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IRELAND: The Sacred and The Profane, by The Wild Writing Women
IRELAND: The Sacred and The Profane, by The Wild Writing Women
The Sacred
and the Profane
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When I talk about the Irish passion for the otherworldly, I mean it in
every sense of the word.
Now, let me just pause here to address one issue. I know what you’re
thinking: like a typical American, she is clueless that the Republic of
Ireland and Northern Ireland are not the same country. No, I used to
frequent a San Francisco pub called Ireland’s 32 and I am well aware of
the political divide. The “32” in this tavern’s moniker was a nationalist
reference to the 32 counties of Ireland, six of which are now referred
to as Northern Ireland and are part of the UK, and the remaining 26
counties make up the Republic. However,
when visiting this island today, it seems as
if the expats at Ireland’s 32 have gotten their
wish: it is almost indistinguishable that these
are two separate sovereignties. Crossing over
the border feels more like going from California
into Oregon. For us foreign travelers, the only real
jolt comes when you slap your Euros on the bar at a
pub in Northern Ireland and learn that British Pound
Sterling is the legal tender.
The only real Trouble remains the weather, but the frequent rain
provides all the excuse you need to sit by the fire and listen to stories—
whether they be tales of the sacred or the profane.
Cathleen Miller
Editorial Dominatrix
letter
producer
from the
Sláinte! YOUR
COMMENTS
Carla King WELCOME!
Design & Production Dominatrix
www.CarlaKing.com
www.WildWritingWomen.com
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contents
SPECIAL Wild Writing Women: 2008
IRELAND SACRED SITES
ISSUE PAGANS Cram a Whole Lot of Fun
into the Shortest Night of the Year
Cathy Miller carries a torch for the Man O’Straw
The Cleansing Flames of
MODERATED DEBAUCHERY
Carla King on sex, drugs, and radical self-expression
The WISHING Stone
Lisa Alpine tucks herself beneath a Hawthorne bush
and wishes mightily
The TROUBLES
Suzanne LaFetra on when civilized people can’t
find a way to work it out
SAINTS be with Us!
Jacqueline Harmon Butler and
her personal saint F E AT U R E S
Cossetted at CROM CASTLE
Getting the royal treatment in Northern Ireland
SALVE for the SOLE in Dingle
Dick Mack’s: Salve for your sole and soul
Meet DISCO JACK
COLUMNS The Castle Leslie icon rocks on
Tara’s Palace
Welcome to the doll house
Avoca
Shopping for your inner Grande Dame
D u b l i n R E S TAU R A N T S
Bewley’s
Dubliners were dubious about the revamping of a favorite landmark, but all for naught
Still
Upscale dining at the Dylan Hotel on oysters and rump roast and quail, oh my!
The Shelbourne
The most civilized place in Dublin to stick out your pinky
Gruel
Eats that are worth braving a staunch mizzle
D u b l i n H OT E L S
Lay Lady Lay: A Night with Dylan
A sumptuous, five-star snooze in one of Dublin’s finest crash pads
Road Reversal
A how-to guide for driving on the road less traveled Reports
Calling Home Vitamin G
Loosen that death grip on your cell phone Why Guinness is good for youse
The Ongoing Battle between Metric The Dublin Writers Festival
and Imperial Drooling over the annual lit fest
How not to get caught in the crossfire
Change for Good
The Winged Bus UNICEF’s handy scheme for putting your pulas to good use
Flying on the cheap with Ryan Air
Irish Arts Roundup
Links to Help You Get There A wee guide to the best in film, literature, and music
How to phone home, rent a car, find a pub,
or book a month in a farmhouse Salsa O’Dublin
A wild dancing woman braves the scene
Cairn
a rounded or conical heap of
stones marking your grave
before or after youse have
drunk poteen with a no-hoper.
Youse: plural form of you, as in:
Conversation
“We’ve fixed youse girls up with a
couple of no-hopers for the evening.
They’re bringing the poteen.”
Wee: something that is nice.
So if a man says, “ You’re a wee lass,” and
you’re self-conscious because you’ve put on a few
pounds, no need to slap the sarcastic bastard.
o f ? ”
s
er leas e
l i t p
l i ,
m il ness
4 7 3 u i n
“ G
If it weren’t confusing enough driving on the
wrong side of the road or tr ying to figure out if
you need Euros or Pounds to spring for another
round, in Ireland you can really get your mental
k nickers in a twist because they use both the
metric and imperial systems of measurement.
Officially, Ireland has gone metric. The Republic, because it’s part of the
E.U., and the North because Britain is attempting to join everyone on earth
(except the wildly advanced societies of Liberia, Myanmar and our own
U.S. of A.) in adopting the metric system. But people are a wee bit sluggish
when it comes to change, so most folks in Ireland will tell you their weight in
stone. And on some roads, the distance signs are metric, but speed limits are
posted in miles per hour. (Not that they actually say that, mind you, you’re just
supposed to figure it out.) Oh yeah, and a British pint is 20% more than the
Yank equivalent. Sláinte!
What’s a travelin’ lass to do?
Well, Lonely Planet has conveniently printed a conversion chart on the inside
cover of your guidebook. And you can purchase tiny, unreadable-without-a-
microscope cards that fit into a wallet. My cell phone has a calculator func-
tion. But while geeking out with your various conversion tools, you just might
miss out on the conversation with Sean McGorgeous on the barstool next to
you.
cut here
P
TI
EL
e
pin
Road Reversal
AV
Al
isa
TR
L
by
Pamela Michael
N o ! Y o ur
L e f t ! No!
Left! ! < e e k s !>
FT
OTHER LE
As one of the designated drivers on Wild
Writing Women expeditions I felt cer tain
I could handle a little road reversal in
I reland, where they drive on the left.
I attribute my amazing driving sk ills to
luck brought to me by the $1 tip that
Jack ie Stewar t, one of the greatest
racecar drivers ever and three -time
Formula One World Champion, gave
me during my waitressing stint in
Switzerland. A blessing of sor ts. I n
fac t, I’m an exceptionally good driver,
day or night— except for the minor
handicap of being dyslexic, an issue
that unexpec tedly reared its confusing,
reversing head at ever y turn on the I rish
roadways. Those lovely Wild Writing
Women backseat drivers would say, quite
civilly at first, “ Turn left at the light.” I
would veer right without a clue that
I was headed in the wrong direc tion.
Problematic to say the least. H ysteria
arose in a cacophony from the backseat,
as they screamed in unison,
“RIGHT! RIGHT! RIGHT!”
Carla came up with a solution to my arising dyslexia
and instruc ted the backseat drivers, “Shut up and just
use hand signals.” We found that a graceful swoop of
the hand toward the desired driving direc tion would
produce successful results and a positive response
from their confused chauffeur. Coincidentally, it was
also about this time that Carla introduced the term
“nagivator.” (See our dic tionar y for definition.)
Why the Irish drive on the lef t
About a quar ter of the world drives on the
left, and the countries that do are mostly
old British colonies. This strange quirk
perplexes the rest of the world, but there is
a per fec tly good reason.
I n the past, almost ever ybody traveled
on the left side of the road because that
was the most sensible option for feudal, violent societies.
Since most people are right-handed, swordsmen preferred to
k eep to the left in order to have their right arm nearer to an
opponent and their scabbard fur ther from him.
Fur thermore, a right-handed person finds it easier to mount a
horse from the left side of the horse. I t is safer to mount and
dismount on the side of the road, rather than in the middle of
traffic, so if one mounts on the left, then the horse should be
ridden on the left side of the road. Mak es sense!
Suzanne and I both arrived in Ireland via London, which at the time had
an onerous one-bag-only carry-on policy; you could board with a purse
or computer bag or briefcase or tote. Little old ladies were sobbing at
check-in and I had my undies strewn all over the airport as I repacked.
Security has since eased up, but double-check on these and other
luggage requirements at your destination airport before you go.
To make your trip successful, here are some items the Wild Writing
Women wouldn’t head to Ireland without.
