A Dutch Interlude

We took a brief leave of absence from Ireland to visit a friend of Kathy’s from her year in France.  Emerens lives in Utrecht, Holland, a quaint yet buzzing city forty-five minutes by train from Amsterdam.

And it was a wonderful trip.  

Utrecht is a beautiful city that oozes Dutchness—canals, gabled buildings, bricked streets. 

And bicycles. 

Hundreds and hundreds and thousands and thousands of bicycles.  There is something enchanting about a city that pulses to rhythm of turning spokes.  A rhythm that is lively.  And whimsical.  It’s lovely. 

I was fortunate enough to experience bicycle riding in Holland in two ways.  First as a passenger on the back of Emerens’ bike, sitting Dutch style—sideways, ankles tucked—Thursday evening and Friday morning.  Then it was decided in the interest of saving Emerens’ legs and my tailbone that renting a bike would be a wise decision.

It was.       

And much more enjoyable way to see the city for both of us.    

Friday morning Kathy, Emerens and I explored the city through biking and walking.  We ate breakfast outside at a café along a canal, watching Utrecht wake up.  Afterwards, we visited the Dom, the church and symbol of Utrecht.  It is beautiful, and the tower dominates the skyline in a soft, unobtrusive sort of way.  The small garden inside the courtyard of the church is equally beautiful. 

 

The afternoon was spent strolling the streets between and along the canals, bopping in and out of shops.

That evening we created a progressive dinner for ourselves—tapas first—Hola, España!, then Italian for dinner—Buonasera, Italia!  The Italian restaurant was at canal level, offering splendid views of passing boats and the buildings above. 

Saturday was an especially wonderful day.  It began with a bit of a lazy morning, lounging in the sun on Emerens’ balcony, eating breakfast, reading and chatting.  Then we packed a picnic lunch and headed to the park. 

Is there anything more glorious then spreading a blanket on the grass and lying in the sun with friends and food? 

We had the most beautiful weather for such an occasion. 

 

The waddling ducks make for much more pleasant company than the more frequently-found pigeons that tend to pester. 

We packed up what was left of our lunch, that is to say much less than there was initially, and biked to the section of the canal from which we began our kayaking excursion. 

An excursion of grand proportions. 

I got off to a bit of a rocky start, to say the least.  I missed the first turn, a hard right to pass under the bridge.  But not before careening into a group of four women split between two two-person kayaks.  After I more or less paddled my way out of that mess, I paddled furiously to avoid the large boat coming through the bridge.  Which is why I missed that turn and rammed into the brick wall of the canal. 

Is anyone counting?  That’s two collisions.  Within a minute of one another.  And I hadn’t even passed the first check-point. 

I managed to turn the kayak around and paddle under the bridge, at which point I broke into hysterical laughter.  The kind where the sound is stifled before it breaks, because the breath is completely knocked out.   But then it comes with the next intake of air—loudly and in uncontrollable fits.  There were tears streaming down my face.  Kathy looked worried and asked if everything was okay.  I managed to sputter that everything was fine, it was just hysterically funny how terrible of a kayaker I was and that it was going to be a long day on the water.  When I was under control enough to listen, Kathy and Emerens offered a demonstration of how to turn more quickly and efficiently.  Jab the paddle in the water on the side of the boat in which you want to turn.  Simple enough.    

I would say it was all smooth sailing from that point onwards, but as Emerens pointed out towards the end of the day, I managed to find all the corners, be it narrow or wide passages in the canal. 

But it was a delightful way to take in downtown Utrecht and the surrounding areas.  Cities like Utrecht with extensive canal networks are meant to be seen from water level.  All of a sudden the buildings became more dramatic and the trees more majestic, forming a canopy of leaves overhead. 

 

We paddled through some especially beautiful areas we couldn’t have appreciated otherwise from biking or walking through the streets. 

And had the best time doing so. 

 

That evening after Dutch-style pancakes for dinner at Emerens’ apartment, we packed another picnic of sorts—beers and salty snacks—to enjoy in another park while watching the light of the day transform from Evening’s golden to Dusk’s cobalt blue.

