The Weekend that Fall Began
Last week I had mentioned to Sarah, my flatmate, that I was thinking of going to Blarney on Saturday. Friday came around and she looked up bus schedules. Saturday morning we walked to the bus station, bought tickets and waited for the 10:45 bus along with all the tourists and a few Irishmen who seemed out of place in the international crowd.
The forecast had promised the afternoon would clear up (spoiler: it never did), but the morning was still a cool gray when we arrived. First off was the castle. It looms above the landscape, an imposing gray tower that from the outside probably looks much the same as it did in 1446 when it was built by Cormac McCarthy whose family is still one of the most ancient in Ireland and were recognized as great warriors and kings of Munster. Inside, the plaster and stones have been scratched and painted by generations of people waiting in line for their turn to kiss the Blarney Stone, and the floors are worn, the walls are no longer perfect and the wooden rafters are long gone. The bedrooms are small nooks in the corners off the stairs and the halls are large rooms that must have been impressive once, filled with the warmth of a huge hearth, tapestries on the walls, and tables laden with the spoils of the hunt and the harvest of the land. Made to be a defensible position, it does not seem to be the most comfortable home, and the Jeffereyes, who bought the castle and the grounds in 1703 (the McCarthys having been forced to leave about 10 years earlier), agreed. They built the house which is still occupied by descendants of the family and laid out the wonderfully landscaped garden known as Rock Close (we will get there in a little while).
Sarah and I waited in the line that wound through the castle and spent the time darting in and out of rooms off the stairs and taking pictures of the tiny windows (okay, all that was mostly me, Sarah was good and mostly stayed in line). We finally reached the upper parapets and could properly see the whole land laid out below, green as ever. We leaned back and kissed the stone, each taking a picture for the other. I can't say I have felt any more eloquent since kissing it, but it is strange to think that I have kissed a rock that was kissed by innumerable ordinary and famous people, including Winston Churchill. For some reason, it was only his name that stuck with me out of all those mentioned to have been there.
From a sign outside the castle discussing the Blarney Stone: "Some say it was Jacob's Pillow [presumably fossilized, unless the guy was really a glutton for punishment] brought to Ireland by the prophet Jeremiah. Here it became the Lia Fail or 'Fatal Stone', used as an oracular throne of Irish kings - a kind of Harry Potter-like 'sorting hat' for kings. Legend says it was then removed to mainland Scotland, where it served as the prophetic power of royal succession, the Stone of Destiny.
When Cormac McCarthy, King of Munster, sent four thousand men to support Robert the Bruce in his defeat of the English at Bannockburn in 1314, the Stone was split in half and sent to Blarney. Some years later a witch saved from drowning revealed its powers to the McCarthys"
Already, I spot an inconsistency. Cormac McCarthy could not have been alive in both 1314 for the battle at Bannockburn and in 1446 for the building of the castle. Perhaps the McCarthys liked the name Cormac, but wouldn't one be called "the second" then? All my information I copied from signs on the grounds, so who knows what the truth may be...
Finally, we returned to ground level and set out to explore the grounds, beginning with the Lake Walk. We didn't get very far when we decided to take a detour and see the Fern Garden. A sign points us off the gravel path, saying to follow the edge of the woods to get to the Fern Garden. As we started off through the grass, tall but recently mown down so it is thick around our feet, I suddenly realized that it was fall. True, most of the trees still have their green leaves, but some are bare. The leaves of the decorative rowans were reddening around the edges, but most had fallen and the berries hung thick. The crisp breeze that blew smelled like fall, that earthy smell of dirt and crumbling leaves. I treaded on the grass like hay and realized that it was littered with crunchy brown leaves. I was startled by the familiarity of the smells and the grass and the leaves. It was as if I had just wandered into a new field, edged by woods in the park down the hill from my home in Maryland. This sensation of fall, or autumn, filled me and made me smile as we followed a sign into the woods.
The fern garden suddenly opened up below us and we were looking down into a glen from the Jurassic era. Like mini palm trees these ferns covered the ground, sheltering ground ferns and a couple of low, mossy benches. We got out our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and ate in the green shade.