—Cathleen Miller
Lisa must have: Jacqueline must have:
Clean hands A reliable wake-up call
Salsa O’Dublin
A wild dancing woman braves a strange scene
by Cathleen Miller
RYAN AIR
READ THEIR
TERMS AND
CONDITIONS
C L O S E LY
P
DU
UN
RO
“The same stuff we use at Mass. Incense, candles, statues, flowers. All
that stuff. Occult and Catholics, it’s like a big old magical mystery trip,
man,” Mary laughed ironically.
“The mystical part of Catholicism is what I’ve always liked about it. It’s the
other stuff that got to me,” June said seriously.
“Yeah, I guess it’s true. Catholic girls can make good witches,” June
admitted.
“Of course you’d think that way, you heathen pagan,” Mary snickered
teasingly.
ID
AS Ireland, and beyond. It’s a common
torture. Listen, cringe, laugh, but learn
O
DI
Change
RE
for Good
by Suzanne LaFetra
You may have spent your last Euro on an overpriced airport snack, but
you likely have a few leftover coins weighing you down. Rather than
letting those foreign coins clink around on the bottom of your purse or
clang around in your dryer or annoyingly migrate around your bureau
top for the next few decades, lighten your load.
If you reach into that all-too-close seat pocket in front of you, you’ll find
a nifty little envelope into which you can drop your leftover Rupees or
Pesos or Pulas (if you happen to have trekked through Botswana.) Use
one of those twelve in-flight hours (say, between the second bad movie
and your rousing exercise program of ankle
circles) to fish the spare change from your
pockets. Flag down the friendly flight at-
tendant who is trying to make your middle-
seat-in-coach experience a tad less grueling.
Hand over the jingling UNICEF Change for
Good envelope. Voilá, you have now helped
to support health clinics and education for
the world’s most impoverished kids.
Since 1987 UNICEF has been doing travelers
a little favor by gathering their unwanted
Which is 377,000,000
pulas, in case you
were wondering.
CLICK TO VISIT
PAGANS
cram a lot of fun
into the shortest
night of the year
by Cathleen Miller
Pamela Michael
WHEN?
was the last time you got
to march down a mountain
at midnight carrying a
flaming torch? An honest-
to-god flaming torch, not
some hollow plastic wand
with an orange light bulb
feebly glowing at the end.
Pamela Michael
PAGANS
There’s probably an ordinance against it
There’s probably an ordinance against flaming
torches in your neighborhood—just as there
is against dancing with an open container,
wearing a straw costume while leaping a
bonfire, bagpipe playing after dark—well,
bagpipe playing at all. But in Northern Ireland
we witnessed pagans perpetrating these
reckless acts. And happily joined in.
Word had spread that a group of Wild Writing Women were staying
at Crom Castle and an invitation arrived to celebrate the Midsummer
Festival at the Aughakillymaude Community and Mummers’ Centre.
We weren’t quite clear what a mummer was, but there would be
an ancient pagan ritual and a bonfire up on Knockninny Hill. This
we understood. We had eagerly anticipated the evening, but as rain
skeltered down all afternoon—a local expression for a downpour
blowing sideways—our enthusiasm dampened. However, I put on
jeans, two sweaters, my Blunderstone boots, an ankle-length black
raincoat and a wool flat cap I found in the boot room of the castle. I
PAGANS
This wearing o’ the straw goes back to
the Iron Age, a tradition to celebrate the
coronation of the high kings of Ulster.
Pamela Michael
PAGANS
a get-up that was made to be burned. To be called a “straw man”
meant you had no property of consequence.
As the townsfolk hiked up the mountain, a white-haired
gentleman explained that the Catholic Church had
appropriated the solstice holiday by joining it with the
festival for St. John on June 23. “Are you a pagan or a
Catholic?” I queried.
“Both. You’ll find the Christianity here doesn’t go
very deep.” As we struggled up the rocky path, he
fell down and I asked if he was okay. “Yep, I’m
made of rubber.”
Some of the elderly and infirm piled aboard
a tractor that chugged up the narrow
trail ahead of us. One strapping man in
his 50s ran to catch up. “Emergency!
I’ve got the first aid!” He climbed
aboard carrying a cooler, which
I later learned was full of
PAGANS
At 11:00 pm it was still not dark.
beer. “Oh, I drove my tractor through your hangar last night!” he
sang at full volume.
At the summit we stood atop Knockninny Hill, which—dating
back to 3000 B.C.—is actually a cairn, an ancient burial place
marked by piles of stones. Around us lay the fertile green
valleys of County Fermanagh, dotted by white specks of grazing
livestock. The pastureland was parted by the glassy sapphire
of Lough Erne, an enormous inland waterway that stretches
50 miles from Donegal to Cavan. The lake appeared like an
illuminated sapphire because it mirrored the twilight sky, which
in honor of the pagans, had cleared to a soft, humid blue as the
first stars of evening made their debut.
The bonfire blazed on the rocky soil, as Carla, Suzanne, Pam,
and I milled around meeting the locals, curious to find out what
would happen next. The medic, who looked a bit like James
Coburn, disembarked from the tractor with his first aid cooler,
and offered me a warm Heineken. “What’s your name?” I asked.
PAGANS The bagpiper led the parade, and his
caterwauling rang into the night air. The
mummers marched round and round the
bonfire, and as I watched their pointed
hoods silhouetted against the flames, a
chill went through me, as if I were back
home in the South at a Ku Klux Klan
meeting.
AUDIO ASIDE
Click to listen to Sean
and Eugene improvise
a verse of Farewell,
Fermanagh.
The Troubles
Suzanne LaFetra
Carla King
My trip to Northern Ireland was a A brief history: 400 years ago
welcome relief from my American British settlers (mostly Protestants)
life, where I am right smack in the confiscated land owned by native
middle of a divorce. Most of my Catholics in Northern Ireland
travel companions had been through creating the Plantation of Ulster.
it, and understood when I slunk off The Brits banned the locals from
to brood. And I could sink into the owning land; they slashed political
culture of another place—a place rights, and punished those who
where divorce wasn’t even legal a wouldn’t conform to the Anglican
few years ago, by the way—and Church.
get lost in a foreign world. Each
Not surprisingly, the Catholics didn’t
night, I settled under the downy
care for the shoddy treatment, and
comforter in my small room tucked
over time a nationalist movement
into the West Wing of Crom
grew. The Protestants, a minority in
Castle, listening to the skeltering
Catholic-dominated Ireland, tended
rain outside, and reading stories
to support continuing rule from
about The Long War, the Famine,
Britain. Although the situation has
Ulster, the IRA, a history of conflict
become much more complicated
going back hundreds of years. “The
and tangled over time, those are the
Troubles,” as everyone in Ireland
roots of the problem. Fundamental
calls them, refers to a 30-year stretch
differences in power, in beliefs.
of violence that ended only a short
Irreconcilable differences, you might
time ago with the signing of the
call them.
Belfast Agreement of 1998.
One bloody Friday, the bombs exploded
Another brief history: My husband and I got married a decade ago. I had a
couple of babies, gained forty pounds. He got depressed and played computer
games late into the night. I watched my infant son poke Lincoln Logs into
a slot in a box and I cried from sheer boredom. We stopped talking about
much other than our children, we stopped having sex. Everyone’s got issues, I
thought. So I just numbed out to our troubles. Kind of like when your Honda
is making weird revving noises and you fear the solution is the brand new
tranny you can’t afford, so you just close the garage gently and pray it heals
itself.
In Ireland in the late 1960’s, things heated up.
What began as a strategy of nonviolence got
corrupted in misunderstanding. Both sides
mistrusted the other; hard line unionists
didn’t like the soft, civil disobedience
approach, and others thought the tactics
were simply a front for the Irish Republican
Army (IRA). Protestant loyalists attacked
civil rights demonstrators. Uprisings
escalated, troops were sent in. And so it
continued, each side throwing punches. The
IRA sprouted an aggressive, militant wing
known as the Provos. One Bloody Friday
in 1972, 22 bombs exploded in Belfast.
My husband and I were on vacation in Oregon with
my in-laws. In bed one night, I badgered him with Big
Questions: What would you do if you had six months left
to live? Do you believe in an afterlife? Then, “On a scale
of one to ten, where are you on the Marriage Happiness
Scale?”
He paused. “I don’t want to play this game.”
I elbowed him. “C’mon. Ten means you’re madly in love
with me and one means you’re ready to walk out the
door.” I grinned in the darkness, waiting for the eight, or
maybe nine.
