Clonakilty Round 2

I finished my stay in Rosscarbery and moved onto Clonakilty for a night. It was Monday night trad music at De Barra's, and I really wanted to experience Clon in the day, so I spent the night at O'Donovan's Hotel right in town.  I'm not going to lie to you; I really like this town, and the more I learn about it, the more I like it.

Clon

Clonakilty is home to Michael Collins, one of the leaders of the final movement for Irish Independence, beginning with the Easter Rising in 1916. Since this is the centennial, every town is apparently celebrating in some way.  Clon still has historic architecture, and the people take a lot of pride in the town. There's a life in Clonakilty that I haven't found in other parts of Ireland (but I've only visited 4 or 5 other towns, to be fair).

 Guys! I went to Tuesday morning Mass in Clon, and there were 100 people there. They were really respectful of the quiet space, as well. They had a public Rosary before Mass and many people remained to pray afterwards. Check out this prayer we all prayed at the beginning.

Also, the singing. Check out this song; they sang it at the end with their beautiful, clear Irish voices.

Wouldn't you know, International Guitar Festival  organizer Chris is also a bartender at De Barra's, Small town! He paid for my cheaper beer because he said the Clonakilty Smuggler (porter) craft beer I ordered was pricey. How nice! Also, craft beer is a thing here. Like a huge thing. I mentioned that in my last post, I think. Apparently, some of the bigger brands are buying up the rising micro-breweries, and bars are required to have a name brand beer of the parent company on tap if they also have an Irish microbeer (which could be a contributing factor as to why you'll see Coors Light on tap in Irish pubs).

When I described my route for my Irish journey to the bar (maybe four people at this point in the night), one old guy told me that I must see Fungie. I asked him what that meant, and he said that it's a fish, and that I have to see it. I looked at his wife, and she told me I needed to go out on a boat and that they were from Dingle. Then they just kind of walked out. I looked back at the couple from Florida and Chris and asked them what that was about. Chris explained, "Fungie is a dolphin, and I was skeptical when I went out on the boat with a film crew one time, but it's awesome. I mean, when you see this dolphin, you automatically become a kid again." Maybe I'll do it.

SPOILER ALERT!

FUNGIE 3 days later

Anyways, there was a group of about 12 people from the Basque region of Spain in De Barra's for trad music, and what a cool evening that made it! The musicians typically ask the bar if there is anyone who wants to sing trad songs while they play, but when it came to the Basque women, the musicians obviously didn't know the songs. We all just listened in awe as these ladies sang beautiful harmonies, sometimes with movements, from their homeland. Interestingly enough, this group was in town because, according to another guy in the bar, one of the women was married to an IRA fellow who was killed in Clon 20 years ago.  There was a memorial for him in town this week, and I'm not sure if this was an entire family who came in for it, but it was such a treat to have them serenade us at the bar!

De Barra's

People write a lot of things down for me...

Baltimore and Skibbereen

Sara and John, I think, both feel bad about essentially kicking me off the farm. The French girls were going to arrive Saturday night, and there wasn't room for me in the apartment anymore. Sara suggested I leave my big bag at their house and go to Sherkin Island because, according to Sara, "you haven't seen Ireland unless you've been to Sherkin." So I went. Why I didn't just rent a car early and then drive myself is beyond me, but I didn't. She took me as far as Skibbereen because she had to go there anyways for the market, and then I got a ride with a chef who lived in Baltimore. To get to Sherkin, you must take a ferry from Baltimore, so this made sense.

The Beacon from the ferry

On the ferry

My first day in Baltimore was not what I was expecting. All I really wanted was to do my laundry. The first B&B I tried was 50 euro per night, but the host suggested I try another B&B if I wanted laundry services. Well, I thought that was really thoughtful. The one he recommended was 80 euro per night and did NOT offer laundry, but the woman Reanne was so friendly that I couldn't walk away. Wouldn't you know the only laundromat is in Skibbereen and I was just there! Oh well.

