffodils for me while I had my first nap at the little cottage. E-- reminded us all who was boss during a particularly hectic nighttime routine when she raised herself up in her father's arms and yelled, "BEE BEE BEE BEE BEE BEE BEEEEEEE!!" with the voracious confidence of ten thousand warriors. "Welcome to the madhouse," A--- joked, holding her hands up in helpless apology. Jay and I were enchanted.

As it happened, I never passed a boring moment at the Fintown house. When we weren't working, Jay and I were fixing a snack, or helping chop vegetables for dinner, or playing Kings and Queens, or listening to the radio (John Creedon, of course), or discussing life questions over beer or tea, or going for countryside walks.... I did manage to find several good books, as well. Jay started with I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, I with The Curious Incident of the Dog at Nighttime, and then we swapped. He tackled a tome of Middle Eastern war history after that, while I whipped through Lord of the Flies (Simon -- !) One day I found myself in the childcare section and browsed through Taking Care of Toddlers liked that so much I ended up reading Secrets to Happy Children* cover-to-cover. Even the week without the kids, when they were on holiday down south, passed more quickly than we'd anticipated.

The work itself held a different kind of meditative energy. Donegal weather is infamously unpredictable, and we saw four seasons in one day for the first week or so of our stay. Hail storms on our loft bedroom's skylight would wake us up, sunshine teased us through breakfast, storm clouds loomed ominously over our outdoor work, and rainstorms often dismissed us to afternoon tea. During many of these days, we spent the work hours organizing and housekeeping the cottage interior.

By week's end, once the weather had cleared up, we set out clearing land for a stone path for the upcoming guest cottage. We also wrestled a series of gnarly "winds" (gorsebush) by the property line. I was permitted to use a handsaw, which I think means I've carved out my position as local badass. I know how to throw a knife at the ground so its blade sinks and sticks quivering in the soft earth, like it ain't no thing. Just call me Bravehart Brow.

The winds and the stone path took us through the first week or so, then we moved on to painting the cottage & shed with a fresh coat of limestone wash. During this time I was lent a navy blue Rosie-the-Riveter-esque jumpsuit, which I enthusiastically accessorized with a bandanna headscarf and a pair of on-loan "wellies." I wore this outfit for about five days straight, out of sheer fondness for its quirky components.

Jay took a similar pride in constructing a new fence and holding pen for the property. He proudly yielded a pickaxe and sledgehammer in ways which made my face twist prune-like in fear.

Each night we went to bed with a simple satisfaction at having completed our day's work. There was no rat race ladder looming over the day's success, no mirror of comparison by which our triumphs might be measured and lessened. The focus was on completing the work efficiently -- and in a way that involved and benefited all parties. It was, as the Irish would say, "grand."

Of course, it wasn't all work. When we learned hitchhiking was not only legal but practically encouraged, we toured our way along the coastal towns. We took a few chilly trips to the beach and admired the crashing waves and tidepools. On our last full day in Ireland, A--- took us to Glenveagh National Park, with its a beautiful castle and array of charming gardens.

We grew to admire this happy family and their humble lifestyle. I found myself drawing up a list of domestic habits to carry forward to my next home (wherever and whenever that will be....)

Keep a carafe of drinking water filled on the kitchen table. Use just one mug throughout the day. Leave uneaten bread and porridge on an outdoor ledge for the birds. Compost what you can, and use it to cultivate delicious purple broccoli in your own garden. Clean the house during the John Creedon radio hour. Concern yourself with what information children receive and how they express themselves, rather than what they wear or how they conform. Live within reason, and don't waste energy wishing for things you don't need. Create, explore, question, laugh, and welcome your guests the second they walk through the door.

This was our Irish experience, and it's one I hope to carry in my heart always. In hopes that "the road may rise to meet us" again, farewell Donegal - and thank you, A--- & P---!

*Yes, I know them; no, I'm not telling.

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Conversations With Sheep (Day 31: Fintown, Donegal, Ireland)

As the name "Rachel" actually means "sheep," I felt particularly connected to these strange creatures on our journey through Ireland... but it was Jay who perfected the art of calling to them. Catch a glimpse here.

Monday, April 13, 2015

The (Haunted?) House on the Hill

Of the many wonders of Ireland we've encountered so far, nothing quite compares to the charming old stone houses which speckle the countryside. While some have been restored with plaster and limestone, many lie vacant, disassembled beneath bulks of mossy overgrowth. These latter ones practically breathe secrets when you approach them; flashes of previous function are glimpsed in a fireplace alcove, a gate hinge, or a perfect view through a window. Ever a fan of ghost tales and eerie histories, my mind's been giddily exploding with imagined backstories for each decrepit foundation.

