April Showers....

The sun finally showed today but not after the rain, wind and cold had its way with buds and bird nests.  These white, spidery flowers found their way into a water fountain, so Brady (one of my home schooling kids) and I snapped them up.

It's A Longest Road to Tipperary, Part II

The car has been generally fine. The "check engine" light came on during the second day. Joan and I looked at each blankly and agreed on a course of action: "Pay it no mind."

We explore the coastlines of Sligo - Yeats country. It is almost five and Joan asks if I have seen Yeats' grave and want to stop.

If I loved a poet it would be Yeats with his bee loud glades and faeries taking children by the hand. Yeats’ poetry is breathing but he is not, and rather than stop and look at a headstone, I ask if we can go on and stop at what is one of my favorite places in Ireland: Quirke’s Butcher Shop in Sligo town.

Joan started visiting Quirke's when she was a student at Trinity in 1985, and she remembers that the shop is on Wine Street. It is about twenty past five when we finally find the street but the lights are still on in the shop. Joan drops us at the corner and drives off to find parking.

The door is open and

Michael Quirke is at the butcher

block carving away while a young woman leans on the counter and listens to him. Walking into his shop is a bit like stopping at one of those tourist spots where an audio runs on a loop while waves of visitors come and go. There is no break in his monologue - and really never is: he moves from one customer to the next story with the gracefully affability of a man who is truly happy and inspired in his work.

Michael’s father was a butcher before him. As a child, Michael would “whittle wee figures” at his school desk.

"I'd be having ta hide them in me desk from Sister Bernadette. See, Sister Bernadette didn't think much

of me whittling, or of me." He props one foot on a stool and one hand on a hip while laughing at the memory. "I was on the tele here once and the next day, one of me low babies mates - ah, ye see: ye's American's be saying 'grade school' or 'pre-school' or the like - me low babies mate, Ursula, popped round while passing the shop to say hello. 'Ye remember me Michael Quirke? I sat next ta ye in school. Ye were always making figures at yer desk. I remember Sister telling ye, 'This will not do at all, Quirke. Ye won’t get anywhere. Ye won’t make anything of yerself.' And now I see ye on the tele last night.' "He laughs again and brushes his hands across his vest.

There is a photo album on the countertop, which is cluttered with books and articles about Irish history and mythology. He flips through the pages to show us a picture of himself with Seamus Heaney.

“I’m famous ye know,” and in a low voice with an arch of an eyebrow: “I really shouldn’t be talkin’ ta ordinary people ye know.”

Michael shows me a picture of himself as a butcher, “proof” he says, that he initially did follow in his father’s footseps. Even though there is still a spray of blood visable on the tiled walls of his shop, Michael carves only wood now - figures that incorporate the mythological stories of Ireland.

"Ye see Ireland has two things going for it. Chaos and

women. Invading countries had little luck against those

two foes."

Our stop at Michael's stretches past an hour. All I need to do is pick up a wooden figure and he'll delve into the story of Cuchullain battling a giant, or Lena and the Swans, or Fionn McCool sucking his thumb. One hand grasps the figure like it is an apple he is about to take a bite out of, while the other hand traces the symbols he has carved into each figure.

*

When our three to five hour trip stretches into the

seventh hour, we text Rob & Mike to let them know

that they should eat without us. The phone beeps with

a return message: “Where the bloody hell are you?!"

It is our first time driving at night and this makes us aware of the importance of automobile lighting.

We can't find the interior lights, so I periodically hold my iPod at an angle and squint at the map.

And it is not long after sunset that we realize how, with amazing consistency, oncoming cars flash their lights at us.

“But I don’t have my brights on,” Joan frets while turning knobs as another car flashes us.

We pull over and Joan stands in front of the car while instructing me to flip the lights through the various

settings, of which there are at least three. When she is satisfied, she slides behind the wheel and we pull out onto the road where we are promptly flashed by another

car.

“I think you need to be more proactive,” I suggest.
“What do you mean,” she says.

I figure it is like that thing some people do when they haven’t seen someone else in a while. “Oh, I’ve gained so much weight,” you’ll say, pointing out your flaw before the other person can, and then feeling that the other person will be more forgiving if you look a little “mend” than you used to.

A car with only one headlight passes us, the one weak beam hitting a high note at the last moment in a pathetic effort to scold us.

“Try flashing them first.” She doesn't take my advise, for some reason. Cars continue to try to politely tell us,

"Yer fecking brights are on."

Joan eventually assumes the tact of promptly flashing her lights back at people.

The direction to the hotel seems unusually well marked. Up until the roundabout. Where - perhaps in an effort not to appear too pushy - there are signs that imply that Hotel Castleconnel is 4k away and in whichever direction you fancy. I suggest one exit and Joan takes another. The road is straight and dark.

“I think we missed it.” After about a mile, we approach a sign that says, “Castleconnel,” which is half veiled in black cloth.

“No,” Joan ventures. “There is a sign...”

“It is the other way.”

“You think?”

It is almost ten now. We circle round the roundabout and I point to the exit I want her to take. Sure enough, within a hundred yards there is a sign with an arrow directing us to the hotel, a congratualtions of sorts, a pat on the back for passing the test.

We are laughing.
“How did you know?”
“Because I know how to read Irish road signs. The first one is a red herring. A test. If you figure that out and get headed back in the right direction then they figure fair play to you and show you the real sign.” Another car flashes its lights at us.
“OK, little missy,” Joan conceeds.

It is seven past ten when we find the hotel and it only takes us a few more minutes to make obligatory lost loops around the parking lots, guest houses and stray cats before we find the main hotel. We don’t bother to park but pull up right in front, blocking the door. We are elated to be there, and it shows in our comments.

“Molly, I’ll give you five euros if you unload the car....”

“With our luck, they stopped serving dinner at ten.”

But Irish luck is with us: dinner actually finished earlier at nine thirty. Now we don't have to feel like we just missed it.

The front desk tells us that the kitchen will make sandwiches for it.

Around eleven, we are settled in the bar in leather couches with drinks and a plate of sandwiches. Because the three of us don't usually eat meat, we quickly finish off the cucumber sandwiches, and are still hungry enough to find the meat sandwiches appetizing. We peel off layers of meat and eat butter between two small slices of white bread.
"I don't know about you, but I think the bread and butter without the ham is better than the bread and butter without the turkey."
"Hmmmm. Yes, I agree."

It is two pints later and two a.m. when I call it a night. I go to our hotel room but neither Joan or mom responds to my knocks. I trek down the hall, down the stairs, through the doorway, down the hall, up three stairs, through the door and down the main staircase to find the Polish guy who is on over night at the front desk. I ask him for an extra key but there is none, so we make the journey up the stairs, through the door, down the hall, etc. with him following me. It seems to take an awkward forever.

When we pass a reddish stain on the carpet I consider making small talk by asking him if the hotel reminds him of the one in The Shining. But the cultural and language barriers make me think that would be even more awkward, so I say nothing.

Joan is sitting up in bed, light on, eyes half open when the Polish guy lets me in our room.