Erin Go Bragh

I think my desire to go to Ireland always began with my father. Every time I crested a hill in southwest Ireland and saw the vista of rolling emerald hills spread out before me, I thought of him and wished he could come see it for himself.

So when he started planning his trip to see us, I urged him to add a visit to Ireland to his itinerary. He was able to find a timeshare in rural Co. Clare, and soon my Aunt Cathy and Uncle Tom signed on to join Barbara, Liam and my dad.

Originally, I wasn’t going to be able to join them. With the visits home for friends’ weddings and our two week honeymoon in April, Mark and I had quickly consumed our holidays and I had resigned myself to making recommendations and picking them up at the airport on February 25^th.

When I was home in December, we unfolded the map of Ireland and plotted out a series of day trips – to Co. Kerry, the Ring of Kerry and Killarney, and the Brosna woods. To Galway, and to Dublin, and maybe even to Cork… It was a lot of fun to see how excited everyone was, and I was sad I would miss it.

Then I got a phone call in January, from home. My dad was in the midst of a battery of tests to determine the cause of some severe back and hip pain he’d had since a fall while ice-skating with my brothers. The calls continued into early February, with the final awful news that my dad was really sick, and for a while it wasn’t certain that he’d be able to come after all.

Everything rapidly went into perspective, and I found myself consumed with thoughts of home, and a feeling of utter helplessness. My dad, however, was determined to go on and make the trip happen, regardless of what awaited him upon his return. His doctor supported his decision and we hesitantly confirmed plans and changed seats on the airlines in preparation for his visit.

But I couldn’t sit by and miss the opportunity to spend time with everyone, not when they were so close. So I wrapped up a day trip for work the Monday and flew out to Ireland to join everyone on Tuesday.

I’m really glad I did.

As could only be expected, the majority of the travelling party was pretty car-ed out. There’s not a lot in Co. Clare, and there aren’t great roads for getting around, either. After a marathon trip around the Ring of Kerry before my arrival, I was happy to give everyone a break – and let some relax at the house while I drove others to Galway. The following day we caravanned to Dublin and saw the Book of Kells and made another trip to Guinness (where Liam impressed a couple of American university students by having his first Guinness at the ripe age of 12 in the best place to do it). Everyone was able to get their shopping done and though it was a whirlwind trip, I was pleased to see that everyone was able to accomplish what they’d hoped.

The last day in Ireland, we had a leisurely breakfast and packed our bags. Everyone asked me to estimate when we needed to be at the airport – for a 4:55pm flight, I figured we should be there by 3:30pm, meaning a 2:30pm departure. My dad wanted to stop by a shop in Bunratty to get a hat for Toby, so I suggested leaving another half hour earlier, at 2:00pm. But since we were all just really sitting around the house, we ended up getting in the car at noon.

For those of you who have shopped with my Aunt Cathy, you should already have recognized my error above. I’ve never seen her in and out of a store in less than 30 minutes. And my dad was just as bad this time!

On top of it all, we decided to stop in for a quick pub lunch after shopping since the airport didn’t have much. But none of us were keeping track of the time, and I was shocked to look down at the car clock as we left to realize it was already 3:35.

As we approached the airport, I had a niggling feeling that I was forgetting something else. And then it came to me – there are no fuel stations close to Shannon airport. So we pulled a U turn and rapidly headed back into a development where we were able to locate a gas station. Then we hurried back to the airport to find that we had to drop the cars off at remote parking lots and get shuttled to the airport.

And then we found out the check-in counter was closed – we missed it by ten minutes – meaning that we had to ‘gate-check’ the bags that my family had already paid €40 apiece for, but would now have to pay an additional €35 per bag at the gate. And take them to the airplane ourselves.

We made a comical sight, I’m sure, dashing down the hallways, getting deodorant and bug spray (thanks again for trying, dad) tossed in the rubbish at security, tears and sweat rolling down our cheeks as we rolled, lugged and dragged the oversized bags up and down ramps and stairs.

