Embrace the Pear

Bridget and I went to a pub near college, Doyle’s, on Friday evening to get out of the flat. We enjoyed our pints of Bulmer’s (delicious Irish cider) and had a pleasant conversation at our table by the window. We finished our pints and continued talking when suddenly Bridget became fixated on something behind me and started tapping my arm, saying “pear, pear, pear, pear.” I turned around to find that a giant pear had walked into the bar! He was accompanied by two pretty women carrying buckets with the Bulmer’s logo on them. They were promoting the pear flavor of Bulmer’s. Bridget and I watched them eagerly until finally one of the women came around to us and offered us “stress pears.” We took the green, squishy pears happily. The stress toy told us to “embrace the pear” as well as to follow Bulmer’s on facebook. The pear-suited man came back around and handed Bridget and I bottles of Bulmer’s pear cider. I asked him if I could “embrace the pear” and got a free hug, then one of the women asked if we wanted a photograph with him. Bridget and I both embraced the pear and had our picture taken, and then sat down to enjoy our second round of Bulmer’s.

Wicklow

In September I took a bus tour to Kilkenny through Co. Wicklow with Bridget, Rachel, Kate, and Liz. The guide was actually a bit tiring, since we had learned a lot of the stuff he told us about during our SSP lectures- in fact we had learned enough to know that he was wrong on some points. But the tour as a whole was great. The Wicklow mountains are absolutely gorgeous. They’re bright green with some patches of purple heather. The clouds sit right on top of the hills, the sides of which are dotted with sheep. Patches of farm land are divided by lines of trees or stone walls. Stone walls indicate poor farm land, because the stones were plucked right out of the ground in order to make the wall. Also, sheep graze on the poorest quality of land, cattle graze on decent land, and horses are raised on the best land. We did see a few horses along the way. If you’ve ever seen a movie set in the medieval or rural British Isles, chances are part of it was filmed in Wicklow (i.e. Braveheart). The hills look very ancient and Irish. From the summit of some of them you can almost spy the sea.

heather

misty hilltop (I can totally see William Wallace leading his rebels in a fearsome charge down this hill... and I haven't even seen Braveheart)

In the Wicklow gap is a place called Glendalough, which means “of/between the two lakes.” One of the lakes is rapidly becoming a bog. The other is quite beautiful, set between to hills. It was raining, and there was a rainbow lying along the side of one of the hills. (We spotted enough rainbows to almost get into the double digits that day) We also stopped at a ruined abbey and cemetery. There we saw a round tower, which was something we had studied in the SSP. They dot the countryside, and their purpose is unclear, but it likely had to do with pilgrims being able to find the monasteries.

the "lough"

look at that gorgeous Irish rainbow!

round tower (look how high up the door is!)


We ended the tour in the town of Kilkenny, the medieval capitol of Ireland. Kilkenny was really cute. The streets are densely packed with buildings and people. We ate lunch in a pub, with the weirdest waiter of all time. He came over and asked if we were “okay,” and at first we thought he was just a guy who had had a little too much to drink and wandered over. He continued to ask if we were okay until we finally ordered. He then came back periodically during our meal, and literally said nothing else other than “are you okay?” We then went to Kilkenny castle (every city worth its salt has a castle) and played on the grounds. It was a large, tree-lined, rolling park that looked like what I imagined the parks at Pemberely or Rosings to look like. We frolicked until the rain drove is to cover, and then it was time to leave.

Kilkenny city Kilkenny castle and luscious grounds

Tara

I haven’t written a post in a very long time, and I have a lot of things to write, mostly to document for myself so I can remember what I’ve done, and partially for the benefit of whoever might be reading this. I should stop caring about being clever and start remembering that I want to keep this blog as a diary. But where to begin is so daunting. So I think I’ll start with briefer overviews of my activities and move onto more in-depth accounts later.

My account of the hill of Tara is long over-due. That place was so fantastic. I realize that more history has been attributed to it than is factual, and that some of the history is quite fanciful, but that doesn’t detract from the awe I felt. The site has been used in various rituals and ceremonies for THOUSANDS of years. At first, the hill isn’t much to look at. It could hardly be called a hill. You climb to rolling summit. There’s a mound (which probably wasn’t used as a passage grave,) which is impressively old. Like, a couple of millennia old. The grass is a vibrant, outrageous green. It’s lush and thick, as the time its trimmed is when sheep graze on it.

You get to the top of one of two circular mounds, and there’s a memorial to the 1798 rebellion. There is also the penis stone. To become a high king of Tara, a man had to ride his carriage through to stones, which would move aside for him if he was the right candidate for kingship. He then had to touch to Lia Faill stone, or penis stone. If the stone screamed his name at his touch, then he was destined to be king. We all touched the stone, but it didn’t scream for us. When St. Patrick came to Ireland he lit a fire at Tara, something which was never supposed to be done. This act disrespected the king, and signaled the end of native Irish religion. Tara’s history is not only ancient- Daniel O’Connell held one of his monster rallies on the sight.

Although Tara doesn’t seem like much of a hill, it positioned in just the right place, and Ireland is so flat, that on a clear day one can see 1/5 of Ireland from the summit. No wonder the kings chose this place. Bridget and I frolicked off the summit, sliding in the mud a bit, and found a knoll to claim as our own. I laid down in the grass, which was a softer bed than anything made by man. I matched my heart beat to that of the hill, and we shared secrets. It was truly awful to have to leave. I could’ve made my home right there, hiding behind one of the mounds until everyone else had gone. Tara, with its view of mountains and cities and farms, seemed like Ireland incarnate.

I didn't take this photograph, but then again nothing I could take would encompass the hill as nicely as this picture does.