H o n e y?”
“ o u r.”
hed . “ F
H e si g
?”
“ Four? o k no w.”
w an t ed t
“ You
r ! ? ! ?”
“ But f o u
l led o ver.
.” H e ro
si x
“Okay,
y G o d!” n ne.”
“M e, S u z a
u r g am
“ It’s yo
SILENCE
“Yeah, but that’s what you
say when you’re done with a
marriage! You can’t just drop a
bomb like that!!”
I huffed and puffed, and the
next morning I blew out of
my in-laws’ house and spent
two solid hours sobbing
and kicking at discarded
sandcastles and staring out
at the too-cold and not-at-all
Pacific ocean.
Four!
The British locked people up without take the trash out and who would pick
trials. Prisoners died in hunger strikes. up groceries. We went out on “dates”
Ceasefires were called, then broken; without the kids. We did all the right
paramilitaries on both sides imported things, and our marriage looked better
arms. Bombs went off. Grenades were from the outside. At Christmas, he gave
launched. More atrocities against me a groovy pair of white boots. “He’s
civilians. Sinn Fein (the political arm of a keeper,” my mom told me. But when
the IRA) predicted that the war would the party was over, I was seething with
last another twenty years. Each new some unformed black cloud of anger,
flare-up reinforced the old mistrust and resentful that once again, I had
of both sides. Each new attempt to bought and wrapped all our children’s
soothe and hammer out agreements gifts, planned the menu, cooked all day,
was infiltrated with the remembrance and entertained the kids for hours while
of past hurts. More cease fires. More he took a nap.
broken agreements. More polarization,
We continued therapy, but didn’t
more antagonism. President Clinton
discuss the big stuff: sex, money,
intervened to get both sides together
power. I was too scared to admit
again and talks began anew.
that my husband and I were deeply,
My husband and I started to see a fundamentally different, as if we were
therapist. We practiced hugging. coming from different religions. We
We used I statements to express our couldn’t talk about what mattered. We
feelings. (Instead of “You cretin—why couldn’t enjoy each other’s company.
didn’t you take out the recycling?” I was Little hurts brought up the larger,
trained to say, “I feel frustrated when unresolved issues. We became trapped
you don’t do what we agreed.”) We behind huge walls of resentment.
made lists and charts of who would
Our sex-life was as evasive as a four-leaf clover. I started to dread weekends—
what on earth would we talk about? I spent my birthday in Mexico without
him. He started seeing a woman, “just a friend,” and doing things with her I’d
begged him for years to do with me. The ballet, museums, skiing. I fumed.
Retaliated. Polarization deepened. The night before he moved out, we sat
at the kitchen table and I poured us two shot glasses of tequila. We drank
and talked. “It’s time,” he said, “I’ve known for eight years we shouldn’t be
married.” I swallowed and felt the burn.
With the signing of the Belfast Agreement (often called the Good Friday
Agreement) The Troubles came to an end, politically speaking. But a few
months later, a bomb went off in Omagh that killed 29 civilians, and it was
the single worst incident during the Troubles. “After that, people decided
they just had had enough,” Maureen, a Belfast native, tells me one night at
Crom Castle. One of her best friends lost her legs in that explosion. It was
a combination of the talks, the politics, and the cease fires, she told me, but
ultimately, that inner shift had to take hold deep inside of people, so that they
could move on and find a new way to get along. In Northern Ireland, the last
decade has been relatively quiet. Mostly, people are on good behavior.
But I have not always chosen to be on my good behavior.
On the shortest night of the year in Fermanagh, I squatted in front of an
enormous bonfire and sipped a stranger’s moonshine. Villagers clad in straw
leaped across open flames, saying prayers of sacrifice and thanks. “It’s our way
to give back,” the caller said into the blurry-sounding bullhorn. “To remember
where we’ve come from.”
I remembered. Remembered what my husband said on our wedding day, and how
he looked in the middle of the night holding our babies over his freckled shoulder. I
remembered how hard we’d fought and cried and tried. Perched on the loose rocks of the
cairn, I watched people performing an ancient ritual: of sacrifice, giving thanks, drinking
up, letting go.
My husband and I split up a year ago. People who know us say, “It’s so great the way
you’re handling all this—both of you are being grown up about it.” And for the most part,
Amicable
they’re right. Our divorce is “amicable,” a term
reserved, I’ve noticed, for notably unfriendly
situations. These days, we
Civilized
both spend a lot of time
and money on lawyers
and divorce coaches and
child specialists. We slog
Stone
by Lisa Alpine
The Wishing
Wishing stones are not wishy-washy . . .
One blustery night at dinner, we to lavish on visitors, stories and
asked Violet, the housekeeper at stories and stories that pile up
Crom Castle, about sacred sites. like strawberries on trifle.
“Ye must go to the Wishing Violet told us of the bones still
Stone right here on the castle jutting out of the rocky beaches
grounds by the lake. Me son, at County Donegal. “Ye must go
Noel here, will show ye. Ye see the coast just a wee drive to
need to sit on the stone without the west,” she said. “During the
touching the earth around famine they’d walk for days to
it—every part of yer body on top be reaching the shore, where the
without a limb on the dirt.” boats were sailing to America—
only to die right there on the
Like all the natives, her thick beach of hunger.” Her deliciously
Irish accent slathered around her dense brogue unfurled the
words, adding a rich coating to story of Ireland’s tragic past,
the language—velvety as dairy an ironic tale of starvation told
cream on an Irish Coffee, or as she lay plates heaped with
as smooth and blankety as the boiled potatoes, roast lamb, and
dense foam on the head of a pint aromatic mint sauce onto the
of Guinness. Those accents wrap well polished trestle table.
around the stories the Irish love
Hawthorn branches pricked my head
like a crown of thorns
But our minds were still on the Wishing Stone and I asked, “Violet,
have you ever made a wish on the stone?”
Carla King
I take a swig from the whisky bottle and pass
it to the man next to me, reflecting that the last time I
stood in front of a bonfire in the middle of the night sharing mind-
altering substances with strangers I stood in a cold, dusty desert in
the American West surrounded by hundreds of fluorescently-clothed
humans over-excited by drugs and alcohol and the shared experience
of burning down a very large neon-encrusted wooden man the size of a
small skyscraper that exploded with fireworks and tumbled in flames to
the dry, cracked earth.
Carla King
The smaller children, blinded by their masks, turn the wrong way
and bump into their more graceful elders who gently guide them in
the correct direction. By the time the whisky bottle comes around
again the villagers are leaping into the embers, over them, across them,
daring the sparks to catch their costumes aflame.
Carla King
Standing on this
cairn in the British
Isles, my blood is
warmed by the whisky
and a simmering of
recognition. Admittedly,
the Celts have made generous
contributions to my DNA over
the centuries, so perhaps that is
why everything seems so eerily
familiar: the soggy ground,
the voice of the man singing
to the fiddler’s tune, the straw-
clad dancers, the embers now
dying down and the feeling of
cleansing and fertility. Anything
could happen now, or tomorrow.
Midnight approaches and I am conflicted as to whether to jump across
the embers or just stand there transfixed by the glow, or kiss the man
next to me, or do cartwheels down the hill, or lie down flat in the dirt
and stare up at the stars.
I have done all this and more at the Burning Man festival, which has
been compared to the Wicker Man ritual of human sacrifice practiced
by Celtic pagans from these islands, but in fact is not related to this
or any other such ritual, says founder Larry Harvey, who claims to
have simply been motivated to burn an effigy as “an act of radical self-
expression.”
One can’t help but wonder how many individual acts of radical
self-expression have included fire and dancing and sex and drugs
and music over the years, and happily caught on as an officially
recognized pagan ritual. But since when does anybody need an excuse
to burn off some energy? Wednesday is designated “Hump Day”
in the working world from San Francisco to Belfast, and in Dublin
town—eons away from the cairn where I now stand—Saturday nights
are designated abandonments from the restrictions of the workday as
evidenced by the bandaged knuckles and bruised cheekbones of half
the young men walking to church on Sunday morning.