We finally arrived at the gate and stacked all the bags, only to find that they would only accept cash payments. That resulted in a noble gesture of self-sacrifice as Barbara dashed back out of security with an attendant and got the euros required.

The next crisis came from an unexpected source: my Aunt Cathy had misplaced her digital camera, which was loaded not only with her pictures from Ireland but also a recent trip to El Salvador with Project Smile. As she threw up her hands and told everyone that she would stay in Ireland another night, she needed the camera and wasn’t leaving without it, I ducked into a corner and called the car rental. While I was on hold, they ransacked the car and weren’t able to find it. They were informing me of this, and I was relaying it to Aunt Cathy’s stricken figure, when I could hear shouting through the phone. It was located! Now my Aunt Cathy dashed back out of the airport, through not-so ‘secure’ no entry doorways to meet the Hertz representative at security.

All this was witnessed by 200+ travellers in line to board the Ryanair flight, and a very patient Servisair attendant who did an excellent job corralling the Brosnahans and keeping us (relatively) calm. To commemorate this blog-worthy tale, I took a photo.

Note all the middle fingers and exasperated expressions. I don’t really know if it was anyone’s fault, but I quickly assumed the blame and apologized profusely. It doesn’t look like any of my apologies were accepted…

We arrived home to a fridge full of beer and 8 o’clock reservations at our favourite restaurant, Paul’s Place. Although I had warned everyone about the awful state of Irish cuisine, my family had clearly either disregarded or underestimated just how bad it would be. A couple of bottles of wine, excellent food and serveral of sticky toffee puddings went a long way toward returning the smiles to everyone’s faces.

The last few days were a bit less eventful, with a trip to Albert Dock and the Tate Modern extension, some more shopping, and an ill-advised dare between Mark and myself that resulted in a rather spectacular slip and fall into the disgusting, algae-filled water by the docks. You’ll all be surprised to know that it was Mark who fell, not me. Astounding, I know.

Even though the house was choc-a-bloc with people, and there was rarely a quiet moment either upstairs or downstairs, it was really hard to say good-bye on Sunday morning.

July in Ireland

Mark joined me at the tail-end of a whirlwind business trip in Ireland(to be honest, there’s really never any other kind) to spend the first weekend in July in Cork and Co. Kerry.

Mark arrived on Thursday night, and I was pretty wired about an important sales presentation the next day. That meant a pretty mellow evening, but we still stumbled upon a great bar, Pavilion. It’s an old art-deco movie theatre, and the upstairs features dancing and live acts while the downstairs boasts a long bar, cool lights, and plenty of seating on the sidewalk outside. We enjoyed a pint or two of the local brew, Murphy’s (amazing, it was introduced to me by Char in Montreal as the best way to close out a cinq à sept) while waiting for a table to open up across the alley, at a little Mexican restaurant. The food (and company) was great, although we could have done without the play-by-play of the golf games of our nearest neighbors, an irritating foursome of US tourists.

The next day I went to visit a few customers while Mark worked from our not-so-great hotel room, until noon when he walked diagonally across the block to our mega-sweet-hotel room. We scored an awesome room with a last-minute booking on Expedia; the view was amazing, with a balcony overlooking the River Lee and much of the town, and only a few blocks away from High Street (the city center).

(On my way to the hotel, I swung by the airport and picked up our rental car. Normally, I would not bore you with these details, except: I got a Fiat. And some of you may be thinking - what do we have coming with the Chrysler buyout – and all I have to say is that I loved the Fiat Punto. It’s awesome, it’s little, it handled really well and I just loved it. Mark made fun of me for it, but I literally did a little dance every time we walked up to it in the parking garage.)

Friday night we had a few pints with my colleague Matt, who had a late flight back to Liverpool and thus got a chance to hang out with us and make us feel less anti-social. We spent some time in the sun outside Pavilion before grabbing some truly mediocre eats at an Italian restaurant nearby.