The next goal was Mass. I noticed online that  there is no Catholic church in Baltimore but that I would have to go to Sherkin on Saturday. No big deal. I was headed there anyways. Well, I got on the ferry wearing flats, and I noticed that most people were wearing Wellys. No fear, I told myself, they're probably hiking or doing something physical. My goal is Mass. Well the rain poured. And I had left my rain slicker at the B&B, telling myself that it had already rained once that day. That doesn't matter, folks. It rained again. And I was soaked. I kind of dried during Mass but mainly got really cold. And I missed the sign for the beach, walked through mud, almost didn't make it to the bathroom, and ultimately, hated the island. Too bad I had already taken my 80 euro shower.

The hike to The Beacon, really beautiful!

I like these colors.

Ok, so this is a bit paparazzi of me, but it's sweet! 

Fun cliffs

The Beacon

Same couple, cool photo!

Struggling with the selfies...

...

The point here is silver linings. For breakfast on Sunday, I ate with the best group of men! I realized I had never stayed at a proper B&B before; apparently you eat with all the guests. I talked with these
guys for 2 hours. They're all married. Ivan is 60. Dave is 45. And the other guy (Irish name I can't remember but wife's name is Kate) is about 30. They are basically drinking buddies with an interest in old timber used in the shipping industry, and they together periodically to learn and discuss. Ivan gave me his number to get a beer in Cork. He said he would offer his home, but he fears his overly religious American wife. Dave, however, invited me to stay with him and his wife before I rent my car.

On Sherkin

fun

shoes still smell, maybe it's cow poop

The weather cleared!!!

The bus doesn't run from Baltimore on Sundays, and I was too chicken to hitch. I checked into a hostel for my second night, which ended up being a private stay because the season was technically over but the manager gave me a bed anyways. Score! I decided to spend the beautiful day trying to find Lough Hyne, which I thought was a 2 km hike based upon the bike sign. But it wasn't.

You can see what I mean by the confusing sign

prime real estate

really the only sign I saw

After about 30 minutes, I ran into a woman who told me I still had 3 miles to go before I reached the trail head. I walked for at least 4 hours in total, literally alone with my thoughts. But hey, I found the path up a creepy moss-covered stairway leading into the dark woods. No sign, but I could tell that was definitely where I wanted to go. Granted, it was truly gorgeous in the end.

I spent both evenings of my stay in Baltimore at Casey's pub. Well, Casey's started off as a pub. Apparently, the front bar was a wedding gift for the couple from their parents. Now, Casey's is a restaurant, hotel, pub, gift shop, and micro-brewery.  The brewery was the addition of one of the kids (Dominic, I think), whom I got to chat with the first night I was there. Their brews are pretty new, and the brand is West Cork. They have an IPA (called Sherkin Lass), a red ale, and a porter/stout.  Good stuff!

reading at dinner: Finding True Happiness, "Escaping Your Personal Hell," V. What Kind of Freedom Am I Seeking

Baltimore Harbor

Struggling again

Made it!

Glebe Garden

I headed out early to Skibbereen on Monday. Laundry needed to be done! It took me a little while to figure out where the self-service machine was, and it was a bit of a hike, but I made it. Now, the washer on the right side of the gas station claimed "non-bio washing liquid" was included, and I took that to mean something like hypo allergenic detergent was going to happen into the machine automatically. I washed and dried my clothes and expected that fresh laundry smell when I opened the dryer. Nope. Eight euro and one hour later, I had effectively heat-sealed my BO into every one of my "clean" shirts. Perhaps, "non-bio" means "does not remove body odor," but the chicken poop smell is completely gone. But you know, maybe it was the heat. I took a whiff later, and they smelled normal-ish. Side note: I packed dryer sheets in my luggage this trip (Thanks for the tip, Martin!), so I'm hopeful those will rub off eventually.

I liked Skibbereen, by the way. It's a fair trade town. You might have heard of it, considering Gary and Paul, the rowing Olympians who won the silver, call Skibbereen home. Skib is SO proud of those boys. Check this out!

Cast of Characters on the Farm

I'm leaving the farm a week earlier than I anticipated. There are two French girls who will be arriving on Saturday as part of a university internship, and there is simply no room for me. Today, in fact, is my last day on the job. I think now is a great time to give you a little taste of the personalities and stories I've been working with on the farm.