Carla King
the flames with them and, as long as I didn’t look up at the
bright fuzzy lint, the earth felt solid and the sky reliably fastened
to it. And for months I felt I could survive until the next excuse
to misbehave.
I don’t know if it’s the Celtic DNA singing in my veins or if it’s the
effect of the whisky but standing on the cairn with the blazing fire
and the Irish landscape still lit by the midsummer sun below my feet,
lakes and greenery and clouds in dark blue sky, I know that this thing
we’re doing here is the real deal, pure and purposeful and heartfelt and
joyous. Suddenly the earth feels wobbly and the sky is a melt of clouds
and stars. I stand stunned, on the brink of fainting or running off
screaming into the dark, but a man with a flaming torch takes my arm
to guide me down the muddy
road back to the mummers’ hall
where music and dancing is
promised. I look for my friends
and find them similarly led.
That is, all but Cathy, who struts
confidently down the muddy
road with a flaming torch in her
hand.
The whole village slips down
the hill, laughing riotously. I
couldn’t keep up but for the man
at my elbow. Finally, we reach
the mummers’ center where a
bar is set up over a laundry tub,
the old folks are dancing, and
the teenaged accordion player is
text messaging between tunes.
Suzanne is dragged onto the
Carla King dance floor and proves her grace
by gamely following an impossible jig, her long blonde tresses
streaming around her as a nimble, elderly gentleman flings her
expertly across the rough wooden floor. The room roars with
appreciation, and so that I am not chosen for the next dance I flee
outdoors where some men stand smoking and some girls in a cluster
whisper secrets, and still the sky is indigo blue with the stars poking
through and a lake glimmers in the near distance.
It’s early in the morning when I drive our group the ten miles back
to our beds, not without getting lost in a endless maze of single-lane
country roads. We sing sixties folk tunes to stay alert and then everyone
is quiet as the headlights illuminate a tunnel of greenery that magically
envelops the road. There’s time to recall the silent treks in hiking boots
back to the tent at Burning Man at sunup. I reflect that fire can be
cleansing, and it’s good to cling to the feeling of anything-can-happen
as long as you can.
It’s not often that one has the opportunity to join the sort of organized
misbehavior that is encouraged during the multicultural, disorganized
abandonment of Burning Man or on a midsummer hilltop. However
large or small, I appreciate the chance and silently congratulate the
mummers for keeping these folk traditions alive. Someone told me
up on the cairn that they’d only recently revived it after the great
distraction of “The Troubles.” A much better alternative to bombing
one another, I said to myself as another straw-clad villager leapt
through the fire. And then another whisky bottle came around. §
the janus stone
ga l l e r y by Carla King
A M YS T E RY
In Caldragh cemetery on an island in Northern Ireland and protected
only by a rusty gate and a flimsy shade structure, the Janus stone looks
both east and west with its two faces. The “Lusty Man” stone sits nearby,
moved here from its home on Lustymore Island in 1939.
boa island
the janus stone
Father Flanagan’s eyes twinkled when he told a joke, but Father Murphy
threatened us with hell and damnation if we weren’t good children.
The Saint Patrick’s Church of my In Dublin, many years later, walking
youth was old and the kneelers didn’t through the gardens surrounding his
have any padding, so I spent much ancient cathedral, I thrilled to the
of my childhood with bruises on my thought that I was walking where
knees. The bruises made me feel extra Saint Patrick had once trod. The lush
holy. Irish grass smelled sweet beneath my
feet and a bird singing in a nearby tree
From my earliest years, I thought of seemed to be accompanying the choir.
Saint Patrick as my personal saint. I sat down on a weathered wooden
I liked seeing the statue of him all bench and felt my body relaxing as I
dressed up in the green and gold closed my eyes, enjoying the music.
robes of a bishop. During Lent he and A vision of Saint Patrick appeared
all the other statues were draped in before me, looking as he always
black, which gave the church a very had: dressed in his green and gold,
scary and sinister atmosphere. Father complete with conical hat and smiling
Murphy told us that this was so we at me. Saints be with us!
would focus on the passion of Christ,
rather than enjoy the beauty of the
art. But I always worried that behind
those black drapes the saints were
hiding their tears.
rich and
royal
Crom Castle
Castle Leslie Medieval Faire
Horse Crazy!
Tara’s Palace
Avoca Dublin at Malahide Castle
Arts & crafts for the aristocracy
Avoca Handweavers
Wicklow County
Wild Writing Women
feature
Carla King
Morning began officially with the filling of the teapot after which we would
slowly meander groggy-eyed into the Victorian Conservatory to write. The
immense glassed-in structure towered above us like a crystal cathedral.
We’d plug in our laptops—a real juxtaposition in this setting, and write, each of us in
silence, for several hours and before a break for a yoga stretch. The biggest downfall of
being a writer—other than the pay scale—is sitting on our posteriors far too much.
We combated the sitting with a series of highly un-Victorian poses: legs spread wide,
derrieres to the sky, various gyrations. At one point, all the Wild Writing Women were
bent over, reaching for our ankles, when I heard a scuffling sound. It was Noel, edging
backward out the door. “Me thought you women were writers, not gymnasts.” We all
laughed when he added, “Do youse do this every morning? Very interestin’. I’ll keep an
eye out for youse next meetin’!”
One day I decided I felt slightly feverish and needed to retire to my room with tea and
books. Really just an excuse to soak up the “rose” factor and the delight of having the
castle all to myself for an entire day. The rest of the Wild Writing Women went on an
excursion. I wandered the stairways in my bathrobe. I luxuriated in that tub which was
so deep that I needed to prop myself up in order to keep my book from going under. The
spaciousness, the time, the solitude, the luxury—I felt like an eccentric Royal myself.
Castles do that to you.
The old castle from the water
Carla King
“There is no place that conjures up in my mind more Irish romance than the
wide and fair domains of Crom.” John Ynyr Burges of County Tyrone, wrote
this in his diary when he was a guest at the castle in 1863.
Suzanne, Carla,
and Lisa take a
yoga break in the
atrium
Pamela Michael
Returning from one of our misadventures, Violet the housekeeper (mother of
our guide Noel and his sister, Cynthia) fortified us with hearty Irish dinners.
Think potatoes (the anchor of all Irish meals) along with lamb and mint sauce.
Every plate includes a russet.
At first there was a collective rolling of eyes when the spuds appeared nightly on our
plates…potatoes, again? Some of us were watching our carb intake. But a few days into
our journey we were so enamored by the ubiquitous spud, we gave in and even started
buying farl, a bread made from potatoes, to accompany our meals.
At dinner we quizzed Violet, who grew up here as had her father’s father’s father. Where
to go? What to do? What was Prince Charles like?
Noel let it leak that his mom, Violet, was a skilled AUDIO ASIDE
tealeaf reader. On our last night at the castle she Hear about
ushered each of us into the kitchen. So powerful Pam’s tea-leaf
were her translations of the wet, loose, leaves of tea reading.
that clung to the bottom of the cup, that not one of
us spoke of it around the hearth that night. Violet gave us each something profound to
ponder, but we all agreed that Crom Castle was a royal place to spend a week exploring
the magic of Northern Ireland.
OUR MAN NOEL! CLICK TO LEARN ABOUT THE YEW TREES OF CROM
Pamela Michael
RATES
For current rates, visit the Crom Castle website. Rates include the use
of the Earl of Erne’s private tennis court and the rowing boat with an
outboard motor for exploring the lakes.
Carla King
THE NATIONAL TRUST
The National Trust has managed the Crom Estate since 1987. Crom is one
of the Trust’s most important nature reserves. The National Trust Visitor Center
on the Estate houses an exhibition on the history and wildlife of Crom. It also has
a lecture room, the Little Orchard Tea Room, a small shop and a slipway for your
own boat. Boat hire can be arranged through the Visitor Centre. Pike fishing on
the Green Lake and Coarse Fishing on Lough Erne can also be arranged with the
National Trust.
CLICK TO VISIT
THE NATIONAL TRUST
T: +44 028 6773 8118
E: [email protected]
Carla King
NEARBY EXCURSIONS
Marble Arch Caves are among Europe’s finest with magnificent Meso-
zoic limestone caves, natural underworld rivers, waterfalls, and winding passages
from a boat. In 2004 Marble Arch Caves and the nearby Cuilcagh Mountain Park
were jointly recognized as a Unesco Global Geopark.