After we’d walked Matt back to the hotel to pick up his stuff and get a cab to the airport, we walked across the River Lee to another hopping area of Cork – this time, to find a bar we’d read about in a recent 36 Hours In… travel piece with in the Times. Unfortunately, we took a slight detour into a truly authentic old man bar. What is it with you and old man bars, Mark?

We don't have photos (Mark wouldn't let me) but there was two guys at the end of the bar, surrounded by a five foot wall of farts. They were incredibly drunk, but the reason they drew us in, the reason we politely ignored the aroma and initially didn’t notice the drool – were their hand puppets. One resembled a fox in a three piece suit, the other was a badger in similar attire, and they were both waving up in the air, singing Irish songs, and taking swigs of their own beer (resulting in some very wet sleeves). Amazing.

Anyway, we finished our beers rather quickly and headed down the street to the real attraction, Sin E. This pub used to be a barber shop, and still has barber chairs sprinkled about the place. It was full of people and had a great atmosphere from the moment we walked in. Mark grabbed a few pints, and we grabbed a few stools by the wall. We were seated right next to a corner table packed with a mixture of young and old fiddlers, flutists, drummers, and guitarists. We got comfortable and enjoyed the Irish music, played jam/jazz style, for a few more pints (and would have stayed longer, if only my head wasn’t drooping closer and closer to the bar).

The next morning we had a quick breakfast and got in the car for a trip to Killarney, in County Kerry. The family of Colin O’Sullivan, one of Mark’s friends from Japan, still lived in Killarney and Mark had met them years before, so we decided to take a drive. It took a few hours, but the countryside was beautiful and we got to have an quick visit with the O’Sullivans, which was great:

While we chatted with Colin’s family, I mentioned that my family was from the area, and they asked my surname. I was surprised to find out that Colin’s mom was a Brosnahan before she got married – and said, ‘wow, you’re like, family!’ The awkward silence that followed ensured that I stopped bringing up the whole family thing for the rest of the trip (really, how many Irish Americans do that? Cringe.).

We had a pub lunch before getting back in the car and heading toward Cork – and Mark was happy to find that we would make it in time for a visit to the Jameson distillery, in Midleton just outside the city.

It was actually really interesting, and we had a great time (but I could have done without the gazillion references to the ‘Jameson Experience,’ which was a bit cheesy). At the end, Mark volunteered to taste a variety of whiskeys and became a certified Irish whiskey taster! Seriously, we have the diploma and everything, so feel free to send all whiskey-related queries his way. It’s practically a PhD.

By the time we made it back to the hotel, we were both pretty tired but were trying to rally each other. But a 6-pack of Tuborg and two trays of sushi later, we were laid out on the bed flipping TV channels until we passed out. Only three cans into the six pack.

The next morning, we packed up our things and decided to go on one more road trip – to the end of the scenic drive along the southeast coast of Ireland. We basically headed toward Waterford (making it as far as Dungarvan) before ducking down a tiny road and following the farm roads back along the coast. I saw a bit of this on my last trip and was eager to show Mark, but I have to say that the view was way better at high tide.

All in all, we had an amazing time. I think we both had visions of moving to Ireland as we sat in the airport that Sunday, and we hope to head back soon.

36 Hours in Belfast, Northern Ireland

A lot has changed recently in Belfast, despite the unfortunate violence a few months ago against British soldiers. For those who find themselves with a day and a half to spare, there are a plethora of great restaurants, new shopping centers, and of course pubs to keep you busy. Additionally there are monuments, murals, and sites in abundance for those wishing to try to make sense of and reflect upon ‘the Troubles’ of the recent past. And for those who are willing there is even a marathon to throw into the middle of your visit!

Sunday

9:00 AM
1) Dog Drop Off

First ‘to do’ for any dog-owning couple embarking on a journey is to make sure your bud will be well taken care of while you are gone. Kathleen and I had somehow managed to arrange for a colleague of mine look after Miller. What had started as a genuine inquiry about local kennels, eventually turned into my colleague’s two children bragging to all the neighbourhood about how they were getting a real American Dog for a couple of days. We had pre-arranged a meet up in the park last week to be sure that Miller got on with the other two dogs in residence, and all had gone smoothly. So we (almost tearfully) dropped Miller off to the open and very willing arms of my colleague’s family.