Thibaut has been here for three months as part of an agronomy internship for his school back in France. In order to complete a required paper assignment, Thibaut has had in-depth conversations about the farm with John. I've been assisting Thibaut with some of the English grammar in his paper, and so I've learned a lot about the farm from him the past few days.

The property upon which John and Sara have built their farm was originally wild, from what I can gather. They spent two years clearing, building a house, digging a well, making farm space, etc. before they could start producing. Except for their electricity bill, I'm under the impression that they live off the grid. Sara runs the washing machine and dishwasher at nighttime because the rate for electricity is cheaper. They buy gas canisters which can be hooked to a pipe on the side of the house for cooking, which I didn't know until we couldn't boil water this morning for tea because our gas can was empty. Their water is well water from their own well. They don't pay for trash removal because they compost, recycle, and reuse most things. Thibaut, Camille, and I have taken to burning things in our personal wood-burning stove when we don't know in which pile it belongs.

John used to be a biochemical researcher before he became a farmer. Now he is writing a book on his two-year hiatus from researching, during which time I'm pretty sure he biked through Europe and Africa. I know he caught a couple of nasty diseases--malaria and, I think, some kind of hepatitis--while on the African continent. This endeavor is NOT a travel book, according to John, and I think it's more of a compilation of history and cultural stories that he learned--probably some life lessons, as well, I would imagine--along the journey. Should be an interesting read!

I don't know too much about Sara's past, but she is currently studying cranioscopy to become a craniosacral therapist. I believe that she, too, is well-traveled and that the farm is more John's dream than hers. She's quite a particular woman and is typically the person in charge of making sure all customers receive exactly which farm products they ordered. If something needs to be picked or packed, the order comes from Sara. She's British, and she makes me laugh often.

Chris, along with Mary, is regularly employed at the farm. Chris is from the U.K. and a self-proclaimed former party boy. While waiting for a kettle of water to boil one day, he stated, "Alcohol, drugs, rock and roll." And I responded, "Really?" "Well, not the rock and roll part, but the other stuff, yeah." Chris is now married with two kids and has been living a reformed life in Ireland for the past five years. The French WWOOFers can't understand him because of his accent, but he's definitely their favorite, nonetheless. It's hard not to like Chris. He's your token farmhand: quiet, hardworking, doesn't argue, gets the job done, does it his way.

Mary is one of the most outspokenly polite people I've met. When I'm helping her put vegetables away, let's say, she always uses "please" to tell me where to put them and yells "thank you" as I start to get to work. One time she called Camille by my name, and after she caught herself, apologized, and Camille told her it was ok, Mary said, "It's not ok. That's not your name, and it's disrespectful for me to call you by any other name. Sometimes people do that on purpose to insult others, and that is not what I was doing. I am so sorry." Mary's mom died when she was just a baby, and her dad never remarried. Mary works part-time at the farm, and her other job involves giving care and assistance to those physically disabled.

A Night in Clonakilty

Clonakilty, or Clon for short, is about a 15-minute drive from Rosscarbery, and I would go so far as to call it hip. The weekend of Sept. 18 was the Clonakilty International Guitar Festival, and while I missed the real deal for a trip to Kinsale, I did get the leftovers. I originally went to De Barra's for their Monday night trad music, but my plans quickly changed when I met the organizers of said festival. Let me lay it out for you:

I walked into the pub, and there was legitimately one open seat at the bar, so I took it, asked for a Murphy's, and swung my body back around to be non-awkward. For, you see, there were normal-to-hipster-looking guys playing guitar and had the whole bar singing tunes. We were all seated at the regular tables and bar area but situated in such a way to make a circle. These fellows were passing around two guitars between songs, and if it took too long (more than five seconds) for one person to think of a song to play, the guy sitting next to me would launch into a jig-like, sans guitar, loud and funny rhyming piece that made everyone laugh. Sadly, I didn't get a clip of that, but here's a clip of the guy I'm talking about, because visuals are helpful:

All the while, I was looking for my beer. I just felt like I didn't belong there without it. But before the tenders had it poured, the guy next to me passed me the guitar and said, "Do you want to sing a song?" I said, really matter-of-factly, like I do, "No." Then he pressed a little, "It would be really great if you would. Come on!" He even had his friends chanting, "Do it! Do it!" like Arnold Schwarzenegger. I was super confused, so I told him, "I don't know how to play that thing, and you don't want to hear me sing." But he wasn't having it. I could feel my face flushing, and I honestly didn't know any other form of communicating the fact that I would not be playing the guitar for the crowd that evening. Still no beer. I don't really remember how I got out of that. I think I just sat there until the guy said, "Well that's disappointing," and someone started strumming on the other guitar.