The Lake Walk spends a good bit of time getting to the lake, passing by a wall through which we could see a greenhouse is actually on the other side, growing a vineyard, a lower wall which shows us a herd of milk cows grazing, and some overgrown fields. At last the lake appears and the trails proceeds to loop around it. We passed the Blarney House from the back and snapped pictures of it with its herd of cows in the huge field that is its backyard. There were only two places we could actually get to the edge of the lake and we found there reeds and lily pads covering the waters' edges. The rest of the lake is protected by a thin layer of forest through which we could see, but not get to, the water. The map said the Lake Walk was to be 45 minutes, but they never account for picture-taking time and I use more than my share, pleased with the unending number of pictures I can take of the plants and cows because I can go back later and pick out the best. Still, I miss my film camera and the meeting of the Photographic Society this week filled me with the hope that I might be able to borrow a camera, shot some black and white, and develop it myself.
We returned to the main grounds, stopping to make friends with a young horse on the way. I made Sarah walk with me along the back of the stables because the flower garden arranged there was just begging to have some portraits done. Then we went through a low doorway in a stone wall into the Rock Close. Some of the stones there are supposed to be Druidic or faerie, though I strongly suspect Romanticism and then Tourism to be responsible for the stories. It cannot be denied, however, that some stones are arranged in a circle, one looks like a face, and there are two man-made caves. However, I am willing to believe that the one (the Witches' Kitchen, according to superstition) was actually one of the earliest human dwellings in Ireland. Legends aside, the Rock Close is a beautiful example of good landscaping in a rugged environment. Narrow paths lead through thick vegetation, rocks, and water in the middle to more open areas on the ends. Tall pines, neatly lined, dead fall cleared make a kind of cathedral at one end and at the other low shrubbery, spaced out trees, a swing set and a climbing wall make a lovely area for children to play. There's a waterfall with a pond and boggy area sheltered by a huge-leafed plant, a clear, swift stream with overhanging willows and simple bridges, and neatly arranged flower garden that blends into the "fairy" glen with flowers and close, low trees. Despite the greenery and flowers still in bloom, I could not forget that it was fall, as many of the trees were bare.
Our last stop was in front of the Blarney House which had a gargoyle above a drainpipe. Our stop here was a long one. We settled down on a bench in front of the house, feet resting on the manicured, springy grass and read the books we had brought. I began The Bell Jar and Sarah finished a Barbara Kingsolver book. The sky had not changed throughout the whole day, so I couldn't tell that any time had passed, but at last it was time to head out, grab a postcard and catch the 5pm bus home.
Writing now about Blarney, my mind re-created the scenes - a memory - and I think of the poem Pearle (probably I'm thinking of it very superficially, it undoubtedly means a lot more than I think of, but I never really studied it). I was in need of that relaxing day. I needed to get my mind off of trying to figure out classes, travel plans, the papers I have to do for Folklore, and grocery shopping. I needed to get closer to nature again and be impressed by its wild beauty. I needed the realization that my favorite season had begun. Here's the bit of the poem I think is relevant (the translation is the only one I found on the internet; it seems good, but I'll check my book when I get back to the States)
So al was dubbet on dere asyse The splendour bright of that display,
That fryth ther fortwne forth me feres. The wood where fortune smiled on me,
The derthe therof for to devyse The glory thereof to portray
Nis no wyy worthé that tonge beres. No man could render worthily.
I welke ay forth in wely wyse; I wandered joyful on my way;
No bonk so byg that did me deres. No height could do me injury.
The fyrre in the fryth, the feier con ryse As through the woods my footsteps stray
The playn, the plonttes, the spyse, the peres, Field, shrub, and spice, and each pear-tree,
The rawes and randes and rych reveres - Hedgerow and stream and banks I see
As fyldor fyn her bonkes brent. Like gold thread shines each wooded height;
I wan to a water by schore that scheres; I came to a streamlet running free;
Lorde, der was hit adubbement ! Lord, glorious was that splendour bright !
