Our New Neighbor

There's a rooster next door to our new house in France. I would love to hear him crow as the sun rises, welcoming the day like the big red one on the Kellogg's cereal box. How quaint, how rustic not to be awakened by the incessant beep, beep of Paul's favorite torture device but by the rooster's call to action.
Unfortunately, this particular rooster's crowing is not limited to sunrise. Is this normal or have all the anthropomorphic kid movies and cartoons led me to believe a falsehood? Do all roosters crow whenever they get the urge?
Monsieur Coq sings his plaintive song at all hours. He's like the grandfather clock chiming the hour and half hour,increasing chimes to tell the time. At midnight, 2am, 4am, etc. he startles me from sleep, sounding for a moment like Leo's infant cry, stirring up cry-shock from those early days of constant feeds and no sleep.
Will his crowing become soothing to me as days pass? Will it fade into the background like so many things do-- the DART gliding by, magpies screeching, and the 3am revelers noisily returning from the pub.

 

Various

Happy Chinese New Year!

Believe it or not, in our small town in Ireland there are red lanterns strung across the Main St. for the Chinese holiday. There will be a parade tomorrow too.
Would you ever have thought?

Paul and I have decided we can't leave without going on a pub crawl. Albeit, it will just be around Bray, but it's a pub crawl nonetheless. We'll take photos of all our favorite spots and mix the Guinness with bracing air between pubs. Wish us good craic. 7 days to go......

Quickie

It's been a mad couple of weeks around here and I haven't had the time to post. My notes are piling up but will have to take a backseat to the boxes that are also sitting in piles, four feet high, all over the house.

Our final day is next Thursday so this is officially the last week in Ireland. After nearly five years, it's all reduced to one week. Life is like that. My friends here can never be matched and their love and support is so greatly appreciated now.

So, more to come....when the dust settles I will have an onslaught of posts for you to read. Anyone?

And maybe even a new blog for the French phase of this shared adventure we call living!

Happy Birthday Sofia!

St Patrick’s Enemies

There are no snakes in Ireland. Most people know this and the story of how St Patrick ran them off the island. It is a remarkable feature, somewhat making up for the day long rain shower or grey summer day. 
I grew up in East Texas. St Patrick never set foot in the piney woods and the marshy lands there are rife with snakes. When people think of Texas, it is the rattlesnake slipping through the harsh desert--tongue flicking, rattling tail a warning of his dangerous presence--that usually comes to mind. 
As a girl I was most afraid of the cotton-mouth or water moccasin that lived in the small pond on my Aunt Barb's farm. They're called cotton-mouths because when they open wide to hiss and show their fangs, inside is pure white, almost blue like fresh milk. Or cotton as the name suggests. 
There was a path around the pond overgrown with sugar cane, standing in crowded clumps on the banks, yielding sugary syrup when broken. We would play around the pond, chewing on the sweet reedy insides of the sugar cane, imagining ourselves as wild things, pirates, explorers of unchartered land. But always in the back of my mind were the long shiny snakes that would lie among the cane and then quickly slide into the murky water and swim around, heads sticking out of the water as their bodies trailed behind in a smooth swish.
Home from school one afternoon we encountered a fat rattlesnake sunning herself on our paving stones. She met a quick end thanks to my mother. And if you ever went for a walk in the woods, you took care when stepping over felled logs and sidestepped large rocks for fear of one of St Patrick's enemies being rudely awakened from a cozy nest underneath. 
All this is to say that when I first moved here I could not get used to the no snakes thing. When we would hike with the kids I'd always check the ground as we went. Sticks lying on the path would startle me and I continued to step wide over logs. Sitting on tree trunks for a picnic I would scan the area for any signs of rattling leaves. I'm finally, after nearly 5 years, used to it. And it's bliss. The only dangers here are stinging nettles and soggy shoes. 


So, number one on my list of 'things I will miss about Ireland' has to be no snakes. 

above photo: a hike with no worries

They Pull You Back In

We have been working on the move to France for nearly 9 months now. It's like a fourth child that continues to be late…late….late.