 

The transformation was signified by the glow of the street lamps, which we took as our cue to pack up and bike through the streets of Utrecht, taking in its nighttime atmosphere.  I love how all cities transform at night, revealing an altogether different character than the one they otherwise assume during the day.  A character created through lighting, silhouettes in various forms and the people enjoying a later part of the day. 

Utrecht has an especially lovely nighttime personality. 

The soft glow of street lamps create beautiful reflections of the ancient, towering trees in the waters of the canal they line.  A palpable vibrancy hangs in the air from locals dining outside, murmurs of conversation mixing with that distinct sound of cutlery on china.  And around nearly every corner are various peeks and views of the Dom, with its clock faces illuminated and glowing. 

 

It was a fitting end to a wonderful, wonderful day. 

An end.  Isn’t that a terrible word? 

And, yet, it has arrived all the same.  Kathy flies home today while I stay on in Ireland for just a bit longer.    

I am reminded of my graduation from DePauw, one year ago today, and swinging—for hours and hours and hours into the night—on the porch at Alpha Phi with wonderful girls.  We were all in that surreal state.  That How-did-this-day-arrive? state.  I think we were all hoping that if we just kept swinging, we could hang on a little bit longer.  Time could stretch a little bit further.  Tomorrow could seem a little bit further away. 

They are silly thoughts, of course.  And despite the hope, it is the realization of the end that hurts.  The sickening obviousness of it all.  It brings with it that heavy, sinking feeling—that achy, empty pit in the stomach.  An emptiness that seems to worsen with the not-knowing of the next when and where, your heart’s way of telling you that separating from people who are so dear, with whom you share so many wonderful memories, could not possibly be, is not in any way, right.   

That memory of swinging into the night is one I think of often.  It recalls a mixture of emotions but clarifies and solidifies the most important bits and pieces of those four years.

In a lot of ways, that last night at DePauw reminds me of this experience Kathy and I have shared together.  A drawn-out, grand swing of sorts.  Memories and laughter to hold dearly until time and space bring us together again.  Which could never be soon enough.  But regardless of when and where, and however long the interlude in between, everything will fall right back into place.  And swing away, again, we will. 

Of this, I’m sure. 

Return to the Mill

That sounds like it could be the title of a Nancy Drew mystery novel, doesn’t it?

The bad news is—this isn’t a Nancy Drew mystery novel. 

The good news is—this isn’t a Nancy Drew mystery novel. 

Kathy and I departed from the farm, and Northern Ireland, last Thursday and traveled to County Donegal.  And more specifically, Malin Head—the most northern point in Ireland.  We stayed at a lovely bed and breakfast for two nights and spent most of our time hiking around the peninsula.    

Thursday evening we actually walked around the peninsula, following the lane up, down and around.  We had beautiful vistas of countryside and the ocean beyond. 

And along the way we made several stops—at Ireland’s most northernly shop, Ireland’s most northernly restaurant and Ireland’s most northernly pub, as stated prominently, and proudly, on the signage for the shop, the restaurant and the pub. 

Friday we hiked for several hours in various parts of Malin Head.  We walked down to Five-Finger Strand, a beach named because of the five rocks that jut out from the main cliff.

We walked down the beach along the water

and back through the sand dunes, some of the tallest in Europe. 

On the way back, we took a bit of a detour to find the passage grave marked on the map.  Passage graves date back to the Pagan era in Ireland and they are commonly found on the crests of hills.  This particular tribe of pagans found a really steep hill.  And although the pile of stones that looked more like a pile of rubble than a grave was a bit disappointing,

the view from the top was not in the least. 

We tramped down the other side of the hill and picked up the main road again after squelching through boggy heather and returned to the B&B. 

After a cup of tea and a bit of a rest, we had a bite to eat at Ireland’s most northernly restaurant before walking to Banba’s Crown.  The most northernly point of the most northernly part of Ireland. 