The dubbement of tho derworth depe The splendour of the water deep
Wern bonkes bene of beryl bryght. Was lovely banks of beryl clear
Swangeande swete the water con swepe, And sweetly did that water sweep,
Wyth a rownande rourde raykande aryght. Flowing with murmuring sound anear.
In the founce ther stonden stones stepe, Its depths each standing stone did steep,
As glente thurgh glas that glowed and glyght, And, as through glass, bright gleams appear
As stremande sternes, quen strothe-men slepe, As streaming stars, when mortals sleep,
Staren in welkyn in wynter nyght. Sine in the heavens when winter's here;
For uche a pobbel in pole ther pyght Each pebble in that sparkling mere,
Was emerad, saffer, other gemme gente, Emerald and sapphire, all unite;
That alle the loghe lemed of lyght, Its glowing radiance without peer,
So dere was hit adubbement. So dear to me that splendour bright.
The dubbement dere of doun and dales, The splendour of those downs and dales,
Of wod and water wlonk playnes. Of woods and water, lovely plains
Bylde in me blys, abated my bales, Increased my joy, soothed my travails,
Forbidden my stresse, dystryed my paynes Removed all stress, destroyed all pains.
Doun after a strem that dryyly hales Beside a stream that never fails
I bowed in blys, bredful my braynes, In bliss I travel; naught restrains
The fyrre I folwed those floty vales, My onward journey through those vales;
The more strenghthe of joye myn herte straynes. The greater joy my heart contains.
As fortune fares, ther as ho fraynes, As fortune at her whim constrains,
Whether solace ho sende other elles sore, And solace sends, or trials sore,
The wyy to wham her wylle ho waynes So he who profits from these gains
Hyttes to have ay more and more. Desires her favours more and more.
More of wele was in that wyse And still more joy came in a trice
That I cowthe telle thagh I tom hade, Than I, though had I time, could say
For uthely herte myght not suffyse For earthly heart would not suffice
To the tenth dole of tho gladnes glade. One tenth my pleasure to convey.
The forecast had promised the afternoon would clear up (spoiler: it never did), but the morning was still a cool gray when we arrived. First off was the castle. It looms above the landscape, an imposing gray tower that from the outside probably looks much the same as it did in 1446 when it was built by Cormac McCarthy whose family is still one of the most ancient in Ireland and were recognized as great warriors and kings of Munster. Inside, the plaster and stones have been scratched and painted by generations of people waiting in line for their turn to kiss the Blarney Stone, and the floors are worn, the walls are no longer perfect and the wooden rafters are long gone. The bedrooms are small nooks in the corners off the stairs and the halls are large rooms that must have been impressive once, filled with the warmth of a huge hearth, tapestries on the walls, and tables laden with the spoils of the hunt and the harvest of the land. Made to be a defensible position, it does not seem to be the most comfortable home, and the Jeffereyes, who bought the castle and the grounds in 1703 (the McCarthys having been forced to leave about 10 years earlier), agreed. They built the house which is still occupied by descendants of the family and laid out the wonderfully landscaped garden known as Rock Close (we will get there in a little while).
Sarah and I waited in the line that wound through the castle and spent the time darting in and out of rooms off the stairs and taking pictures of the tiny windows (okay, all that was mostly me, Sarah was good and mostly stayed in line). We finally reached the upper parapets and could properly see the whole land laid out below, green as ever. We leaned back and kissed the stone, each taking a picture for the other. I can't say I have felt any more eloquent since kissing it, but it is strange to think that I have kissed a rock that was kissed by innumerable ordinary and famous people, including Winston Churchill. For some reason, it was only his name that stuck with me out of all those mentioned to have been there.
From a sign outside the castle discussing the Blarney Stone: "Some say it was Jacob's Pillow [presumably fossilized, unless the guy was really a glutton for punishment] brought to Ireland by the prophet Jeremiah. Here it became the Lia Fail or 'Fatal Stone', used as an oracular throne of Irish kings - a kind of Harry Potter-like 'sorting hat' for kings. Legend says it was then removed to mainland Scotland, where it served as the prophetic power of royal succession, the Stone of Destiny.
