Ireland 2016 Part 1: In the West

So, once again I have traveled to and returned from my favorite country, and once again I can't believe it has all gone by so quickly. It's been over a week since I touched down stateside and amidst getting back into my normal routine and all the research I've been doing for various papers, I've begun to miss the emerald isle as I did before, and wonder when I'll be lucky enough to find myself there again. Of course, while missing and researching and working and binge-watching Gilmore Girls, I am also outrageously grateful that I was able to take ten days to visit Ireland after two years of longing-filled absence.

As expected, It. Was. Incredible.

There were places I had been before that we visited, and I felt somehow like I was coming home; there were places I had never stepped foot and I was awed and humbled by the outrageous beauty of God's creation; and even after spending months on end studying parts of this country and its history, it still surprised and fascinated me in ways that I would have never anticipated.

I traveled with a group of ten other girls- some graduate students, some undergrad, all excellent travel buddies- and our professor, with the intent of learning about Yeats, Joyce, Beckett, and the Easter Rising of 1916, in the setting of their home island.

We started in Galway. I mentioned last time I was there that I didn't think there was anywhere more beautiful in the world- vibrant greens and blues, the ocean and the grey stone walls of ruins, with the most charming towns and people- and that has not changed. We visited Coole Park and Thoor Ballylee as per our Yeats exploration. There are multiple poems written about each of these woodland sanctuaries, but here is one mentioning both:

Coole Park and Ballylee

Under my window-ledge the waters race,

Otters below and moor-hens on the top,

Run for a mile undimmed in Heaven's face

Then darkening through 'dark' Raftery's 'cellar' drop,

Run underground, rise in a rocky place

In Coole demesne, and there to finish up

Spread to a lake and drop into a hole.

What's water but the generated soul?

Upon the border of that lake's a wood

Now all dry sticks under a wintry sun,

And in a copse of beeches there I stood,

For Nature's pulled her tragic buskin on

And all the rant's a mirror of my mood:

At sudden thunder of the mounting swan

I turned about and looked where branches break

The glittering reaches of the flooded lake.

Another emblem there! That stormy white

But seems a concentration of the sky;

And, like the soul, it sails into the sight

And in the morning's gone, no man knows why;

And is so lovely that it sets to right

What knowledge or its lack had set awry,

So atrogantly pure, a child might think

It can be murdered with a spot of ink.

Sound of a stick upon the floor, a sound

From somebody that toils from chair to chair;

Beloved books that famous hands have bound,

Old marble heads, old pictures everywhere;

Great rooms where travelled men and children found

Content or joy; a last inheritor

Where none has reigned that lacked a name and fame

Or out of folly into folly came.

A spot whereon the founders lived and died

Seemed once more dear than life; ancestral trees,

Or gardens rich in memory glorified

Marriages, alliances and families,

And every bride's ambition satisfied.

Where fashion or mere fantasy decrees

We shift about - all that great glory spent -

Like some poor Arab tribesman and his tent.

We were the last romantics - chose for theme

Traditional sanctity and loveliness;

Whatever's written in what poets name

The book of the people; whatever most can bless

The mind of man or elevate a rhyme;

But all is changed, that high horse riderless,

Though mounted in that saddle Homer rode

Where the swan drifts upon a darkening flood. 

William Butler Yeats (1931)

Actually being there is such an interesting experience. Much of Yeats's poetry is beautiful and emotive, and a good deal mentions or is explicitly about scenes of nature, and being in those places it is clear to see why he was so deeply inspired. 

That night we went out to a pub in the city, heard an Irish band playing, and I had a pint of Guinness, as one should. It's strange how much better a pint tastes when you're in Ireland. The next day was once again filled with beauty and history, just the way I like it. We visited Connemara and Kylemore Abbey, and I'm pretty sure I'd be content wandering in those areas forever. I see these places and I can't help but imagine how they must have been centuries ago, before modern civilization and all that stood there were these rolling hills and clear crystal streams. 

This wasn't even anywhere special. We literally just stopped by the side of the road. 

Kylemore Abbey. If some nuns didn't use this place I'd probably elect to live here

If this could be the view from *my* porch that'd be great.  