The Atlantic Ocean, with its large sand dunes and dramatic rock formations, is
within a 90-minute drive from Crom. As long as the ghosts don’t send you down
weird, unmarked highways, bring a picnic or have a seafood lunch at the re-
nowned Smugglers Creek Pub on the cliffs overlooking Donegal Bay and Blue
Stack Mountains. Sip your Guinness at the 150 year-old pub known for having
“the best view in Ireland.”
Devenish Island is one of the largest of some 200 islands to be found in Lough
Erne, and is the site of ruins of an abbey, and of a perfect 12th-century round
tower. The island can be reached by ferry.
Lough Erne by Boat: A variety of boat tour companies offer day cruises on Lough
Erne’s extensive waterways.
Carla King
Suzanne talks
about bicycling
AUDIO ASIDE
around Crom
Carla King
crom castle
medieval faire medieval faire
ga l l e r y by Pamela Michael
crom castle
medieval faire
ME E T DISCO JACK
AND MORE OF THE CASTLE LESLIE CAST OF CHARACTERS
by Jacqueline Harmon Butler
Carla King
The Wild Writing Women piled mentioned that the Wild Writing
into our minivan and set out for Women were going to be in Ireland
Glaslough, County Monaghan in he invited us to come visit.
the Republic of Ireland. We were
Castle Leslie Estate is one of thirty
spending a week at the glorious
great Irish ancestral homes still
Crom Castle just across the border
run by the original family. Since
in Northern Ireland, and the added
the 1660’s the distinguished and
bonus of exploring yet another castle
eccentric Leslie family has lived
was too tempting to pass up.
there, welcoming everyone from
I had met Noel McMeel, the politicians to poets to rock stars (and
Executive Chef at Castle Leslie, a as we later learned back home, our
few months earlier in San Francisco old pal Diane LeBow!). A few years
at a Tourism Ireland luncheon. back, in their happier days, Paul
Using the hotel’s kitchen, Noel and Heather McCartney held their
prepared an adventurous lunch of magical flower-filled fantasy wedding
Nouvelle Irish Cuisine. When I at the castle.
Castle Leslie is located on the border dollar project is finally nearing
between the Republic of Ireland and completion. The resort has some of
Northern Ireland and was deeply the most unusual and interesting
affected by The Troubles. During luxury accommodations in all of
that time the castle and grounds Ireland, including the Castle, the
were allowed to slowly fall apart. It Hunting Lodge and self-catering
wasn’t until 1991 that Samantha cottages in the Village.
Leslie took over management of
True to his word, Noel was waiting
the estate from her uncle, Sir John.
for us along with Sir John, who is
Her dream to restore their ancestral
affectionately known as Disco Jack
home to its former glory took years
because at the spry age of 91 he still
to realize but the multi-million
Pamela Michael
frequents the local village disco. label: “Uncle Jack’s Disco Bubbles
After graciously answering our Grand Reserve.”
questions and posing for photos, he
The completely restored Hunting
turned us over to Noel for our tour
Lodge is the main part of the hotel
of the Hunting Lodge, the stables
and offers a variety of rooms, some
and, of course, the cooking school.
of them overlooking the new state-
Noel had prepared a delicious of-the-art equestrian center. Being
lunch for us, which was served horse lovers, we wanted to go down
in an impressive wood-paneled to meet the animals and see their
room off the bar of the Hunting sumptuous accommodations, which
Lodge. The thick and creamy include an indoor show ring and
Irish Barley soup was perfect on a mechanized roundabout cooling
a damp, cool afternoon. The soup ring. There is even a virtual horse,
was accompanied by a variety of which can be programmed for a
fresh vegetable, chicken and cheese variety of gaits, walks, canters, and
sandwiches, using a combination of gallops. The horse is king at Castle
light and dark breads. Irish bread Leslie and there are over 1,000 acres
is a story all by itself and I could of parklands to explore. Alas, there
have dined on it alone. As the waiter wasn’t time for even a brief canter
popped open a bottle of champagne on one of these beauties, virtual or
we all laughed when we saw the otherwise.
Carla King
But if we had been on a long ride It was tempting to surrender to the
over the greens, no doubt we could delights of the spa but it was time
have luxuriated afterwards in the to visit the old Castle, which was
Organic Spa with its old-fashioned under siege by an army of craftsmen,
steam boxes, hammam, and a hot carpenters, electricians, and painters
tub overlooking the Old Stables who were completing major
Mews. There were relaxation renovations and repairs. Walter,
couches separated by wispy curtains heady of castle security and our
and a soft fragrance of wild flowers guide, told us that the entire project
and herbs floated in the air. was scheduled to be completed in
two weeks. Looking at the amount
Pamela Michael
of work yet to be done, it was it as the Queen on Swords from a
staggering to think the workmen traditional Tarot deck.
could meet that deadline.
There was a men’s toilet just off the
We wandered from room to room, ballroom that had four urinals at
ducking under scaffolds, hanging different heights across the wall. The
wires and curtains, imagining how lowest one was listed as “small,” the
lovely the rooms would look when next “medium,” the third one’s sign
the workmen had finally finished. read “bragger” and the fourth one
Antique furniture was pushed to the said “In Your Dreams!”
side of many of the rooms. Priceless
Just off one master suite was an
pieces were casually covered with
oversized shiny copper Victorian
drop cloths with almost no thought
bathtub. We giggled at the thought
as to their delicacy or value. In one
of Paul and Heather up to their
of the large halls hung a sword of
necks in fragrant bubbles sipping
honor and I had fun posing with
champagne on their wedding night.
Carla King
Walter walked us around the
grounds, pointing out various
magnificent trees, including one that
had a tree house. He told us of the
time Mick Jagger climbed up there
to get away from a bevy of giggling
females who were chasing him at a
party. Mick, he told us, is a cousin of
the Leslie’s.
Carla King
We stopped at a small cemetery and saw a grave, complete with
headstone, all ready for Disco Jack. All that was missing, besides him,
was the date of death.
As we walked along Glaslough, old Gaelic for green lake, I felt a deep
affinity with the land of some of my forefathers. Ireland has such a
difficult history. Between the Great Hunger and The Troubles it’s no
wonder that the local folk seize every opportunity to laugh and sing and
share a pint. My love of fun and laughter is surely a genetic connection
with the Emerald Isle.
Carla King
Chef Noel & his cooking school
Carla King
Carla King
The course offerings include evening, one-day and two-day cooking courses
for up to twelve people. Noel’s big blue eyes flashed with laughter when
he described his “Men Only, Guilt-free Cooking” and “Food & Erotica’”
classes.
I was particularly intrigued by the “Food and Erotica “ class and wished I
could take part in one of those. I wondered if Disco Jack would like to join
me. I could just imagine us dancing around the kitchen to some hot disco
music, pausing now and then to cut something up, or stir a pot, pausing to
toss fragrant herbs at each other or to taste our divine creations. §
Cathy Miller covets the kitchen.
Carla King
horse crazy!
ga l l e r y
by Carla King
AUDIO ASIDE
TARA’S PALACE
S I D
AD
RO
Tara’s Palace
Malahide Castle
Malahide, County Dublin
Tel: +353 (1) 846 3779
Jacqueline Harmon Butler www.malahidecastle.com
T I ON
C
TTRA Cathleen Miller visits . . .
AVOCA
E A
S I D
AD
RO
Arts and Crafts for the Dublin Aristocracy
I froze in front of the shop window. This coat offered
a fantasy life of freshness, femininity and originality.
While sashaying down one of the Grafton Street tributaries, I froze: there
in the shop window was a jacket that was my style. Let me just say that I am
a very choosy shopper, although like most woman I have purchased items
because they were on sale or utilitarian, but here was a jacket that stopped me
in my tracks because it was my style—you know the feeling—a garment
that produced heart palpitations and dilated pupils. The
platinum brocade fabric, Edwardian tailoring, and large jade-like buttons not
only promised a heady transfusion of my style, this coat offered a fantasy life of
freshness, femininity and originality—at last my chance to join the aristocracy
and assume my rightful place surrounded by leisure and grace.