First we were going to go on temporary visas for 4 months until our permanent ones came in….that didn't happen. Then we had to renew the big kids' passports before we could get their permanent visa. Then Christmas came and understandably nothing happened. We planned on taking the ferry across in January but the ferry doesn't run in January. So, visas came through but we couldn't leave.

Paul has a work trip to the States that came up for February so we decided to wait until that's done. The big girl's birthday is early February so of course we have to do that here before we can leave. And finally, date picked for the big move. All systems go.

AND…….

The announcement that Paul's team meeting would be, of all places, HERE IN IRELAND! It's never been here before. Instead of spending our first week figuring out our new French lives, the meeting is here.

So, one more week. Am I not supposed to leave Ireland? This is becoming strangely strange.

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000199/

The Perfect Cuppa

I've got a lot on my mind at the moment with the move getting closer. I am overwhelmed. Anyway, I thought a post might help to calm my nerves. And I got to thinking…..what would the Irish do?

When things get tough and you need to steady yourself, you can either a) have a stiff drink---not recommended on a Friday morning or b) have a cup of tea.

Admittedly, any British person would do the same as regards the tea but I'm talking about being in Ireland, so.

First of all, you should know that there is an art to making a proper pot of tea. Of course we do the single tea bag and boiling water double dunk here too but for those times when a good cuppa is in order you have to follow some rules.

Before anything else, you have to have good tea. Here it's okay to do bagged tea as long as it's Barry's. Next, you have to prepare the teapot. You can either fill it with very hot tap water or boil a kettle (everyone has electric kettles here) for this purpose. While the water warms the teapot you can boil your kettle full of water for the tea. Never boil the same kettle of water twice as the bubbles from the first boil do something very bad to the taste of the tea when reboiled. Then when your freshly boiled water is ready you empty the teapot of its warm contents, add your teabags and pour over boiling water. A quick stir and lid on for the tea to steep.

Some people like it weaker so they request the 'first pour'. Others don't mind and can drink it down to the last, burnt umber cup. If you sip slowly and yours gets too cool you can always ask for a 'hot drop' to warm and strengthen it up.

Of course there's the milk. To do it the old way, you pour warmed full-fat milk in the bottom of your cup and then top up with tea. This allows you to see how diluted it will be and make sure it's to your liking. Some take sugar, some don't.

Tea made, perhaps a warm scone with cream and jam, you relax. Ahhhh. The first sip of tea is heaven. It quenches thirst, warms your bones, and is a balm for windblown and frayed nerves. Of course the experience is enhanced by the wit, laughter and company of good friends.

Anyone for a cuppa? I feel better already.

Irish Crush

I'm a terrible one for crushes. I think guys are cute and I haven't lost my appreciation for them just because I've gotten older and have a wonderfully handsome husband. Mine are all unattainable, no one I know or will ever meet. Most of you know of my tearful appreciation of Brad Pitt induced by my first pregnancy. I don't think any of us could say we're too old or mature to eschew the fun giddiness of the crush. And if the New Moon audience's sighs of appreciation when Taylor Lautner revealed his impeccable pecs are anything to go by, I am certainly not alone. Although, for the record, I am an Edward girl.

I simply feel it wouldn't be fair to move here and not find an Irish hunk to crush on. Don't laugh but mine is the rugby player, Brian O'Driscoll. He embodies all things masculine and healthily Irish to me. His dimples, wavy hair and smiling eyes, coupled with playing what is to me the most manly sport, make him irresistible. A few years ago O2 had an ad campaign with Ireland's rugby players emerging from the sea on the sides of buses all over the Dublin area. Brian's larger-than-life image breaking through the waves, game face on, rugby ball firmly tucked under the arm did it for me.

Paul has his Irish crush as well. You didn't think I was selfish in this did you? Rachel Allen does it for him. She's a 'cookery program' host, author and teacher at Ballymaloe (pronounced Ballymaloooo) a well-known Irish bed & breakfast/cookery school in East Cork. I think I can speak for Paul when I say that he appreciates her beauty as well as her wrap dresses that sometimes reveal a bit of décolletage as she whips up a tasty weeknight dinner.

Anyone else have a crush? Fancy someone others may not find attractive, say Jeff Goldblum?