When Cormac McCarthy, King of Munster, sent four thousand men to support Robert the Bruce in his defeat of the English at Bannockburn in 1314, the Stone was split in half and sent to Blarney. Some years later a witch saved from drowning revealed its powers to the McCarthys"
Already, I spot an inconsistency. Cormac McCarthy could not have been alive in both 1314 for the battle at Bannockburn and in 1446 for the building of the castle. Perhaps the McCarthys liked the name Cormac, but wouldn't one be called "the second" then? All my information I copied from signs on the grounds, so who knows what the truth may be...
Finally, we returned to ground level and set out to explore the grounds, beginning with the Lake Walk. We didn't get very far when we decided to take a detour and see the Fern Garden. A sign points us off the gravel path, saying to follow the edge of the woods to get to the Fern Garden. As we started off through the grass, tall but recently mown down so it is thick around our feet, I suddenly realized that it was fall. True, most of the trees still have their green leaves, but some are bare. The leaves of the decorative rowans were reddening around the edges, but most had fallen and the berries hung thick. The crisp breeze that blew smelled like fall, that earthy smell of dirt and crumbling leaves. I treaded on the grass like hay and realized that it was littered with crunchy brown leaves. I was startled by the familiarity of the smells and the grass and the leaves. It was as if I had just wandered into a new field, edged by woods in the park down the hill from my home in Maryland. This sensation of fall, or autumn, filled me and made me smile as we followed a sign into the woods.
The fern garden suddenly opened up below us and we were looking down into a glen from the Jurassic era. Like mini palm trees these ferns covered the ground, sheltering ground ferns and a couple of low, mossy benches. We got out our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and ate in the green shade.
The Lake Walk spends a good bit of time getting to the lake, passing by a wall through which we could see a greenhouse is actually on the other side, growing a vineyard, a lower wall which shows us a herd of milk cows grazing, and some overgrown fields. At last the lake appears and the trails proceeds to loop around it. We passed the Blarney House from the back and snapped pictures of it with its herd of cows in the huge field that is its backyard. There were only two places we could actually get to the edge of the lake and we found there reeds and lily pads covering the waters' edges. The rest of the lake is protected by a thin layer of forest through which we could see, but not get to, the water. The map said the Lake Walk was to be 45 minutes, but they never account for picture-taking time and I use more than my share, pleased with the unending number of pictures I can take of the plants and cows because I can go back later and pick out the best. Still, I miss my film camera and the meeting of the Photographic Society this week filled me with the hope that I might be able to borrow a camera, shot some black and white, and develop it myself.
We returned to the main grounds, stopping to make friends with a young horse on the way. I made Sarah walk with me along the back of the stables because the flower garden arranged there was just begging to have some portraits done. Then we went through a low doorway in a stone wall into the Rock Close. Some of the stones there are supposed to be Druidic or faerie, though I strongly suspect Romanticism and then Tourism to be responsible for the stories. It cannot be denied, however, that some stones are arranged in a circle, one looks like a face, and there are two man-made caves. However, I am willing to believe that the one (the Witches' Kitchen, according to superstition) was actually one of the earliest human dwellings in Ireland. Legends aside, the Rock Close is a beautiful example of good landscaping in a rugged environment. Narrow paths lead through thick vegetation, rocks, and water in the middle to more open areas on the ends. Tall pines, neatly lined, dead fall cleared make a kind of cathedral at one end and at the other low shrubbery, spaced out trees, a swing set and a climbing wall make a lovely area for children to play. There's a waterfall with a pond and boggy area sheltered by a huge-leafed plant, a clear, swift stream with overhanging willows and simple bridges, and neatly arranged flower garden that blends into the "fairy" glen with flowers and close, low trees. Despite the greenery and flowers still in bloom, I could not forget that it was fall, as many of the trees were bare.