Cathleen Miller
Inside the shop I discovered three floors of such goods, a sort of hip
Irish Laura Ashley collection of clothing and housewares—every-
thing from chintz-patterned china to flowered rubber boots that
would make you pray for rain. Only later would I learn that while I
was fondling the merchandise, the other Ws were in Ballykissangel
touring the original Avoca Handweavers, a family-owned craft
design concern founded in 1723, making it Eire’s oldest surviving
business. That evening while I was trying to borrow money from
them to buy my Avoca jacket, they recounted their adventures from
their day trip. (See photos on next page.)
Cathleen Miller
Avoca Handweavers
Co unt y Wi ck l ow by Carla King
P h o to s & Vide o
Carla King
AVOCA
Click here to
take a virtual tour of
Avoca on their website.
O N LY
E V I E W
F O R R
L L E Y :
C E G A
V A N
AD
columns
resources
LISA ALPINE
Reviews
CATHY MILLER
Stick THIS in your iPod!
Miller to Go Links
CARLA KING
Gear and Gadgets
Links Events
JACQULELINE HARMON BUTLER
Food Flirt
Lisa Alpine
Sight, smell, touch, taste, and . . . SOUND! This trip my favorite gadget was
the iTalk microphone. It plugged into my iPod to create a recording device of
decent quality at a decent price: just $20 at most discount retailers. I hadn’t
realized how integral sound is a part of a journey until I came home and
listened to what I’d recorded while I was in Ireland.
Voice notes, interviews, ambient sounds: all the audio you hear in this
magazine was recorded with it . . . actually, I used its older cousin without
the stereo and other improvements of the upgraded iTalk Pro.
The iTalk Pro’s twin built-in mics record directly to your iPod, and adjustable
gain settings give you control over the volume. You can even use an external
microphone; just plug it in to the 3.5mm jack. Sigh. So much technology, so
little time.
A small negative: I did make quite a few unwanted recordings, as
the big friendly record button was easily activated while knocking
around my purse, but hey, it’s digital. At the end of the day, I plugged
my iPod into the MacBook, synched it in iTunes, and deleted the
unwanted recordings from my my Voice Memos in the playlist.
So now what? When I needed to get
a recording out of iTunes and into a
format where I could share it, I first
exported it to MP3 format, then
opened it in the free Audacity sound
editor. Audacity lets you tinker with
stop and end points, cut out inappropriate comments, and fade in
and out, not to mention adding music or ambient sound tracks. I re-
ally had to stop myself from getting completely immersed in sound
editing so I could work on the other aspects of producing this mag-
azine. But look for more sound from the Wild Writing Women in the
future. I just turned our music diva Lisa Alpine on to Audacity. She’s
already hooked.
Click to buy
IN
2005 I set off on an around-the-world trip and
for good luck decided to make my first stop a
visit to Ireland. After flying in from San Francisco, I
landed in Dublin to visit my old friends, sister and brother Maeve and
Barry O’Sullivan. I met the O’Sullivans when they lived on Russian
Hill and we have remained friends for eighteen years, in spite of
their poor correspondence habits, which they extend to all forms of
conveyance: the postal service, telephones, and now email. No, the
way to experience this clan is first-person, and our friendship has
survived because of our shared love of the “craic,” as the Irish say.
At the time of my visit, Maeve had a new baby, Kim, a high-
spirited redhead like her mother. On my first afternoon in
town her husband Peter was working, so we loaded the wee
one in her carrier and the three of us headed up into the
Dublin mountains. This was my first visit to this area, and I
learned that it was like San Francisco in that thirty minutes
outside of Dublin you could reach such scenic countryside
that you’d think no city was within a hundred miles.
We stopped at a legendary public house, the Blue Light,
entering a quiet room where a handful of local men sat
nursing their beers. As we sat down, Maeve gingerly placed
the sleeping Kim’s carrier on a bench, and everyone stared at
us. I thought we’d made a mistake by bringing the baby into
this male domain, but naturally being this close to my first pint
of real homegrown Guinness, I wasn’t about to retreat without
a fight. About half way through the first round, Kim awoke
and began crying. Maeve said, “I guess we better go,” and
struggling to hold back the tears myself, I nodded.
A grey-haired gentleman in glasses was seated on the bench
to the right of my friend. He spoke up abruptly: “What she’ll
be wanting is a lullaby.” And without further ado, he
launched into a classic Irish tenor version of “Daisy”
that left me speechless. Soon all the other men in the
room joined in, baritones adding gravitas to the lilting
high voices: “Daisy, Daisy, I’m half crazy, all for the love of you. . .”
Kim immediately started cooing, Maeve grinned, and sitting by
the coal fire on a June evening, I felt as if I’d stumbled through a
time warp into a turn-of-the-century sing-a-long.
The harmonies continued, with the occasional solo. One
fortyish fellow propped in the corner closed his eyes and sang
a pitch-perfect rendition of the old Patsy Cline standard, “Crazy.”
However, in spite of my giddiness over this unexpected treat, I
kept glancing at one elderly man hunched at the bar. He wore
thick black-rimmed glasses and a wool flat cap. He said nary a
word, but his relentless glower conveyed: “I am not amused.”
After several more numbers the group asked where I was from,
and then began badgering me to sing something. I hadn’t
sung since grade school, and started to panic. As the goading
continued, I admitted with shame that I wasn’t being coy,
but I honestly couldn’t remember the words to any song. My
drinking buddies were not buying this excuse. “C’mon, you
must know something!”
Finally I launched into a few bars of “Summertime” which
seemed appropriate considering the concert had begun
to “hush little baby.” When I petered out for lack of
another line, the man in the flat cap said in a gruff bellow:
“You’ve got a lovely voice...sing some more.” I could feel
myself blushing.
With the help of the assembled, who knew the words to
more American songs than I, we sang some Hank Williams’
tunes. These alternated with solo efforts from the Blue
Light regulars, who performed long Irish republican
songs; by turns they would close their eyes and launch
unselfconsciously into a performance, as I marveled that
they knew the words to these endless complicated verses.
One blonde woman, who had entered later, stood with feet
apart, hands clasped behind her, head back, and in her alto
recounted verse after verse of a political ballad.
For me the evening was a complete success when finally
my man in the wool cap closed his eyes and droned in a
flat basso a mournful ditty about love lost. It was around
this time that Maeve’s husband entered and ordered a beer
at the bar. One of the choir turned to him and said, “Shhh,
there’s a baby sleeping over there.”
Too soon it was time to take the baby home and we bade
our new friends good night. As we headed toward the
door, every man in the room stood and sang in sweet
harmony: “If you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to
wear some flowers in your hair . . .” With tears in my
eyes, I waved farewell, and realized my journey had
just begun. §
Jacqueline Harmon Butler
Food Flirt
Gallagher’s Boxty House
a review with recipes
Carla King
Serve at 6 degrees.
Pour at 45 degree angle to 3/4 full.
Let the surge settle.
Pour until full.
Let settle for 119.5 seconds.
Enjoy.
What do the Wild Writing Women
and nursing mums in Ireland have
in common?
p i n t of -
a b i es? A daily aramel
w b orn b a m in’ c inness?
Ne fo d Gu
r e
No! colo
Yes!
Guinness stout is on tap everywhere on the Emerald Isle. At any pub
in Ireland you can nurse on a pint for about four Euros but nursing
mothers get it for free. This practice was birthed at the end of the 19th
century, when stout porter beer gained the reputation of being a healthy
strengthening drink. It was used by athletes and nursing mothers; doctors
recommended it to help “recovery.”
There is plenty of medical folklore about the drink. In some countries, stout
is seen as an aphrodisiac. In others, it’s a beneficial bath for newborn babies.
It is a popular belief that brewery workers who are given free Guinness
never develop bladder cancer. In Ireland, stout is made available to blood
donors and abdominal post-operative patients, probably because of its high
iron content. Recovery, remember?
It certainly helped the Wild Writing Women recover from our
various sightseeing activities while in Dublin, too. Each night we’d
meet at McDaid’s pub on Harry Street for a Guinness stout and
chitchat. Surrounded by dark-tied men in suits on their way home
from work, we were a gaggle of Yanks in the corner, holding pints
aloft.