12:00 PM
2) Lady Dixon Park and Guinness Pies

We had no problems getting our flight over to Belfast and I would have to say it was one of the fastest flights I have been on. We were up and down in under 30 minutes. We hopped a cab into town where we met up with a shuttle bus to take us out to Lady Dixon Park to pick up my race number. The shuttle took almost as long as the flight and only ran every 40 minutes. This turned out to be my first experience with the poor race planning. When we eventually got back to the city we were starving.

Belfast has many places to sample the local food and drink and emerging from the shuttle bus, we stumbled into one that had actually been recommended. The Crown Liquor Saloon is a beautifully restored ‘Victorian Gin Palace’ that stands out by it’s ornate architecture from down the street.

Upon entering, you are immediately drawn to the series of private booths that line the right hand side. These are fully enclosed dining booths with doors on them to provide privacy. Apparently they were not originally designed for private dining, but were created so that folks could slip in and have a pint or two without the whole town being aware of it.

Unfortunately, these were full at the time, so we took our seats at the bar. One look at the menu and we both immediately ordered the Guinness and Steak Pies which were absolutely wonderful. Kathleen was able to accompany hers with Guinness proper while my ‘training’ dictated I abstain.

2:30 PM
3) The Falls Road Walk

After checking in and a quick sniff of our rooms unique aroma (as of March 31st, all rooms are non-smoking!), we decided to spend as much time out in the city as possible. There are not too many things to do and see in Belfast, but both Kathleen and I wanted to check out the Falls Road. This is a road that runs through the traditional Catholic and Republican centers of the city and was the focal point for a lot of the rioting and violence that occurred in the recent past. We walked about 15 minutes from our hotel and crossed over a large bridge. As we walked further on, we notice more and more graffiti. Some simply read ‘IRA’ whereas others were much more provocative and violent. One of the scariest things we saw were the words: ‘There is more to come – RIRA’. The RIRA or Real Irish Republican Army was one of the groups claiming responsibility for the killing of British soldiers a few weeks back.

We continued on up to the intersection of the Falls Road and Grosvenor Road where there was a park. This park was nicknamed Looney Park due to the fact that it faced an old insane asylum.

Taking a right on the Falls Road, we saw many buildings, monuments, and murals that all referenced ‘the Troubles.’ One of the most moving was a large mural on the side of the Sinn Fein headquarters of Bobby Sands who died leading a hunger strike in prison. On the side of this mural were the words ‘Our revenge will be the laughter of our children.’


Further down the road was the Garden of Remembrance, as well as various murals painted in solidarity with the Republican cause.

All of these juxtaposed a Loyalist Mural we saw earlier in the city of a masked man holding an AK-47 announcing: ‘You are now entering Loyalist Sandy Row, heartland of South Belfast Ulster - Freedom Fighters.’

All of this gave me a lot to think about over the next few hours. I was surprised to see so many of the emotions and views out in the open and on public display. Real or imagined there was a sense of eeriness in the air. Kathleen remarked how she felt like we were being stared at and on our walk over we watched some kids climb onto a shopping center roof and throw rocks down at a pedestrian. There was also a sense of sadness that seemed to pervade a lot of the city. Our walk reminded me in some ways of Pnomh Penh, which is another city I have been to that has experienced some absolutely miserable shit (albeit on a much grander scale). However despite the awfulness of what happened, there was clear logic to the feelings you experienced wandering the city. I mean the Khmer Rouge were real bad and I don’t think many people would argue you on that. Here your emotions were not as black and white. The murals and memorials brought forth a whole host of conflicting thoughts and notions. At a very base level our walk really showed us how fucked up things got over here and made me realize again how lucky I have been over the years.

5:00 PM
4) Dinner and a Movie (or vice-versa)

At this point both Kathleen and I were a bit tired (physically and perhaps emotionally as well). We had initially planned on going up to Shankill Road which is at the heart of the Loyalist sections of the city, but decided against it. Instead we went to catch a movie before having dinner. Our supreme sense of direction dictated that we see ‘State of Play’ rather than ‘Wolverine’ (we got lost and were too late for the latter) and we both enjoyed it. Afterwards we grabbed a quick pasta meal at Maggiono’s. Despite being a chain, the pasta was quite good and just thing to carbo-load for the next day’s activity. After dinner we had a leisurely walk back through the city to our hotel. The smell had not really dissipated and I was feeling a bit anxious about the next day, however a few Tylenol PM ensured a good night’s rest.

Monday

9:00 AM
5) 26.2 Mile City Tour

OK, so my sleep was not exactly ‘good.’ Despite the wonders of modern over-the-counter drugs, I still managed to get up and use the toilet about 8 times. I finally got out of bed around 7:00 AM to face the inevitable. It wasn’t that I was not excited about the marathon, but I hade been having some shin issues for the past month or so. It was nothing debilitating, but enough to cause me some anxiety and question things a bit. Additionally, a few days prior I had the bright idea of actually investigating reviews of the course online and let’s say I was not super amped on reading about chaotic relay check points, walkers starting in front of runners, industrial estate backdrops, and apparently some cobblestones at Mile 21. So it was with some trepidation that I slowly did all my pre-race rituals and we headed down to Starbucks for a quick dose of caffeine. Over coffee, we plotted out Kathleen’s best viewing options and then set out to the start.

True to the online reviews, the start was kind of a shit show. People seemed to be jammed in everywhere with walkers mixing with runners mixing with staff mixing with relay runners mixing with spectators. There were barriers up but these meant nothing. A quick kiss to Kathleen and I pressed my way towards the front. I never even heard a start but people began to move forward en masse so I threw on my headphones and was off.

The first six miles were essentially a run out to the airport and back to the city. On my way out I was a bit concerned as my shin starting hurting from the get go but these concerns gradually yielded to the more pressing matter of the auto traffic just feet away from the course. This was the first time I understood that they really did not close most of the roads on the course, just simply thinned them out a bit. Regardless, I came back into the city feeling strong and my shin mysteriously began to numb itself. I caught Kathleen right where she said she would be and then headed back out of the city. The next few miles were through various neighborhoods of Belfast, starting with the Falls Road from yesterday. Some areas were bleaker than others – mainly those that featured a few armored cars and cops with machine guns. Not sure if this was because they were the only personnel available, but they definitely served to remind you that you were indeed in Belfast and that last years race had to be diverted a bit due to a bomb scare.

The course continued outside of the city into the suburbs and along the slopes of Black Mountain. There were some great views of both the city and the Irish Sea below. Spectators were sparse out here and many seemed more interested in watching us idiots undergo our self-induced pain rather than cheering. However there were the odd few who were really into it and every so often a cute little kid holding out candy or high-fiving runners. At one point I saw one older man with an NYPD shirt on and got excited. However rather than making any sort of sense in my attempts at communication I simply made a few gestures and spat out “New York” with my fist in the air. The guy stopped clapping and just kind of stared at me wondering who the hell I was and what I was trying to say. Pretty funny.

Around mile 15, the course started to turn back towards the city. I was still feeling quite good at this point and my splits were looking just fine (in fact at one point I apparently did a 7 minute mile, but considering that this was followed by a 10 minute mile, I think the markers were a bit off). My shins were fine, I was amply hydrated, and ready for the second half of things. Unfortunately, at this point the course turned along the harbour. On paper this looked to be a great section of the race, but in reality it was awful. It was simply a bike path with a large hedge on one side and the M2 motorway on the other. People talk about hitting ‘the wall’ when running marathons and I guess this was mine. Around mile 18 I realized I was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and actually just bored. There was no scenery, were no spectators, and nothing to do but keep moving forward. The only thing I kept on saying to myself was ‘this is why I have been training’ and ‘this is why I have been getting up at 5:30 every morning.’ I guess it was my way of guilting myself into running harder – I mean I am Irish after all.

To top all of this, I came around a bend to read a sign ‘Marathoners Caution: Controlled Crossing Ahead.’ It seems they thought it might make sense to allow an open road to cut through the race at intervals. All of a sudden we were about 40 runners backed up, running in place, and waiting for a traffic cop to let us through. Well runners are kind of pig-headed and really self-important (me being the exception of course) so when we waited about a minute without being let through we simply ran out into traffic en-masse. The crowds that were there burst into cheers as we all flooded out and back into the race.

Kathleen chose mile 21 to wait for me and I could not have been happier. I had been through the worst part of the race and had just gotten through the deadly cobblestones. On top of everything, she even chose to trade me a nice dry headband for a dirty, sweaty hat on the spot! It must be said now that she pretty much rules for putting up with all my bitching and moaning while I train for these things, and then actually coming out and spending an entire morning trying to catch a fleeting glimpse of me while I run by.

The next five miles were back through the city and around Ormeau Park. For the most part they were incident free, but there is still something scary about running right next to road traffic so late in a marathon. At mile 25 or so I finally allowed myself to start believing that I might do pretty well in this race. As I said my splits were looking really good throughout the race, but my superstitious self would not allow me to actually envision beating my best time of 3:54. However when I saw the finish line I knew it was certain and pushed on the last few yards to cross in 3 hours and 46 minutes! The next 15 minutes were a blur as I drank everything in sight and stumbled into the Tennis Center to pick up my bag. It was standing there unpacking my dry clothes that I realized how psyched I was. The past five months had been a real pain in the ass training wise which meant I was not feeling super confident about this race. However, I managed to get myself through it and do better than I had allowed my self to consider. It is kind of crazy. Here is my amazing medal:

3:00 PM
9) Guinness, Powers and George Best

After the race, Kathleen and I hobbled home to our hotel. I was taking it slow and Kathleen was delighted at the opportunity to break into ‘Lean on Me’ whenever I staggered or slowed down. I iced down my knee and showered, and then headed out to lunch (the room still had that smell to it). We grabbed lunch at a noodle shop and planned on heading back to the Crown for some victory brew. I had snuck a taste of Kathleen’s Guinness the day prior and she had promised to buy me some post marathon. Unfortunately, the pub was closed so we went to a place that looked like it had the right combination of authenticity and sketchiness: ‘The Beaten Docket.’ Sure enough we were right. There were horses on the TV’s and our bartender was a young man who was missing his front tooth (presumably in a fight) and served us pint after pint of thick black stuff that Kathleen thought tasted reminiscent of vanilla ice-cream. Additionally, she even sprung for a few shots of Powers to celebrate (yet another reason why I have chosen to marry this girl). We ended up getting in a multitude of conversations with our bartender and the few locals seated around us. All were very friendly and talkative. Kathleen impressed them all with her knowledge of beer at which point they rightfully guessed she was Irish. They were suitably impressed with my morning’s activities, and were very interested in what brought us to this side of the pond. We learned that although they might love the football none of them really enjoy the city of Liverpool that much. One of the guys spoke briefly to Kathleen about growing up in Belfast (said the violence did not affect him to much) and we told them all how much kinder on the ears their accents were compared to the Scousers in Liverpool. However, I think the most important thing we learned was how much they all hated George Best. Apparently he was a football star who got cirrhosis of the liver at which point his notoriety enabled him to get a liver transplant. Afterwards he never quit the drink and died two years later. Now the Belfast City airport is named after him much to the chagrin of all our new drinking friends.

Finally we realized that we had better get to the airport as we thought our flight left at 8:00. Turns out we were wrong and spent an extra hour sitting at the airport reflecting on what a great weekend was had.

Final Thoughts

All in all, it was a pretty fun adventure. We got to travel somewhere neither of us had ever thought of going to and I think we were both moved by what we saw and the people we interacted with. My race was pretty much amazing despite the all the logistical issues and I am already plotting my next one (even though I said no less than a week ago that this was my last). Miller was amazing and the envy of the neighbourhood and has a standing invitation to return to my colleague’s house. It is Monday and I have been working from home and hobbling around the house. Miller is a bit peeved since I walk so slowly when we go out, but we’ll be back running again soon. However before I start training for another marathon I have a lot of skating to do…

Spring is springing

So I've been informed by not one, but several people in my family that I'm slacking on the blog. I apologize, and submit the following post as part of my apology:

Mark and I had a great time with Jeremy - Mark's older brother came for a few days this past week on his way to Switzerland - but I'm going to let Mark blog about that. More pressing is the fact that spring has sprung in Liverpool! Crocuses have popped out along Lark Lane and throughout Sefton Park, and we have daffodils straining to bloom out of their buds in our backyard/patio.

Awesome. But let me back up:

We spent Saturday doing laundry at the laundromat (ugh - I thought I'd left that behind in college, but nay), cleaning, getting cable installed, and getting library cards at our local library. It's tiny, so I wasn't expecting much - but it was breathtaking inside. I see myself spending many summer mornings coming in, picking out a book, then taking Miller down to the park to read and watch him run around and make friends. 

The library looks like a small Tudor cottage from Aigburth Road, the closest main road to our little neighborhood. It has a small lawn and an unassuming plot - but inside are original windows facing toward Sefton Park, high ceilings and a narrow balcony circling the main room. The interior itself was completely refurbished a few years ago, but it's endured a lot in the past several decades. There's a photo display as you enter - black and white photos of patrons standing knee-deep in rubble as they wait to check out their books, and a gaping hole in the roof of the main room of the library, devastated by German bombs in WWII. 

Now it's populated by gregarious older ladies proud to show off their state-of-the-art computer systems (I get to scan the books myself! And it doesn't even need to see the bar code!) and their collection - impressive, considering the library's small size. Absolutely adorable. I will post pictures next time we visit.

We also drove up to Bootle, on the north side of Liverpool, to finalize my plans to purchase a new (used) car. I've been driving a hired Ford Focus, but the hire was coming to an end and I needed to suck it up and go to a few dealerships. For those of you on the opposite end of teary phone calls and exasperated shouts (and possibly whines) during my last car purchasing adventure, then you know what Mark's been putting up with. I hate buying cars. 

Let me make that clear: I loathe buying cars. 

I like to know what I am talking about, I like to be an educated consumer, I like to look at a price tag and know immediately whether I'll take it or not.

I do not like walking into a dealership to be accosted by salesmen. Particularly salesmen who act and speak exactly as you expect salesmen to speak. I do not like trying to read up on cars and then looking at cars and realizing I am still at a complete loss. I do not like being pressured to make decisions. I do not like negotiating (my recent course notwithstanding) and I do not like it when I tell a salesman frankly what I am looking for and what I am willing to spend to have it promptly ignored.

Whew. Now that all that's out of my system: I have bought a used 2006 Ford Focus. Paperwork still to be finalized - but it looks like I will pick it up on March 2nd. This will be my first car to have six (six!) gears, reverse not included, and it is pretty snazzy looking, if I do say so myself. (Pics to come...)

Mark was an excellent fiance and accompanied my to this and many other car dealerships. I knew he'd rather be somewhere - anywhere - else (and who wouldn't?) but he sucked it up and came. Especially after I begged.

But secretly, let me admit something: even though I told him that I wanted him there for moral support, it was really that I just appreciate having him there. And this weekend, after everything had been finalized to the point that me going to the dealership was really just a formality and filling in paperwork, and it meant that he didn't go skateboarding in order to sip terrible coffee and pretend to make conversation with Peter across the desk, I didn't really need him there. But I still made him come.

I am not really adjusting to the whole sales/travel thing particularly well. I don't know if it's just that I've grown to depend on Mark like a crutch, or that we're really that disgustingly in love, but I hate leaving him. I hate leaving our home and our routines to spend nights away in an empty hotel room. I do little things to make it better: watch movies, take baths in extravagant bathrooms, read books late into the night... but the truth is, I'd rather be growing exasperated with his sighs and moans as I turn another page and keep the light on for a few more minutes than to roll over in bed and realize he isn't there.

(Well, in truth, some giant extravagant bathtubs do make me feel a little bit better...)

I'm sorry if that just made you throw up a little inside your mouth, but it's the truth. And all this weekend I was dreading going to the airport. Dreading packing, dreading all the time to myself. Because even though I'm lucky enough to meet lots of nice, interesting people when I travel, sales is pretty lonely.

The airport was everything I dreaded, but I arrived in Cork to sunshine and a beautiful spring day. Crocuses and even some daffodils bobbed along the side of the road as I made my way out of the airport and toward Carrigaline. I passed rolling hills patched like eathen quilts - shades of green and gold edged by hedge rows, and ancient stone walls, and the remains of castles and churches, overgrown by ivy in some cases, lovingly tended in others.

And I perked right up. I still missed Mark, but I started to enjoy the adventure a bit.

Ireland

I have been quietly but hugely excited to come to Ireland. I've been dreaming of coming for years, from back at McGill and years earlier - but Monday morning I found myself seated on a plane, albeit an hour later than planned, ready to hurry up and get there already.

Monday morning Mark and I awoke to several inches of fluffy snow coating the cars and the streets of Liverpool. It was still dark as we made our way to the car, and it seemed our neighborhood hadn't yet woken up. It was the perfect way to enjoy a rare occurrence of snow in northwest England, and we squeezed each others hands as we quietly made our way to Manchester for my flight.

Upon my arrival in Ireland, however, a flurry of different sorts awaited us. People were panicking on the television, the terminal, and the car hire. People were panicking on our visits, leaving early or not coming to work at all. People were... clearly using the snow as an excuse to call in to work, since though we saw alot of snow in the air, not too much stuck to the ground. Here's a terrible webcam of the snow outside my window in Dublin (you should normally be able to see the harbor outside): 

Scratch that, uploading the damn thing was more trouble than it was worth.

The past few days have been a flurry of activity and I'm learning a lot. Everyone here has been very friendly, even if I can't understand them (we were in Northern Ireland the other day and I met a guy with a Celtic accent, apparently, and I still have no idea what he said. I did try to laugh when he smiled, but that's all I could do). The only downside thus far was a five hour traffic snarlup that Matt and I found ourselves in last night, trying to get back through Dublin and out to Tullamore in the midst of rush hour traffic and the snow... It's hard to believe we only travelled 60 miles from 4pm until 9...

Tonight we're in Clonmel, and I've returned to my hotel room from a few pints of Guinness in front of the Liverpool VS Everton FA match. To those of you not in the loop of English competitive football, these two teams are ranked 2nd and 4th (?) and have already played once to a 1-1 draw. We're now in extra time and it's still 0-0, but they'll play until someone wins. Apparently the FA cup is one of several that football teams compete for here, and it's supposed to crown the best team in the UK Premier league. I think. Liverpool is chock full of Irish that never made it across the Atlantic, so they're one of the most popular teams over here - meaning we weren't the only ones interested in the Liverpool match at the hotel bar.

The best part of the evening (besides being hit on by an 80 year old from County Kerry named Willie - apparently I just need to head down there and tell everyone that I know Willie, since he once ran for office on the slogan 'don't be a sillie, vote for Willie' so they'll know who I'm talking about) was listening to two dozen older men from County Kerry (one of them a Brosnan or Brosnahan!) converge on the hotel bar, drink several pints, and launch into song after song. It seemed like I was stuck in a Maeve Binchy movie, and apparently all the old guys do it, but it was a lovely way to meet these characters, and even though it was corny I loved every minute of it. I'm looking forward to coming back.

Now back to my chips and gravy, and then a well-deserved sleep. I miss you all.