Our last stop was in front of the Blarney House which had a gargoyle above a drainpipe. Our stop here was a long one. We settled down on a bench in front of the house, feet resting on the manicured, springy grass and read the books we had brought. I began The Bell Jar and Sarah finished a Barbara Kingsolver book. The sky had not changed throughout the whole day, so I couldn't tell that any time had passed, but at last it was time to head out, grab a postcard and catch the 5pm bus home.
Writing now about Blarney, my mind re-created the scenes - a memory - and I think of the poem Pearle (probably I'm thinking of it very superficially, it undoubtedly means a lot more than I think of, but I never really studied it). I was in need of that relaxing day. I needed to get my mind off of trying to figure out classes, travel plans, the papers I have to do for Folklore, and grocery shopping. I needed to get closer to nature again and be impressed by its wild beauty. I needed the realization that my favorite season had begun. Here's the bit of the poem I think is relevant (the translation is the only one I found on the internet; it seems good, but I'll check my book when I get back to the States)
So al was dubbet on dere asyse The splendour bright of that display,
That fryth ther fortwne forth me feres. The wood where fortune smiled on me,
The derthe therof for to devyse The glory thereof to portray
Nis no wyy worthé that tonge beres. No man could render worthily.
I welke ay forth in wely wyse; I wandered joyful on my way;
No bonk so byg that did me deres. No height could do me injury.
The fyrre in the fryth, the feier con ryse As through the woods my footsteps stray
The playn, the plonttes, the spyse, the peres, Field, shrub, and spice, and each pear-tree,
The rawes and randes and rych reveres - Hedgerow and stream and banks I see
As fyldor fyn her bonkes brent. Like gold thread shines each wooded height;
I wan to a water by schore that scheres; I came to a streamlet running free;
Lorde, der was hit adubbement ! Lord, glorious was that splendour bright !
The dubbement of tho derworth depe The splendour of the water deep
Wern bonkes bene of beryl bryght. Was lovely banks of beryl clear
Swangeande swete the water con swepe, And sweetly did that water sweep,
Wyth a rownande rourde raykande aryght. Flowing with murmuring sound anear.
In the founce ther stonden stones stepe, Its depths each standing stone did steep,
As glente thurgh glas that glowed and glyght, And, as through glass, bright gleams appear
As stremande sternes, quen strothe-men slepe, As streaming stars, when mortals sleep,
Staren in welkyn in wynter nyght. Sine in the heavens when winter's here;
For uche a pobbel in pole ther pyght Each pebble in that sparkling mere,
Was emerad, saffer, other gemme gente, Emerald and sapphire, all unite;
That alle the loghe lemed of lyght, Its glowing radiance without peer,
So dere was hit adubbement. So dear to me that splendour bright.
...
IIIThe dubbement dere of doun and dales, The splendour of those downs and dales,
Of wod and water wlonk playnes. Of woods and water, lovely plains
Bylde in me blys, abated my bales, Increased my joy, soothed my travails,
Forbidden my stresse, dystryed my paynes Removed all stress, destroyed all pains.
Doun after a strem that dryyly hales Beside a stream that never fails
I bowed in blys, bredful my braynes, In bliss I travel; naught restrains
The fyrre I folwed those floty vales, My onward journey through those vales;
The more strenghthe of joye myn herte straynes. The greater joy my heart contains.
As fortune fares, ther as ho fraynes, As fortune at her whim constrains,
Whether solace ho sende other elles sore, And solace sends, or trials sore,
The wyy to wham her wylle ho waynes So he who profits from these gains
Hyttes to have ay more and more. Desires her favours more and more.
More of wele was in that wyse And still more joy came in a trice
That I cowthe telle thagh I tom hade, Than I, though had I time, could say
For uthely herte myght not suffyse For earthly heart would not suffice
To the tenth dole of tho gladnes glade. One tenth my pleasure to convey.