It was a lovely place to watch the sun go down. 

We sat in the grass and became enveloped by the whole experience.  The colors of the clouds and sky, transforming as the sun sank lower.  The deafening combination of the forceful whoosh of the wind off the water and the crash of the waves below.  The invisible flight trails of seabirds dipping, diving, gliding.  The wild, remote nature of the setting coupled with the vastness of the ocean extending beyond evoked that feeling of being small.  But in a good type of way and one that results from being filled with awe and wonder.  I find it incredibly refreshing.

 

Saturday, a day that proved to be quite the memorable one, we left Malin Head and headed to the southern end of Donegal.  The original plan was to stay at a hostel in Malin Beg, a town near Slieve League—the two-thousand-foot seaside cliffs we planned to hike the next day. 

I’ll go ahead and come out with it now.  There will be no pictures of Malin Beg. 

The bus was only able to take us within twenty miles of our hostel.  Looking back, this should have registered as the first Red Flag.  Hindsight is twenty-twenty, isn’t it? 

You should try hitching, said the proprietor of the hostel in an e-mail response after I inquired about a suggestion as to how we might complete the journey. 

At this point, before anyone suffers from a panic attack, let me point out a couple of things.  This is being written after the fact.  And hitching is a common practice in Ireland.  And why not?  Well, I know why not, but we decided that with there being two of us, it was safe(r). 

We went to a café, had a cup of tea to settle our nerves, made a sign that read MALIN BEG and then set off to stake out a spot along the road that is suitable for this type of thing.  The following being what we deemed necessary characteristics: the side of the road with traffic flowing in the direction of desired destination, high visibility for drivers and, most importantly, a pull-over area. 

We found a perfect spot.  Wouldn’t it be funny if the very first car stopped?, I said. 

The very first car stopped.  Before Kathy fully showed the piece of paper. 

We were in absolute stitches of laughter.  Too easy, we said. 

Our first driver took us about half way, asked why we were staying in Malin Beg (Red Flag) and then left us along side the main road.  You’ll have a better chance at getting a ride from here, he said.    

This was taken right after we were dropped off.  We were still riding that this-is-too-easy wave. 

Forty-five minutes and two rain showers and too many “Why isn’t anyone stopping?-s” (Red Flag) and the-novelty-of-this-is-really-starting-to-wear-off later, someone finally did. 

I’ll tell you why no one stopped. 

Malin Beg is actually at the end of the earth.  When I said it was a town earlier, that was a lie.  Town would imply there was a place to eat, maybe a shop or two, a pub, people.  The reason why the couple that picked us up even did so was because they didn’t know where Malin Beg was.  If they had known, they wouldn’t have stopped.  Kathy and I would still be standing with our sign on the roadside. 

But it was when we turned off the main road and drove for five miles through some of the most desolate, barren, bleak landscape I have ever seen—and I really dislike superlatives—that I started to get a bad feeling.

And then we arrived at the hostel.  It was cold.  And dark.  And eerie.  That bad feeling worsened.  The surrounding ocean only heightened that desperate isolation feeling that was sinking in. 

Then we met the proprietor.  Suddenly the hostel became colder, darker and more eerie.  That bad feeling worsened still.  He showed us to our room, we dropped our backpacks and agreed to meet him downstairs.  I should mention that the couple that dropped us off was still with us and had gotten into a bit of a discussion about something or another with the owner.  Kathy and I quietly went upstairs and confirmed with one another that something was not quite right and what were we going to do? and there is nothing here and how are we ever going to get out of here tomorrow to hike the cliffs?

Kathy went across the street to investigate the shop labeled, with two sheets of computer paper (Red Flag), “Food Store.”  Standing from the steps of the hostel, I watched her come out not a minute later shaking her head and laughing nervously.  Get your stuff.  We’re leaving, she said.  Now. 

A rush of adrenaline ensued from that hurry-hurry feeling.  We wanted to skedaddle out of there without having an awkward confrontation with the proprietor.  Too much to ask?  