On closer examination, however, I've been disappointed to find most of these structures devoid of any tangible mystery. The ones Jay and I explored on our walks through the countryside were quaint as could be, but so long abandoned that all sign of life had decomposed beneath their grassy groundwork. Their histories were literally buried beyond retrieval.

But then we visited the house on the hill.

It's always on a hill, isn't it? And it's always surrounded by trees, in the middle of nowhere, on a stormy afternoon, up a long road. There's always a group of unsuspecting people who approach it with the best of intentions (and leave with the worst of nightmares.) And there's always a black pony staring you down at the gate.

Wait... what?

Maybe black cats are out of style in Ireland, but for whatever reason this house came with its own guard pony. And when I say "pony," I really mean horse, because he was big enough (and scary enough) that you'd definitely think twice about letting your kid ride him at the fair.

I use "him" because our guides on this tour-de-horreur fondly referred to him as "Billy." Along with the house, Billy had been abandoned by his original owner and "looked after" (fed) by the neighbors ever since. (The site was repossessed and subsequently vacated six years ago, but it's possible he'd been stray for even longer.) As the house fell into disrepair, Billy did the sensible thing and moved himself in. (Evidence of this fact was strewn across the floor of the kitchen & back entry....) When a young English couple came to survey the land for purchase, Billy promptly chased them off the property. This was his house, after all.

Flash forward and that same English couple is on the path before us, seducing Billy out of the way with an apple, and leading us up the mucky road toward their new ~~house~~ project. House restoration (especially with a self-sustaining, eco-friendly focus) seems to be the going trend in Ireland; Our hosts undertook a similar refurbishment of their own cottage, and the English couple had called upon them for advice. We were joined on the property tour by their Irish-German AirBNB hosts (friends of our hosts) and a French family who, like Jay and myself, were Work-Away-ers. It felt like a UN meeting.

We entered through the back door (with the encouraging graffiti greeting: "DEAD INSIDE"), then found ourselves in what appeared to be a kitchen -- it was hard to tell, as all the windows were boarded up. The first cue this place was shady (beyond Billy-the-black-guard-pony) was the side-tilting upright piano that nonsensically lurked in the middle of this room. Of course it was only capable of producing a few choice minor-key notes. The graffiti might as well have read: HERE LIVE GHOSTS; TURN AROUND, YOU FOOLS.

As we progressed, the vibe only got weirder. Some things were really quite normal, but became weird in their singularity -- i.e. the piano, as well as a half-dismantled iron stove and a looming armoire. Other things were clearly fodder for a Stephen King novel. In the second bedroom, for instance, we discovered a hand-painted, ocean-themed wall mural with "We love you, Liam - Mammy & Daddy" scrawled beneath a googly-eyed starfish. It didn't matter how loved Liam was, because he was obviously murdered here.

Behind the main house we found yet another neglected stone abode. Like the other structures we'd seen, it had lost most of its roof to decay, then fallen in upon itself in winsome disarray. It appeared to have been a barn. A leak over the doorway kept a steady stream of rainwater splashing over the side entrance. Having found nothing but pony presents in the front chamber, I figured I'd skip this one -- then I noticed the Frenchman peering at something beyond the threshold. The look on his face was so disquieted, my curiosity got the better of me. I approached the doorway.

Near the Frenchman's feet sat a lumpy mass of something black and wiry. My view of it was obstructed by the rainwater.

"Is that horsehair?"

The Frenchman jumped and began moving his hands about in the air before him -- that universal panic gesture when you can't find the word you're looking for at the speed you're wanting to.

"Uhmmmm... horns..."

"A sheep?"

"Eh...."

His hands continued to waive frantically.

"En Francais?" I offered.

"Chevre..." (Which I improperly heard as "cheveax.")

Yes, hair.

"Uhmm... goat?"

Ok, so goat hair.

"Head! Head!" the Frenchman shouted, finding his word.

But I'd already passed under the rainwater. On the other side of the threshold, beneath the mass that was indeed hair, lay two long-since-rotted goat carcasses -- or the bones of them, anyway. Their skulls tilted against the earthy floor as if they'd slept their way to death. As natural as it was, it felt macabre and indecent to look at. The smell was certainly indecent. But, for a moment, I was bewitched.

On the ride home, Jay and our host discussed the amount of work that lay ahead for the English couple. There was something very weird about that place, they agreed. While I saw their point -- yes, perhaps houses with guard ponies and goat bodies and ghostly pianos might be better left to their own devices -- another part of me envied the couple's fascinating find.

But -- like I said -- I've always been one for ghost stories.