The Weekend the Rain Returned
The week went by, I finally figured out all my classes and did not make any progress on the Folklore papers. On Fridays I only have one class from 11-12 and it is a class I'm auditing (which makes it handy if I want to travel; the same goes for my one Monday class). So after class I thought I would be productive and get a little shopping done. I went to the branch of the library on the north side of the city and checked out a book for one of my audits (clever, yeah, finding the branch college students are unlikely to use and getting the book for the two weeks we are discussing it, zero cost). Next stop was Vibes & Scribes to check out their used-books section to see if I could get any school books I would actually need to own for cheap. Did they have any? No. Did they even have some of them but not the right edition? No. How about some by the same authors I was looking for? Nope. Not a single book by Marlowe, Jonson, or Spenser. The same happened when I looked in the new books section and two other regular bookstores. I also looked for a fabric shop, hoping to get a couple of yard of tulle for a reasonable price to decorate my room (I'm working on doing the living room with cut paper - very modern and only 2.50 for the paper and tape). But I couldn't find the ones I found online and did not stumble upon any others. I realized I had forgotten the receipt for a shirt I wanted to exchange for a smaller size. By the time I got home (and realized I forgot to get garlic when I got the other dinner ingredients), I was fairly discouraged. I spent the evening trying to make plans for a Dublin trip, and what with the internet being slower than ever, the unseemly number of hostels to investigate, and my mother telling me that them visiting for Christmas would cost more money than we've probably ever spent on vacation just for plane tickets, I was feeling even more depressed. I chatted with Allison and cheered up considerably upon hearing that a former professor would be speaking at a conference she had to pay to go to and that one of my favorite professors would be on the History Channel. But she had to go and the laundry refused to dry, so I was up late (or early) and by the time I went to bed, felt quite unaccomplished.
I feel I should mention that the "return of the rain" is not symbolic.
This morning I got up early to finish the shopping that didn't get done yesterday. The Singer Sewing Shop was closed (as I figured it would be), so I couldn't ask if they knew where I could get fabric, but I was not particularly bothered by this as the sun was shining bright, new light on the city of Cork. I went to exchange the shirt and when I went to get the size smaller, I noticed they had gotten in some new ones that were very similar (and the same price), but even nicer (in my opinion), so the salesgirl happily exchanged them for me by taking the one from my hand, hanging it on the rack (I hadn't taken that tag off, thank goodness), and handing me the one I wanted. Simple as clichés. I tried it on for good measure and the girl said it looked good and it definitely fit my figure well. Next, groceries for tonight, and then the other second-hand bookstore I had missed the day before was open. Unfortunately it did not have any of the books I needed, either, but the gentleman who looked for me recommended I read one of Spenser's prose works and we had a lovely conversation about perceptions of "foreign" people. I walked home and it smelled like fall again, but this time with warm sun on my back.
I dropped off my purchases and headed out again, this time towards school. I had to check the bulletin board for times for my Irish (language) class because that was something else I forgot to do yesterday. As I walked up the hill onto campus, a small blonde boy ran through the leaves laying thick under a tree whose remaining leaves were still mostly green, tinged with yellow. His mother called after him as he darted across the path to the art gallery terrace. I remembered the pictures from autumns when I was small and bleach blonde. It smelled of leaves and damp earth. There are pictures of me, of my brother, of my cousins. We all look the same at some point; rosy-cheeked, tousled pale hair, leaves sticking to our bright jackets and pants.
When I came out of the bookstore, clutching the rest of the books I need (expensive, but much less all told than a semester of books back home), I could see a misty rain blowing through the air like snow. I put up my umbrella and began the walk home. I welcomed the rain, as it kept me from taking any detours as I might have done if the sky had remained clear and sunny. The mist blew strongly and then eased then chose a new direction and blew again. It was refreshing, this mist blowing up under my umbrella and catching my face with a light, damp touch. It is an autumn rain that falls with blue sky in view to the north and dark gray to the south, a sign of the changes.
P.S. The tallies are in and the vote is in favour of the Lisbon treaty, so add that to the list of changes.