Of course.  We walked down the steps, backpacks on, only to find the owner and the couple that had dropped us off, finishing their conversation.  We thanked the couple, the woman of which, in the middle of the handshake, after realizing what was going on asked, You’re leaving?

Yes.  Yes, we are, we answered.  Kathy even threw in the phrase Bad Juju somewhere in the explanation.  An explanation that was never given directly to the proprietor, but one that I’m sure he overheard as he stood lurking in the doorway.

And then we started walking down that rural road surrounded by all the barren-, desolate-, bleak-ness.  We were mentally prepared to walk the five miles to the nearest town.  About one mile into our trek, a car pulled up beside us and asked if we would like a lift.  A car with four people and two dogs. 

It was a five-seater car.  But never mind that.    

Yes.  Yes, we would.  We crammed ourselves—and our backpacks—in and left Malin Beg more quickly that we would have on foot.  The quicker, the better as far as we were concerned.  They asked us where we wanted to go and we said Carrick, the town—a proper one with somewhere to eat, a couple of shops, a pub and people—mentioned by our first driver from which most Slieve League-bound hikers set out.

Fifteen minutes later, we were there.  Ten minutes after arriving, we were settled into a room in the guesthouse above the pub.  Chinese take-away for dinner helped bring us back.  So did the pints.  Yes, plural—we had had a day.

There will also be no pictures of Slieve League.  Between the rain, wind and low visibility due to fog and mist, hiking the cliffs was not feasible.  We emerged from our room that day only two times.  Both times we merely walked across the street to the grocery store for provisions. 

We needed a day to recover from the previous one, anyways. 

And on Monday we returned to the Mill.  Maybe I should say we came home.  Because that is exactly what it felt like.  Coming home.  The light, weightless steps of the journey, a manifestation of the excitement surrounding the return to a much-loved place.  And much-loved people.  Upon arrival—the  warm embraces, genuine laughter and deep sense that everything is how it should be.  An absolutely wonderful feeling.  One of comfort and contentedness.  And I have found it here, in Ireland, with Robin and Sarah—and Clovis—at the Mill. 

And for so many reasons, I am so glad we returned.  Since Monday, we have helped with a few things.  We planted trees, did a bit of weeding—and moved a gear box.  Actually, that last job—the moving-a-gear-box bit—was a four-person-sized job.  We laid boards across the race (where the water that eventually tumbles onto the wheel runs) and lifted, dragged, pulled it down the hill on the opposite side.  Then the gear box went into its permanent home—a big metal box near the spoke of the water wheel—which involved a bit more heaving and hoing.  It will eventually be rigged through a system of belts and pulleys (I think) to ensure the water wheel doesn’t move too quickly, as it would without the gear box, or too slowly, as it did with the previous one. 

And another reason to be grateful for the opportunity to return?  The garden.  During our absence, it came to life. 

The shallots and onions we sewed almost a month ago are thriving. 

As are the Fox Gloves we transplanted.  (Insert sigh of relief here.)

But having the opportunity to see the beds in bloom has perhaps been the most spectacular. 

Roses are budding, poppies popping. 

The colors are absolutely fantastic; it would have been a shame to have never seen this element of the garden's character.

Time certainly is a gift and I am very grateful to have had more of it in this special place and with these people that have become so dear to me. 

Return to the Mill Again, Part Deux, The Sequel?  Absolutely.  

Green Acres is the Place to Be

Is the song stuck in your head now?

My apologies.  But if Green Acres is referring to Ballylagan Organic Farm and if I was a cow, a pig or a chicken, even a vegetable, then this is the place to be. 

I would have to say, all things considered, Kathy and I make pretty good farm hands.  All things considered being that we’re city girls and lack knowledge when it comes to working with farm animals. 

Correction: lacked. 

 

Having spent a little over one week at the farm, I wouldn’t go so far as to say we are seasoned experts, but we are a little further away from the completely ignorant side of the spectrum than we were. 

