Signs of Athboy

Our friend H is visiting from Santa Cruz. We picked her up at the airport in Dublin then spent three days exploring the Boyne Valley, home of New Grange and other Neolithic treasures. I will probably post about that trip soon. But first, this collection of signs and shopwindows found in Athboy, a nice little town near our B&B.





"Sold by public auction" means that a family that had collected rent from the entire town for hundreds of years had to sell it off because they didn't want to pay the death taxes. The tenants were able to purchase their own homes and busiensses at reasonable rates and loans. The world needs higher death taxes, that's for sure.  

At a home decor store. The last snake in Ireland. 

Tlactga is an ancient site only a mile from town. Samhain rituals have been revived there recently. 

Who is that in the window? 

Green Cross is not what it means in California. 

Full service town

What We Burn

When we first moved to this house, I didn't know what to do with this little fireplace. No door? And so small? So inefficient, I sniffed, missing my Irish Wexford woodstove back in Santa Cruz. 

Now I build a campfire in the living room every night,  I wouldn't want to live without one. 

In California, we have a cord of wood delivered to the driveway. Here, we buy solid fuel at the gas station. 

"Logs" are 6-inch pine rounds and quarters from plantation-grown trees about 8 inches around.  Neat little wooden cubes, but I don't like them. 

Logs burning at Patsy Dan's pub. 

"Turf" is the traditional fuel of song and legend. Locals still cut and dry it in nearby bogs. Sold by the sack for €5. Smells great, but isn't as warm as wood. It's basically dried compost. The fuel of poor people in a land missing its stolen trees. 

"Briquettes" are processed turf. Neat rectangles, in bales of twenty for €5. People tell me manufacture will end soon because they contribute CO2—both when burned, and via the opened bog land. I like them best. 

We can get three kinds of coal at the gas station. We buy the middle-priced one, "Columbian coal," three bags for €25. It seems exceedingly cheap for something that heavy coming such a long distance. We go through that much in a month. 

I love coal. A lump of coal is a magical stone that burns, even when wet.  Just build a little fire with sticks under the black lumps that quickly catch fire and send out a lovely heat. They store indefinitely with no bugs or rot. 

You might sniff and say "burning solid fuel for heat and entertainment is so inefficient," I know. But I didn't have any kids, so I get to do what I want. 

Snowdrops, Daffodils, and Primeroses

This post is about flowers. I think the next one will be about birdsong.

Our second winter in Ireland ended on St. Bridget's Day, February 1, with arrival snowdrops. 

Bridget's Cross on Bridget's Snow

I had never heard of snowdrops until my friend invited me to a celebration of snowdrops at Glenveagh Castle Garden. 

Glenveagh is the national park about 30 minutes' drive from us. We've been there many times, hiking the trails. Apparently the garden is world-famous, but I never entered its walls. Seeing it for the first time in winter gives me a baseline. 

 

First, we had a nice tea in the gardener's cottage. 





That deer is the emblem of the castle. 





Photo of the former gardener who worked at the castle for 50 years. 




Present gardener, Sean, naming the snowdrop varieties for us.




Snowdrop enthusiasts breed and collect hundreds of varieties. 




Sean and the assistant gardener. 



About a dozen people came to the Snowdrop festival, including a writer who had rented one of the houses in the park, which is an old estate. Sean asked her who she was and what she was doing in Donegal. She put her palm to her chest and shook her head, saying politely that she was a private person and didn't want to answer. 

That was weird. Later, in the gardener's cottage she apologized, saying she spends a lot of time alone. My friend and I said if you're looking to be a solitary writer, don't come to rural Ireland. Everyone will know your business whether you want to or now. If you want privacy, move to Dublin. 

Rural Ireland is a perfect place for a writer to live, especially a village like Dunfanaghy which has a tradition of accepting its eccentrics. People will leave you alone, for sure. But don't be shocked if they ask you your story. 




Sean said his topiary represents Celtic knots. 


The Glenveagh garden in early February. 

After snowdrops in late January, the daffodils arrive a few weeks later.  

As the daffodils fade, in creep the Primroses.  





There they are, small and yellow, growing in the grass at the edge of the pine plantation. 






As spring rises, I spend even more time watching the clouds and feeling the fresh air on my face.  Spring is coming on fast.