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ROME REDUX
By the Lonesome Traveler

SFO Airport

What is this strange mixture of anticipation and trepidation that I always feel at the start of every trip? Perhaps it’s not so odd after all, as every journey, even to the familiar, is also a launch into the unknown. Part of the feeling has to do with the suddenness with which all my trips seem to commence. No matter for how long I’ve planned and how well I’m prepared, the actual moment of leaving always takes me by surprise: how and when did this happen? All of this is by way of introduction to say that I’m on the move once more—Romeing again, to be exact. Now you know what my wish was when I finally threw my coin into the Trevi Fountain in March—but I never thought it would happen so soon. Simply, I didn’t get enough of Rome then, so I’m heading back to scratch the itch, for nine nights this time. This visit, I hope, will be more of a soaking in than my usual go, go, go type of vacation. At least that’s the plan; we’ll see if I can stick to it. So welcome aboard; the nice thing is you can disembark at any time—I’m here for the long haul.

London, Heathrow

I begin this trip with something of a handicap—I am a bit of a traveling freak show. For the previous couple of weeks, I’ve been experiencing some not-so-hot flashes in an eye I injured a few months back. The hole in the retina that was repaired is holding up well, but the eye doc discovered two more. I had laser surgery two days before I left, and my left eye is, quite literally, a bloody socket. If you saw the first Terminator, you may remember the scene where Arnold repairs his eye; that will give you the idea. A livid bruise which now embraces the whole eye further compounds the problem: the doc says it should all clear up in a decade or two. To combat the ugly American look, I wear sunglasses everywhere, which in dark places tends to make me grope. The shades have to fit over my rather large regular glasses, so I have the goggled look of a WWI aviator.

Rome

My hotel is just a few blocks from the Via Veneto where many of the five star hotels are located—it is, however, not one of them. It belongs to that class which is usually called tourist—which can also be spelled c-h-e-a-p. My room is not that bad; it has four walls, a floor, and a ceiling—if it had a door, it would be perfect. Actually, it has AC (which keeps the temp in the low nineties), a TV, a bath with a bidet, a toilet, and a hand held shower in the tub. It is quite small; though there is one place where I can turn around if I’m careful. It’s the only closet I’ve ever seen with its own closet. Well, it’s 11 p.m., nine hours ahead of many of you. I’ve been up about thirty-two hours and traveling for about twenty-four, so I’m going to try for some real sleep instead of the dozes.

Hunger Strike

A slow day as I was getting acclimated: I was up at 7:30 and took a couple of long walks, one in the morn and another in the eve. The immediate area around my hotel is flat, but sooner or later every direction tends downward; maybe I’m on one of Rome’s seven. It’s hard to tell though, as by California standards some of Rome’s hills are more like mounds—or speed bumps.

My a.m. walk was to familiar haunts: the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, and Navona Square; they’re still there, left over from March, so maybe Rome is the Eternal City. I taxied back to the hotel and took a nap, which somehow turned into a five-hour siesta—I guess things finally caught up with me.

The evening walk was into new haunts for me around Popolo Square, an upscale shopping area punctuated by churches; which, if they’re open, I always go into. None were spectacular, but they’re all unique and usually have something of interest. About 7:30 sudden exhaustion hit, and I found I had done it again—forgotten to eat that is. I had had a croissant and a bottle of juice in the morning, but nothing after that. I don’t know what it is about travel, but often I don’t get hungry. Without a regular routine to remind me, I either put mealtimes off or just plain forget. For me constant travel would probably be the perfect diet.

Speaking of food, it has occurred to me that the last time around I barely sampled the famous Italian cuisine. I thought that this time I should indulge a little. I made a stab at it Saturday night at a sidewalk café just down the street from my hotel. I had brochette (paper thin beef and parmesan with some kind of vegetable, maybe spinach, all marinated in oil and vinegar). Eaten with dry Italian bread, it is quite good. For the main course I had pasta with salmon—well, the flavor of the sauce was salmon; the fish itself had mostly gone missing. Apparently it just swam through the sauce without unduly lingering. Perhaps I’m being uncharitable; maybe the poor thing was on its way to spawn and couldn’t spare the time. The pasta itself was al dente (in which I’m a firm believer); however, I’m not so sure that it should shatter like glass when impacted by a fork. I usually drink bottled water, which like the meal comes with or without gas; but, at least, you get to choose. Will I eat there again? Probably, it wasn’t that bad.