Every morning begins with feeding the animals. 

First, the laying hens. 

Two bucketfuls of laying nuts and half of a bag of oats.  Oats that the farm has sewn, grown and harvested from its fields. 

While we’re visiting the hens, we collect the eggs and clean the laying boxes. 

Next, Stacey and her piglets.

Three-quarters of a bag of oats for this lot.  And a good morning scratch for Stacey.  She expects it.  

 

Check on the chicks.

Fill the drinkers and replenish the chick feed and oats. 

Then feed the six-to-nine-month-old pigs. 

Three bags of oats.  And try to get through the gate to their troughs before they swarm the gate and start squealing.  The shrill squeal of a pig rattles the nerves; it’s awful.     

Next up, Ricardo and Trixie.

Five scoop-fuls of oats for Mom-and-Dad-to-be.  And, yes, those are tusks.  And, no, I’m not sure how he sees with those ears flopped over his eyes.  Side-step the boar, repeat to yourself: “He is more interested in the oats.  He is more interested in the oats.”  And get to the trough.  Quickly.

Lastly, the broilers. 

So called for a reason.  One flock left Monday and returned Friday, albeit in slightly different form. 

Two bags of oats.  And pull up the feeders inside the coops so they will be more inclined to scratch around in the grass during the day.

And the cows take care of themselves out in the pasture. 

After all the animals have been fed, commence the rest of the day’s tasks: weeding, sewing seeds, weeding, cleaning chicken coops, weeding, watering seedlings, weedingweedingweeding. 

Use of Round-Up or Weed-B-Gone?  Prohibited.  Access DE-nied.  No-can-do.  Killing weeds is not organic.  The resulting aches and pains from all the pulling and bending?  That is very organic.   

But Kathy and I have found ways of entertaining ourselves when the bending and pulling becomes monotonous.  The other day we had to pull all of last season’s parsnips out of the soil.  After the first wheelbarrow-ful and the first trip to the compost heap

I turned to Kathy and asked, “How many wheelbarrows of parsnips do you think there are?”

“Ummm eight,” she replied.

I looked down the bed and laughed. 

“That’s funny.  Fourteen.”

Two and a half hours and more importantly—fourteen wheelbarrow-fuls—later, all of those parsnips were pulled.

In her defense, Kathy didn’t know she was up against the Queen of Estimation circa second grade. 

There is also the odd job or two that keeps things interesting, such as painting or stacking wood.  Rather, lobbing logs into a big heap.  

 

After learning how to stack wood more, shall we say elegantly?, at the market, this pile makes me cringe.  It resembles the Before Pile more so than the After Neatly Stacked Ricks, doesn’t it, Ron?  Things are done a little differently down on the farm.       

And then there is the odd job that keeps things very interesting. 

On Friday, we moved pigs. 

Now there’s a statement I never thought I would say.  We moved pigs.  As in, Kathy and I were actively involved in this process. 

Tom brought all sixteen of the six-to-nine-month-old pigs up from the field to the holding pen to select the six largest.  They left today and will return in a couple of weeks.  In the same way those chickens returned—slightly modified.

We were involved with the returning of the ten non-selected pigs back to their field.  Tom emerged from the grain room with a bag of oats, looked at me and asked, “You will be lead pig?”

At least, I thought it was a question.  It wasn’t. 

You will be Lead Pig. 

Something to add to the resume, I suppose. 

Tom explained The Plan.  He and Kathy would be down below, preventing the pigs from straying into the vegetable beds.  Patricia would be in the holding pen to open the gate and then bring up the rear. 

And I would run. 

Down the hill, around the corner past Kathy and Tom, through the first gate, across the field, through the second gate, over the bridge and into their field to dump the oats into the troughs. 

I would run with the oats, in my wellies, while calling the pigs like this, “Piggely-wigs!  Piggely-wigs!  Piggely-piggely-piggely-wigs!”

It’s okay—you can laugh; I did.  It was one of the more absurd things I have ever done—running in boots, with a heavy sack, calling pigs. 