The week went by, I finally figured out all my classes and did not make any progress on the Folklore papers. On Fridays I only have one class from 11-12 and it is a class I'm auditing (which makes it handy if I want to travel; the same goes for my one Monday class). So after class I thought I would be productive and get a little shopping done. I went to the branch of the library on the north side of the city and checked out a book for one of my audits (clever, yeah, finding the branch college students are unlikely to use and getting the book for the two weeks we are discussing it, zero cost). Next stop was Vibes & Scribes to check out their used-books section to see if I could get any school books I would actually need to own for cheap. Did they have any? No. Did they even have some of them but not the right edition? No. How about some by the same authors I was looking for? Nope. Not a single book by Marlowe, Jonson, or Spenser. The same happened when I looked in the new books section and two other regular bookstores. I also looked for a fabric shop, hoping to get a couple of yard of tulle for a reasonable price to decorate my room (I'm working on doing the living room with cut paper - very modern and only 2.50 for the paper and tape). But I couldn't find the ones I found online and did not stumble upon any others. I realized I had forgotten the receipt for a shirt I wanted to exchange for a smaller size. By the time I got home (and realized I forgot to get garlic when I got the other dinner ingredients), I was fairly discouraged. I spent the evening trying to make plans for a Dublin trip, and what with the internet being slower than ever, the unseemly number of hostels to investigate, and my mother telling me that them visiting for Christmas would cost more money than we've probably ever spent on vacation just for plane tickets, I was feeling even more depressed. I chatted with Allison and cheered up considerably upon hearing that a former professor would be speaking at a conference she had to pay to go to and that one of my favorite professors would be on the History Channel. But she had to go and the laundry refused to dry, so I was up late (or early) and by the time I went to bed, felt quite unaccomplished.
I feel I should mention that the "return of the rain" is not symbolic.
This morning I got up early to finish the shopping that didn't get done yesterday. The Singer Sewing Shop was closed (as I figured it would be), so I couldn't ask if they knew where I could get fabric, but I was not particularly bothered by this as the sun was shining bright, new light on the city of Cork. I went to exchange the shirt and when I went to get the size smaller, I noticed they had gotten in some new ones that were very similar (and the same price), but even nicer (in my opinion), so the salesgirl happily exchanged them for me by taking the one from my hand, hanging it on the rack (I hadn't taken that tag off, thank goodness), and handing me the one I wanted. Simple as clichés. I tried it on for good measure and the girl said it looked good and it definitely fit my figure well. Next, groceries for tonight, and then the other second-hand bookstore I had missed the day before was open. Unfortunately it did not have any of the books I needed, either, but the gentleman who looked for me recommended I read one of Spenser's prose works and we had a lovely conversation about perceptions of "foreign" people. I walked home and it smelled like fall again, but this time with warm sun on my back.
I dropped off my purchases and headed out again, this time towards school. I had to check the bulletin board for times for my Irish (language) class because that was something else I forgot to do yesterday. As I walked up the hill onto campus, a small blonde boy ran through the leaves laying thick under a tree whose remaining leaves were still mostly green, tinged with yellow. His mother called after him as he darted across the path to the art gallery terrace. I remembered the pictures from autumns when I was small and bleach blonde. It smelled of leaves and damp earth. There are pictures of me, of my brother, of my cousins. We all look the same at some point; rosy-cheeked, tousled pale hair, leaves sticking to our bright jackets and pants.
When I came out of the bookstore, clutching the rest of the books I need (expensive, but much less all told than a semester of books back home), I could see a misty rain blowing through the air like snow. I put up my umbrella and began the walk home. I welcomed the rain, as it kept me from taking any detours as I might have done if the sky had remained clear and sunny. The mist blew strongly and then eased then chose a new direction and blew again. It was refreshing, this mist blowing up under my umbrella and catching my face with a light, damp touch. It is an autumn rain that falls with blue sky in view to the north and dark gray to the south, a sign of the changes.
P.S. The tallies are in and the vote is in favour of the Lisbon treaty, so add that to the list of changes.
You are such a lovely and poetic person, Ms Caroline.
ReplyDeleteI hope you are doing well and having lots of adventures in Ireland. Hopefully I will see you some day. :)