Tonight, in the middle of my inadvertent hunger strike, I was hustled by a street-corner tout who led me down an alley to another sidewalk café. It turned out to be a serendipitous choice as the food was excellent—a salad, grilled filet mignon, and ice cream and strawberries to die for—which I almost did when I got the bill: forty euros including tip. The euro has moved ahead of the dollar, and European Union countries are certainly no bargain for U.S. tourists. At the end of the meal, the tout tried to entice me to an around-the-corner piano bar; when I refused, I thought he was going to cry—I guess the Italians are an emotional people.

I got back to the hotel at 10:00 p.m., and I’m off to bed to see what my decadent nap did to my already naughty sleeping habits. I’ve developed an extremely sore spot on my right heel, so will see what the morrow brings. I must remember not to step out too boldly into the street, as after a relatively quiet Sunday, Roman traffic will once again be humming.
Foot Joins the Eye Curse

Well, the foot is not doing much better; no blister, but it is quite sore. I did around five or six miles Sunday, which I thought was reasonable, but apparently my feet were of a different opinion. About 8 a.m. I limped down to a Pharmacia and bought some heel pads. Sitting on the curb, I bandaged up, then gimped back to the hotel and a long siesta. I could get used to this routine—very civilized. I understand there is some recent research recommending a daily nap. It would certainly stretch out the work and school day…but would anybody in America take advantage of it?

In the late evening I strolled around my neighborhood, which has the odd shop here and there but is mostly made up of restaurants (does nobody in Rome eat at home?) and banks. I have never seen so many banks, not just in my neighborhood, but everywhere. Take away the churches and banks and Rome would shrink by half. Maybe the city does represent the world and what it aspires to: a complete union of the church and mammon. Depending on your proclivities, there is no lack of places in which to worship.

Baths, Roads, and Such

The following morning the foot was still sore, but time was wasting and I set off around 9:00 a.m. My first stop was at the Baths of Diocletian, by far the most extensive of Rome’s many baths. They covered twenty-seven acres and accommodated 3000 bathers at a time—which, depending on your personality, may be about 2,999 too many. Of course, the baths were also fitness clubs, shopping malls, eating establishments, and social and business centers. According to the cinema I’ve seen, if any Roman plots were hatching, they always started in a steamy atmosphere.

There’s really very little left of this once mighty complex, a few walls and some rooms. A Michelangelo designed church sits where the main bathhouse used to be. The interior is quite vast and grand, retaining, so the guidebook says, much of the flavor of the original. Eight huge pillars (also original) help hold up the center nave. It’s no St. Peters (what is, the Grand Canyon, maybe?), but it is still quite impressive. Down the street is a well-preserved section including the Octagonal Room; it contains a dozen or more statues. One, a nude Aphrodite, teeters between the erotic and the comedic. A little more than life size, she is headless but holds in both hands at shoulder height large tresses of her hair—for all the world as if she were thinking: “Now where in the world am I going to put these darn things?”

In the middle of the room the restorers left a circular glass-covered hole, which is designed to show that the original floor was twenty-eight feet lower than the present one. With typical Italian efficiency the lighting has been arranged so that from any angle the visitor sees only a reflection of the ceiling. The barbarians cut off the aqueducts in the 500’s, and the A.D.’s turned to the B.O.’s. Actually, the ancient Romans never did discover soap (although their emperors were constant living soap operas); they used sticks instead, which seems a little weird to me.

On down the road (by this time you might think that I would be getting to know my way around Rome a bit, but no; outside my Navona Square/Trevi Fountain route—and that gets problematical any time I vary it slightly—I still depend on the map and the kindness of strangers. There are only six streets in all of Rome that run in the same direction as any other; plus there is a law that every street has to change its name within three blocks. Trevi Fountain, which is named for three converging roads—tre vi—actually has five exits and entrances)…now where was I? Oh, heading for the church of Santa Maria Maggorie. The church is old (5th century) but extremely well preserved. It’s as ornate as any—a gold encrusted ceiling among other bric-a-brac—but it has a simple, open feel. The thing that brought me here is the altar, under which is a glass case containing some fragments of Christ’s crib. I’m fascinated, not by these relics themselves, but by the faith—or the complete suspension of reason—that it takes to believe in them. One has only to observe for a few minutes to see that there are people who do believe. Bernini, the “if it ain’t Baroque, then fix it” sculptor, is buried here—more on him tomorrow.

Next, I strolled to the Coliseum but decided to skip another tour of that vast, overcrowded place. I did wander through one of my favorite places, the Forum, then struggled up the Capitoline Hill, sat in the shade, and finally taxied back to the hotel for my now customary siesta.