Originally, the adjective “stout” meant “proud” or “brave.” The first
known use of the word “stout” meaning “beer” was in a document
dated 1677. The delicious dry stout the Wild Writing Women
were imbibing originated in Arthur Guinness’s St. James’s Gate
Brewery in Dublin. The beer is based upon the dark porter style
that was popular in London in the 1700’s. The distinctive feature
in the flavor is the roasted barley which remains unfermented.
Given that no one on our journey suffered any ailments stronger
than a hangover, perhaps what they say is true: Guinness is
Vitamin G. Along with potatoes, it is now one of my favorite food
groups. And it’s good for youse, too. A pint a day just might keep
that doctor away . . .
Here is the recipe for the perfect pour:
GUINNESS® Draught is best served at 6°C
(that’s 42.8°F) with the legendary two-part
pour. First, tilt the glass to 45 degrees and
carefully pour until three quarters full. Then
place the glass on the bar counter and leave
to settle. Once the surge has settled, fill
the glass to the brim. It takes about 119.5
seconds to pour the perfect pint. But don’t
fret. It’s worth the wait.
Click the glass to visit the Guinness website.
Sláinte!
Audio Aside
Bonus track! Absent in the photo is Pam and our wee
lassie Suzanne, who took us by surprise with this writerly
limerick. We hope you enjoy it as much as we did.
R T
P O
R E
utter
astonishment,
she said, “Why, I’d forgotten
about libraries. I used to go all the time
but since the ‘Green Tiger’ [the economic boom], I
buy all my books. It never occurred to me to check out a free copy
at the library.”
Up first was Robinson, author of the universally acclaimed two-
volume Stones of Aran, an environmentalist and writer who engages
the landscape, folklore and tangled history of Ireland in his newest
epic, Connemara: Listening to the Wind. Lanchester focuses more on
the urban, exploring the psychogeography of England’s capital city.
In his recent book, London: A City of Disappearances, he has remapped
and redefined the city’s fugitive topography
by wandering on foot along the edges and
seams.
As I left the theater for the grey streets of
Dublin, a feeling of inspiration drew me
quickly down the sidewalk and back to
my hotel and my laptop, where the words
seemed to pour out from my fingertips.
I felt I’d undergone a brainy leap forward
from my brief experience of great minds
speaking about why they write, their
passion for words, the perfection of the
craft, and the evolution of the story from
thought to indelible paper.
I met our group of Wild Writing Women at
McDaid’s pub that night with the happy
news of a story written and more inspiration
to be had the rest of the week—if we could
only get tickets. Next time I’ll be sure to
book well ahead! §
What do Ursuline nuns, Venetian lace, and the potato famine have in common?
The patterns were closely-guarded secrets
passed from mother to daughter.
Everyone’s heard of Irish lace. as vintage beaded items such as
But have you heard of Youghal bags, jackets and dresses for sale.
Needlelace or Inishmacsaint I almost fainted at the prices, but
Needlelace? How about Limerick, then I reminded myself that all
Crochet and Carrickmacross? these exquisite pieces were hand-
These lace styles are all proudly made.
represented at the Sheelin Antique
Irish Lace Museum in Although today lace-
Bellanaleck in Northern making is a big business,
Ireland. with large factories
rolling off yards of fabric
Irish lace is world famous in minutes, the earliest
for the intricate, as Irish lace began as a
well as heavier, designs cottage industry. The
developed from very wealthy lords owned the
basic patterns. When the WWW land and tenant farmers produced
visited, the lace museum was over- crops for the owners. They lived
flowing with exquisitely crafted in small cottages on land, called
lace. Much of it wasn’t for sale but crofts, growing their own food
there was a section of beautiful on the least desirable, leftover
antique lace garments, as well acreage. Most of the crofters were
The nuns realized this skill could save people from famine.
“dirt poor” with little money for in this needlecraft. The nuns
necessities. realized that these skills could save
the people from famine. They
With the lack of land and the began instructing many girls and
rocky soil, the most women to produce the fine crochet
productive crop to that has come to be
grow was potatoes. known as “Irish lace.”
When the potato
blight swept across Designs and motifs
the country between were developed by
1845 and 1851 it families and the
meant starvation patterns were closely-
for thousands of guarded secrets
households. passed from mother
to daughter. The
The Ursuline nuns details were kept
came to the rescue. so secret that many
They were familiar of the designs were
with creating lost as the families
Venetian lace, and began teaching either died or fled
the tenant farm women how to from poverty to other lands. The
make it. I had been to Burano, wealthier Irish families that could
home of lacemaking in Venice, afford to buy such luxuries earned
Italy, and had been fascinated by the name of “lace curtain Irish.”
the skill and patience it took to Leave it to the Irish to find humor
create even the smallest design during this bleak time.
The crochet schools established by the nuns in the 1850s and 1860s
disappeared as fashions changed and the demand for the cottage lace
declined. The introduction of factory production changed the industry
and mass production is now the rule.
The 1880s saw a brief revival of the cottage lace industry and produced
most of the samples that are now family heirlooms or museum pieces.
Today many of these exquisite items are treasured as part of Irish history.
by Cathleen Miller
Carla King
The Fitzwilliam itself represents the New Dublin, a hip international
crossroads of cultures more reminiscent of 1960s London than the quaint
pint-by-the-fire inn of your grandmother’s Ireland. The lobby sports
polished stone floors and sleek modern furnishings, but you can still have
your pint-by-the fire, albeit one framed by a stainless steel mantle. The
hotel lounge is a throbbing night spot for the young Dubliner business
crowd and travelers alike.
A full Irish breakfast is served at Citron, located on the mezzanine level. Like
most first-rate European hotel restaurants, they cater to an array of tastes,
with offerings ranging from yoghurt to sliced tomatoes. Meself, I opted
for the porridge, a welcome antidote to the damp weather, and brown
bread served with that heavenly Irish butter. However, the room’s retina-
searing chartreuse color scheme had the wee-bit-hungover wearing her
sunglasses to survive dawn’s decorative assault.
Over steaming cups of tea at CITRON, we compared
notes on one of our favorite themes: encounters
with the two hot Argentine concierges.
by Cathleen Miller
The rain was bucketing down as I made my way up Grafton Street to the cafe,
which has been a favorite of mine since my first trip to Ireland in 1978. Inside it
was cozy and warm and smelled of freshly-roasted coffee and the sticky buns
I used to enjoy so much for breakfast. The long tables and benches had been
replaced with smaller tables and chairs, giving the place a more intimate feel.
by Pamela Michael
G ru e l
6 8 a D a m e St re e t
D u b l i n , I re l a n d
+353 (1) 670-7119
links & resources
to help you find your way
by Suzanne LaFetra
ns
tio
ec
A sel ec t list of links
nn
co
Travel Documents
Getting There
Where to Stay
Car Rentals
Sláinte!
What’s Happening
Connec t
start mapping your journey
Discover Ireland
Discover I reland is the I rish Tourism Board’s site, full of
accommodations, special offers, and travel-planning
tips.
Lonely Planet Guides to Ireland
Lonely Planet guides are a great way to get familiar
with the I rish landscape, to plan out the where, when
and why for a trip.
travel documents
Irish Abroad: Visa & Passpor t Information
Click the I rishAbroad link above to get the essentials
on visa and passpor t information for travel to I reland.
getting there
Travel Ireland: Airlines
TravelI reland.org helps you get to the Emerald Isle,
with direc t links to tick et purchasing.
where to stay
Go Ireland
GoI reland.com gives you a listing of B&Bs, hotels,
farmhouses, and hostels with availabilit y calendars
My Guide to Ireland.com: Castle -Hotels
Find a castle, manor house, or B&B.
car rentals
Auto Europe.com
Reser ve a rental car, find general driving info, and a
glossar y of driving terms (in case you didn’t k now the
cubby box means the glove compar tment).
Irish Car Rental
Here are some good tips about driving laws, cell
phone use, and international drivers’ license
information.
sláinte!
Ireland Restaurants
Click for a decent listing of I reland eateries.
Ireland Pub Guide
Find a place to share a pint.
what’s happening
Discover Ireland: What ’s On & Irish Tourism: Festivals
The t wo links above will give you lists of events,
festivals, and other I rish happenings.