After they finished their sing-along, when the trad musicians were arriving and I had drunk my beer, I asked one couple if this was a usual thing, if they were from town, etc. The guy (Chris) told me they were part of the organizational team for the festival. "So the festival finished last night, and this is our night to play some music, get wasted, you know, wind down." The woman (Endor, I thought she said, but it also could have been something like, "I'm Nor.") invited me to the next bar where they would continue their fun that evening. This is a clip of Chris for the visual, but unfortunately I have no clip of the woman:

So I went, of course. But not until I listened to a little traditional music and chatted with a few guys about how WWOOFing is similar to slave labor. Their words. Not kidding. (Obviously, the only real similarity is not getting paid a wage. Interesting fact: More than half of my working life since college graduation has been volunteer, so to these folks at the bar, "slave labor.") Here's a little taste of the trad music:

When I finally went to Shanley's to join the group still celebrating the International Guitar Festival, Chris and Endor waved and said hello when I entered. One of the fellows in town from the U.K. was a bluegrass player, and seeing my West Virginia sweatshirt, his friend's wife asked him to play some bluegrass for me. At the end of the evening, this same man played Country Roads for "our friend Emily from West Virginia," and it just made my little night! To top it all off, when I tried to slip out of the pub quietly, three or four people shouted, "Good night, Emily!" and one guy said, "Country Roads," to which I appropriately responded, "Take me home."

Keeping It Real

I may have mentioned that I live in shared space. That means that I live in a studio apartment with no toilet, shower, or hot water. It's not as bad as that sounds because the big house is maybe 15 steps away from the door, and the bathroom is just inside it. The shower in the big house is powered by solar energy. I don't know if you know anything about Ireland's weather, but I have seen only one day here where the sky didn't get completely overcast for more than half the time. I would say that 5/6 days have a period of rain. Therefore, hot water is in short supply. Sara told Camille, the French girl I shared the space with in the beginning, that we don't need to shower daily. Camille, who prefers to get the smell of chicken poop off her skin, said to me, "It's a joke." Ha. It's not a joke.

We make most of our meals and eat them in our little space. We boil water to wash the dishes. I choose to think of this as a way to always be grateful for hot water coming from the tap. We make a list of food for our hosts to buy for us about once a week, and so we're well-fed.

There's a shed separating us from a hen house in the back, but it's all one building. Occasionally, the chickens wake me up in the morning, but at least they stay asleep for most of the night. We don't have much contact with our host family unless we seek it out, considering that we live in separate houses. When I arrived, John said to me, "You'll meet my children, but since we've had WWOOFers since they were born, you'll just be another WWOOFer to them. No offense." That's not the wording I would have used to welcome a worker onto my farm, but it's true, nonetheless.

There are three children here: Oisin (17), Aisha (15), and Marielle (13). I really like Marielle. She is sweet, gives great directions, and is always willing to talk to me. Isha boards at the school, so she rarely comes home. I think I've seen her twice, and she's not as nice. Osheen is an interesting character. I could legitimately write an entire post on his life, but suffice it to say, he speaks when spoken to, is quite clever, and has his own opinions.

Collecting, cleaning, sorting, and packing eggs can legitimately take one person all day, but luckily there are usually two people involved. This gives me time for a couple more projects throughout the day, like picking courgettes (zucchini), grapes, and tomatoes, shoveling gravel to continue a path around the property, or painting one of the buildings.

That's about as real as it gets, folks. We should be getting two new French girls on Saturday, and no one knows where they will sleep yet. Stay tuned for updates and pictures from my adventures outside the farm.

For now, though, more photos from Rosscarbery walks: