It’s spring break here in Ireland and
students have ventured off to explore Europe, leaving myself and two other
students to watch over the Louisburgh cottages for a week. Having my own place has been wonderfully
relaxing and peaceful, although I will admit that I am looking forward to the
girls getting back. I’ve enjoyed my time
sitting in front of the peat fire, crocheting and sipping massive cups of
coffee while watching movies and listening to annoying music that I make an
attempt not to frustrate my dear cottage-mates with. All in all, it has been a peaceful break.
Of course,
with St. Patrick’s Day quickly approaching, Ireland is beginning to pick up the
spring time pace. Lambs need moved to
greener fields, peat is being harvested and the pubs are preparing for the wave
of tourists that make it a point to see Ireland during the most famous of Irish
holidays. So while the cottage is
getting a little lonely, I know that I need to enjoy my peace and quiet while I
can—it’s about to disappear.
I woke up yesterday morning to find this little guy sulking
in my kitchen window…I know that I am deprived of company when I start saying
good morning to visiting arachnids.
Figuring that he would take care of any insect visitors, I left him to
his web building. Since he was gone this
morning, I can only wonder what part of my house he is making a new home
in. Perhaps I should have evicted him
when I had the chance.
Spiders
aside, there have been quite a few things I have learned about life in general
over this break. The first is that no
matter what anyone tells you, corned beef is not an Irish tradition. We visited several butchers over the past
week and have been offered everything from strange, ham-bacon substances to
straight cabbage and salt until finally a man said, “we don’t have corned
beef. That’s an American tradition and
you aren’t going to find it anywhere in Ireland.” End of story, I guess. Maybe I’ll have to try to find a new St.
Patty’s day tradition. Or, better yet, I’ll
sample the bacon-ham and look forward to an American Irish feast for next
year.
The second thing that I have learned
(or rather, perfected) is the art of building a peat fire. It’s really not as easy as it sounds. First, you lay down a good bed of coals,
arranging a few pieces of a fire starter through the cracks. Then I used three small pieces of wood
kindling, placing them strategically over the starters so that they will catch,
but won’t block all of the flame or air.
Then comes the turf. Since this
is several centuries worth of Irish mud that has been cut and dried under an
Irish sun (yes, there is such a thing), burning it takes a good deal care and
more than a great deal of planning. I
try to make either a Lincoln log style fort or the more customary tent out of
the longer strips. Then I put a compact
peat piece somewhere near the middle where it will catch most of the fire
starter’s flame. You know you’ve done
well if you can drop a match through a pre-arranged crack and sit back while
the fire starts up. Last night I had a
particularly beautiful fire going.
Which brings me to my third life
lesson. I was crocheting in front of
this wonderful fire, sipping pint of Guinness and watching Mel Gibson learn
what women want when I noticed that the plastic bag my yarn came in was adding
to the clutter around my feet. Thinking
this a simple problem, I kicked the bag into the fire. Of the funniest sounds in the world, I think
that the whomp a bag makes when it
goes up your chimney has to be one of the greatest. Well, the bag stuck in the flue. My cottage was quickly rolling with smoke and
after a few minutes of staring at this disaster in a kind of baffled disbelief,
I ran to the windows, threw them open and began to tear apart my fire. In case you’ve never been to Ireland, peat
smoke smells remarkably like burning hair or horse hooves. It’s not exactly pleasant. The coals, which are usually a blessing, now
were adding to chaos…they don’t go out easily and even after I had removed my
smoking peat, the fire still was rolling.
It took a good half an hour before the thing was reduced to a mess of glowing
embers and ash, during which time I had made and disregarded several plans on
how to fix this ridiculous situation. I
attempted to push a stick up the chimney, but because of the angle, nothing
would go far enough in. I tried vacuuming
the flue, but this only resulted in a pile of soot falling onto the embers and
creating yet another wave of foul smelling smoke. I opened a vent and tried vacuuming that, but
all I achieved was a face full of soot and the realization that the vent doesn’t
connect with the chimney. I looked
outside, but in the dark and the rain I quickly decided that climbing onto the
roof was a horrible idea.
I know when I’m licked. I went to bed last night covered in soot,
reeking of smoke and freezing while I waited for the gas heat to warm up my
cottage. This morning I had to swallow
my pride and ask for help…one of the wonderful cottage managers came over with
a long, pliable piece of plastic and managed to pull the bag down. So I am pleased to say that I am writing this
in front of a peat fire, sipping my coffee and chuckling over how quickly one
little whomp can flush a perfectly
peaceful evening down the toilet. I
think that I’ll spend the rest of my day making some challah bread (which I will
raise in front of the fire) later and maybe finish learning about Mel and what
women want. For right now, I’m perfectly
happy listening to the birds sing, the fire crackle and the wind whistle. There’s no place like Ireland in the
springtime.
~K
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