We learned a new word today while shopping. If you know me, you know I HATE shopping and I max out at about 1.5 hours, but I needed hiking shoes for this weekend, so we dropped in on a couple Irish bloaks in an Outdoors store at our local shopping center on Grafton Street.
I picked out some great shoes that are lightweight enough for running trails on the canal as well. I (Candace was on a business call) had a little chat with my (overly) friendly salesman from County Tipperary, land of the indiscernible Irish accent and healthy country boys. He advised me on some local pub action and taught me my new favorite Irish slang that I now teach you:
Lob-a-Gob. He directly translated this for me as "lob" meaning to throw and and "Gob" meaning mouth. This was used in context of describing the pub we're going to tonight--check it out! Copper Face Jack's
That's all for now. I'm working on my EPIC Archaeology Museum Post for tomorrow, followed by the hiking post on Sunday! Get Ready... Listening to:
"It'll come to you this love of the land. There's no gettin' away from it if you're Irish" - Gone With the Wind
Failte!
I'm excited to share my adventures with all of you! I want your first taste of my life in Ireland to be this poem that I wrote very late one night when I was a Junior in College. Its meaning seems eerily prophetic now. More than anything, I've created this blog to make the actualization of this life-long dream of mine visible to those I love: my friends who are my foundation, my endlessly supportive family, my mentors and co-workers who inspire me, and my former students who have given me enough satisfaction and fulfillment to last two lifetimes... Have the courage to believe that your wildest dreams can come true.
Is fhearr fheuchainn na bhith san duil, (It is better to try than to hope)
e
Mourn (A Seaside Peak in Southern Ireland)
The dark, earthen sod saturates her fair feet,
but briefly since she frolics fast in knee high
blades of greenest grass that blow dizzily in the Celtic-sea air.
Her wool skirt, stiffened by ware of evenings past
is splashed by cresting waves that break
against a beach blacker than her hair.
Those once stiffer fibers were loosed by nights upon nights
of hanging perfectly on his line before being wildly blown dry
by the crisp Hibernian salt air.
The pair sits to rest a while instead of dodging
breakers or skipping paler stones.
"Indian summer's here," he says softly,
but all of summer here feels like the edge
of autumn to her, even though she grins in agreement
as she dangles her pale, soft feet off Achilles' peak,
where Erin's vermillion-gold sky meets
an ocean that is grey with years.
She sleeps with her eyes closed tight most nights.
He asks her if she believes in Tier-Nan-Og,
and she asks him if he believes in anything eternal.
Outside the tide is rising, or it's receding—
She never can tell but for the strengthened smell of
salty freshness strained through his light, lace curtains.
She thinks to herself that he is like trying to hold the sea
and she imagines the water running between her fingers--
clenched so tight.
And so, the night calls her out of her sleeping,
like daytime chides her into dreaming.
She slips her white fingers through the holes of an old loose scarf
that affords her more company than warmth
on these newborn autumn evenings. She is off--
Night clouds reflect emerald from land to sea,
And the tara that she never eyes from long hours of
staring too far into star blanketed skies,
feels cool against the thickening pads of her pallid feet.
Elisabeth Lewis (2005)
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