And then Tom gave the shout from below.  I heard the slide of the gate’s metal latch and took off with that bag of oats, shouting through the winded breaths that result from laughing while running: “Piggely-wigs!  Piggely-wigs!  Piggely-piggely-piggely-wigs!” 

Down the hill.  Check.  Past Tom and Kathy.  Check.  Through the gate.  Check. 

Across the field.  Up to this point, I had a pretty good distance on my suitors.  Then I think they understood that I was Lead Pig. 

And by that I mean they eyed the oats. 

As a result, their lazy ambling turned into zippy trotting.  The distance between us closed—and a little too quickly.  I responded to their change of pace with a small scream and a shift in my own gears, that is, from a run to a sprint, to make it through the second gate, over the bridge and into their field—check, check, check—to the troughs. 

Mission accomplished. 

While the pigs gobbled, I snuck out of the field to help secure the gate and celebrate success with Kathy, Tom and Patricia. 

I wish I could say that we further celebrated the occasion with pork for dinner—but we cooked chicken that night.    

And that leads me to the next wonderful thing about Ballylagan: Tom and Patricia have an organic farm store directly underneath our flat.  They stock it full of their organically home-grown produce and organically raised pork, chicken and beef.  In addition, they bring in a wide array of dry, dairy and frozen organic goods and produce. 

Are you sick of reading the word “organic” and all of its variations yet? 

Kathy and I have access to everything.  For two girls who love to cook and love to eat, it is a dream come true.  We’ve made some delicious meals, too.  Pasta carbonara made with Ballylagan bacon and free-range eggs.  Ballylagan steaks with broccoli and home-made macaroni and cheese.  Mixed vegetable stir-fry with grated ginger and soy sauce over rice.  Sautéed Ballylagan chicken breasts with zucchini and roasted sweet potatoes.

Tonight we’re having a Ballylagan pork roast with roasted carrots, potatoes and fennel.   

But if it isn’t organic, the farm store doesn’t carry it. 

And some things, some non-organic things, are especially necessary after working on the farm all day. 

Notably—Advil.  And most notably—wine. 

Neither of which can be purchased at our local convenience store down the road. 

Never mind that—we have bike access.  And backpacks.

Kathy, being the more experienced bike rider, offered to ride that rusty metal excuse for a bike.  Cue the Wicked Witch of the West’s theme song.  Da de da de da deee de. Da de da de da deee de.  Because it’s tré traditional—and because one could very easily contract tetanus from riding it—we affectionately refer to it as “Trad Tet.”  Short for Traditional Tetanus, of course. 

Ballynure is three miles away, mostly down-hill and a beautiful, scenic ride.

But, as we discovered, the local grocery doesn’t carry wine.  Or Advil. 

We don’t give up easily, so we biked on.  Ballyclare is three miles from Ballynure, even further down-hill.  And we struck gold at its local grocery.  Advil?  Sixteen-count for twenty-five pence.  Wine?  Two bottles.  Note: not to be consumed all at once. 

Down-hill on the way there only means one thing.  Up-hill on the way back.  And the climb is a bit arduous with heavier backpacks and bikes that don’t seem to have low gears.  But those are rather insignificant bothers, far outweighed by the benefits otherwise provided. 

We’ve already made the journey twice. 

Pig and biking adventures aside, working on the farm has presented an incredible opportunity to learn, to appreciate, to understand.  Each day brings with it fresh insights.  About the beginning, middle and end of the growing process of vegetables and animals.  About the intensity of labor—and amount of time—that goes into that process when it is fueled by a passion for growing vegetables and rearing animals naturally. 

And with those insights, I have a newly found understanding of, and respect for, the organic process.  It is about getting back to the land and discovering the rhythm within it.  A celebration of the seasons and the special role each time of year has.  About adopting an altogether different perception about time; that is, more is more because good food—great food—grows slowly.  

These green acres have proven themselves to be rich in ways I didn’t expect, but in ways that will continue to resonate and influence within.