Might never recover from my jealously of the parlor in that place. There's a gorgeous old piano and the best view out the window. Plus just general Victorian-y goodness. More pub excellence ensued that night with some slammin fish n' chips and a kopparberg cider long overdue. 

And from there we headed to Sligo. Literally the only thing I knew about Sligo is that Yeats spent part of his childhood there, and that's where he was buried. Which is really too bad because it's such a wonderful place. We stopped at Lissadel house, where the Gore-Booths, friends of Yeats actually, lived; it's a kind of strange mansion actually, sort of boxy and government-building like, but the ballroom is very near what I believe all ballrooms should look like - oval-shaped, spacious, with pillars around the border. Our tour, meant to be 45 minutes, ended up being nearly two hours, but I couldn't really begrudge spending more time there. 

Next we went to Parke Castle and I'd like to make very clear how excited I was because IT WAS A PLANTATION HOUSE. Which, you know, English imperialism, bad, all that jazz, and it wasn't even in Ulster but when you've been buried in books about 17th century plantation in Ireland for the last six months it's pretty exciting to step foot into one of the buildings that took part. Even better, the lake it sits beside is home to the tiny island that inspired Yeats's "The Lake Isle of Innisfree." And on top of everything, castles are the coolest thing and I think everyone can agree on that. 

PLANTATION CASTLE (I was literally bouncing)

We visited Yeats's grave next; I didn't mention this before, but we were there on June 13th, Yeats's birthday. Members of the Yeats society did readings of some of his work, and from that spot in the church courtyard we could see the impressive Benbulben through the trees. There was something very special in hearing that poetry in that place on that day, knowing how much the country meant to Yeats and how much Yeats means to the people of the country. 

"Under bare Ben Bulben's head 

In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid"

The group then had dinner and saw a wonderful little performance that was part of the birthday celebrations. Then me, two grad students and an undergrad took to the town. We asked a local for the best non-tourist pubs, and found probably one of my favorite pubs we visited, called Shoot the Crows. The owner was our bartender, and he told us so many things about Sligo, about Ireland, about other parts of the world he's visited, about his dogs and about his thoughts on life and heritage. First he asked us each what our families considered themselves heritage wise. Mine, being a very lengthy list including half of Europe and North America, both interested him, saying "So American. That's what American is, a mixture," and prompted him to say that your formative years, where you grew up where your parents grew up- that's what matters to who you are. Being Irish, or being English or German or Italian or Native American, all of that is wonderful and you should know that; but what's really important to who you are is your personal experience and where your life has taken place. It's an interesting thought. 

It's blurry, I know, but I feel like any consumption of  what I
wholeheartedly believe to be the ambrosia of the
 Greek gods (AKA Peanut butter kit kats) needs to be noted

Sligo at night

We left our new friend after a picture, and wandered for a bit in the charming little town. We found another pub with another band- a ska band, I think- and finished off the night there before heading back. The next morning we met with the head of the Yeats society, took a speed tour through town, and then we were headed for Dublin's fair city. 

So, those were the first few days, and if I'm honest, my favorite. I'll likely come back to discuss my days in Dublin, which, don't get me wrong, were also wonderful. But the countryside, the coast and the mountains and the little towns, is where my heart lies. Walking under such an open sky in such a shockingly beautiful place is like nothing else, and it's something I never get tired of. 

That's all for now, tune in next time for magical library rooms, swimming in ice water, and a jail that I was way more excited about than a sane human should ever be about a jail. 

On a completely unrelated note but because I like to end with a song/video, I've been obsessing over Hamilton so I think everyone should listen. I can't pick a favorite song but I'll pick two that I've taught myself to rap (basically a hip-hop star here, guys). No one should let me anywhere near a musical about history. It's very very dangerous for everyone. Enjoy!

Aaron Burr, sir (Yes, I do sing EVERY part because each part is too much fun) (Ya-yo-ya-ya-yo what time is it?!?!)

Guns and Ships (I got weirdly attached to Lafayette so there you go.) (EVERYONE GIVE IT UP FOR AMERICA'S FAVORITE FIGHTING FRENCHMAN)