Irish Music Magazine: Festivals
This magazine will give you details on concer ts,
festivals, and music in I reland.
T ravel Blogs: Ireland
A good collec tion of I reland travel blogs.
connect
Dochara: Cell & Telephone Communications Info
Find out if your cell phone will work in I reland. Get
info on renting phones, calling cards, and more.
Le Travel Store: Voltage Info & Adaptors
Find voltage information, and get help buying
adaptors.
contributors
Wild Writing Women
Lisa Alpine
AUDIO ASIDE Jacqueline Harmon Butler
Listen to a seven-minute Audio Carla King
Aside of the Wild Writing Suzanne LaFetra
Women talking about our Pamela Michael
favorite moments in Ireland. Cathleen Miller
SUZANNE LAFETRA
Suzanne LaFetra’s work has appeared in numerous literary journals
and newspapers, including the San Francisco Chronicle, the Christian
Science Monitor, Brevity, Skirt, Ladybug, Rose & Thorn, Smokelong
Quarterly, Pearl, Literary Mama, and on KQED FM. Her essays have
been included in fourteen anthologies, including the Chicken Soup
and Travelers’ Tales series. Her journalism credits include many Bay
Area publications including the East Bay Monthly, Diablo Magazine,
Solano Magazine, and the Contra Costa Times. She wrote the
weekly “Arts & Leisure” feature for seven Knight Ridder newspapers
during 2004 and 2005. Suzanne’s writing has garnered over a
dozen literary prizes, including the Grand Prize from the University
of Maine’s Ultra Short Fiction contest, first prize from Pilgrimage
Magazine, runner-up for the XJ Kennedy Award for Creative Nonfiction, and honorable
mention in the 25th Hemingway Annual Short Story competition. She is currently at
work on a memoir about her love affair with Mexico. Click to visit Suzanne’s website.
PAMELA MICHAEL
Pamela Michael is a writer, education reformer and radio producer.
She is the award-winning editor of numerous books, including: The
Gift of Rivers, River of Words: Young Poets and Artists on the Nature
of Things, A Mother’s World, A Woman’s Passion for Travel, and
River of Words: Poetry & Images in Praise of Water. Her articles have
appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, Odyssey, Salon.com, Shape,
Orion Afield, Resurgence and others. She won first place in the Book
Passage Travel Writers Conference with her story, “Khan Men of Agra,”
which has been widely anthologized. She hosts a travel show on
KPFA FM in the San Francisco Bay Area, and her earlier radio work
includes writing and producing a four-part series on Buddhism in
the United States, narrated by Richard Gere. Co-founder, with Robert
Hass, of the much-honored River of Words organization, Pam has
worked for decades to help youth make creative connections to the
earth. Click here to visit River of Words.
CATHLEEN MILLER
Cathleen Miller is the internationally bestselling author of two
works of nonfiction: her memoir of life in the country, The
Birdhouse Chronicles, and the story of Somali activist Waris Dirie,
Desert Flower. Cathy’s work has been translated into 55 languages.
Her essays have appeared in the Washington Post, San Francisco
Chronicle, Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune, Cimarron Review, Old
House Journal, Reader’s Digest, and the Travelers’ Tales San Francisco
anthology. She won the Society of American Travel Writers Gold
award for her work as editor-in-chief of this magazine. Currently
she’s at work on Champion of Choice, a biography of UN leader Dr.
Nafis Sadik, a project that has taken her around the world. Cathy is
a professor of creative writing at San José State University.
SERENA BARTLETT
Serena Bartlett (“Night Train to Limerick”) has lived and traveled in
more than 25 countries, always keeping her eyes open for the most
authentic cultural experiences. She is an award-winning author and
an active spokesperson for lively, inspiring and tasty ways to tread
more lightly on the planet. Her book, Oakland: Soul of the City Next
Door, was the first offering from GrassRoutes Travel Guides, which
she founded. GrassRoutes Travel focuses on urban eco-travel and
features insider tips to the most tantalizing businesses and activities
that give back to the community, environment and local economy.
Ethical journalism and uninhibited travel writing have always been
important to Serena, and she is a regular contributor to a number of national and local
Bay Area publications. Click to visit the GrassRoutes Travel site.
DIANE LEBOW
Diane LeBow (“Castle Leslie in the 1980s”), Ph.D., president of the
Bay Area Travel Writers, professor emerita and award-winning travel
writer and photographer, is based in San Francisco. The recipient
of grants from the Ford Foundation and the National Endowment
for the Humanities, in 2007 she delivered the Zagoren Lecture on
“Women of Afghanistan and the World: Stories and Photos from
the Road,” at Rutgers University. Her essays have appeared in
Salon.com, Washington Times, Chicago Sun Times, VIA, Skirt, Bride
Magazine, and are featured in anthologies from Travelers’Tales, Seal
Press, and Cleis Press. She won the Travelers’ Tales’ Gold Award in
2007 for the Best Story of a Romance on the Road; the Bay Area Travel Writers’ Bronze
Award for Best Story in an Anthology; the Silver Award for Photography; and their Gold
Award for Best Travel Writers’ Website 2008. Click here to visit her website.
?
by Cathleen Miller
Funny that you should ask, dear reader,
because this is a question that we are always
trying to answer ourselves. The short retort
is: We are a clan of travel writers based in
the San Francisco Bay Area. But how did
we become the Wild Writing Women—
that’s what you really want to know, isn’t it?
Jacqueline, Pamela, Suzanne, Cathleen, Carla, Lisa
?
In the Beginning
>
Francisco papers, to fanmail from folks in
Brazil, India, Italy and Qatar—thanking us
for what we’ve given them through the magic
of the Internet. Our Web Dominatrix, Carla,
has been a pioneer in technology since she
was in pigtails, and just as she has for many
a Silicon Valley corporation, she has given us
the keys to this innovative medium, allowing
us to build community with the women of
the world.
w . com
w w e n .
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t
ht ingw
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i ld w
w
{
Wild Writing Women, LLC
}
dry factual material that the travel editors of
most mainstream publications seem to think
people want to read.
But for a change something profitable came
from this whining: a book was born. We
decided to collect our favorite travel essays
and compile an anthology which we titled
Wild Writing Women: Stories of World Travel.
At first we self-published the volume, and
in what became a bit of a Bay Area literary
legend, we sold 1000 copies in a week. Next
we signed a contract with Globe Pequot who
bought the rights to the collection. What we
discovered along the way was that we enjoyed
the artistic control that the self-publishing
process entailed.
*
I remember reading a study on women’s
leadership that was apropos to our experience:
clusters of females function differently than men
in that there is not one dominant leader. Rather
we are more similar to fish. We will school based
on signals from any one of the group, suddenly
turning and following her lead.
]
something incredibly bonding about reading
each other’s stories. The result is that beyond
our role as a writing group, we have become a
loving—if dysfunctional!—family, six sisters
who’ve guided each other through difficulties
more hazardous than dangling modifiers.
‘
rather unorthodox lifestyle as adventurers along
life’s highway. Maybe it would have been wise
to take the safer route, the road more traveled?
But I concluded our meandering had created
few problems; rather we’ve merely suffered the
same difficulties our gender faces universally.
The truth is that many a woman whose sole
travel consists of the well-worn path from
cookstove to cradle has experienced all our
woes—without the exquisite delights of being
artists who have chronicled the world.
Traveling Companions
.. .
telling stories, while the day shift rose at dawn to
hike the steep trail down to the Mediterranean for
a swim. We took ferries around the Greek Islands,
eating at tavernas in the villages and shopping till
our bags burst at the seams.
We hope you’ve enjoyed reading about the
WWW on the WWW, and that we can
connect with you further along the road—
whether it’s just the occasional visit to our
website, subscribing to our free newsletter,
downloading our magazine, ordering our
books, or coming by to say hello at one of
our public appearances. Our most fervent
desire is that we’ll inspire you to be a wild
woman in your own right, whether you
write or not. §
k to
l i c
c tact
FIND MORE TRAVEL ADVENTURE STORIES
www.WildWritingWomen.com
o
c wwwn
Thanks!
Carla King th e
Producer
Dublin
Parting SHOT
Carla King
Thank you for traveling to Ireland
with the
Wild Writing Women