One of the things that has curtailed my peregrinations somewhat has been the heat. It has hovered around 90 plus degrees each day, plus it’s quite muggy; even at night it only cools down to 70 or so. Tomorrow I’m off to the Villa Borghese and a Bernini fest.

Villa Borghese

There are, if I may say so, some ferociously ugly cars in Europe, none more so than a moving violation of good taste called the Smart—I simply will not comment on the name. Visualize a typical minivan, downsize it by about forty-five per cent, move the rear wheels forward, and then abruptly chop the body off right behind the front side windows. One could get the same effect by enclosing two wheelchairs side-by-side. And yet, they’re everywhere, as ubiquitous as Honda Civics in California; and driven, as far as I can tell, without shame or remorse. Returning to my hotel last night, I got my comeuppance from one. A dirty gray version was parked (well, “situated”; cars in Rome are not parked; they are situated wherever there is some figment of an open space) in the general vicinity of the curb. On the side in large letters, I read my name: _____ _____. There were other words I couldn’t translate—probably a foot and eye curse.

Speaking of my eye, it’s about the same, still as bruised and bloodshot as ever. I tend to forget about it until I see people staring, and then averting their gaze when I make eye contact. This must be the way lepers used to feel. It makes me wish I had a glass eye: I would love to take it out, toss it in the air, catch in my mouth, and pretend to swallow. I prefer the direct approach of the waiter who looked at me, giggled, pointed, and said, “Your wife?” I smiled and gently replied, “No, yours; after I broke off our affair.” No, no, of course, I didn’t say that—I don’t know enough Italian.

As long as I’m harping, let’s get into one of everybody’s favorite subjects: menus. In Rome they can be somewhat approximate. Finding something that is actually being served is more a matter of elimination than of selection. I am waiting to discover a restaurant in which nothing on the menu is actually on the premises—I would pay to eat there.

The foregoing is—don’t ask me how—an introduction to my Borghese Gallery visit. I walked there around 10 a.m.; it’s situated (though not like the cars) in a large park about a half-mile from my hotel. The park is a welcome spot of green in a mostly concrete and stone city. I was expecting to have to make reservations for a day or two ahead; but, much to my surprise, they had an opening in fifteen minutes. Every two hours they let in 360 visitors for a strictly regulated two hour visit. It’s an art museum in the original villa the Borgheses built to house their extensive and expensive collection, so it’s all of a piece. The villa, with its large gardens, is itself a work of art.

The first floor has some paintings but is mostly devoted to sculpture from the ancient Greeks to the early 1800’s. The first thing that really caught my eye was Pauline, Napoleon’s sister who married a Borghese. Half nude (this is her statue, you understand) she half reclines on a divan; and while I can’t claim she’s smirking, she is totally unembarrassed. Canova was the sculptor. When the statue was first made public, it caused something of a scandal. Asked how she could pose is such a way, Pauline replied, “Easy, the room wasn’t cold.” Good answer. This is a work of art that cries out to be touched—no, no, wipe that smirk off your face and elevate your mind: it’s the mattress—no way it’s marble. It’s indented by her body, wrinkled from her weight, and even has a stain at the foot—though I’m not sure that’s intentional. The urge to touch the mattress to see if it’s real is almost irresistible.

Bernini is the real star of the Gallery. He lived throughout most of the 1600’s and redid much of Rome in the Baroque, an ornate style which, depending on your taste, borders on excess. Like Michelangelo and Leonardo he was an all-a-rounder who sculpted, painted, designed, and engineered. Among other projects in Rome and around the world, he designed St. Peter’s Square. Three of his large sculptures were on display in the Gallery: David in the act of slinging the stone at Goliath—you tend to flinch when you first walk in the room and face him; Apollo and Daphne just as he grabs her and just as she starts to turn into a tree (you’ve gotta read the legend); and the Rape of Proserpine, as Pluto carries her off accompanied by his three headed dog Cerberus.

All of these are realistic studies in action, and rather violent action at that; these statues almost move. They’re beautiful and volatile. Still I prefer the restraint that Michelangelo shows; there’s not much character development in these Bernini’s. I had never appreciated the possibilities of stone though, until I examined the works of these two sculptors—the very stones can cry out.

Upstairs it’s mostly paintings: Rubens, Botticelli, Caravaggio, Raphael, and Titian to drop a few names I know, and there is a host of others I don’t know. My argument with painting in general is that while I could probably tell a Titian from a Turner, I doubt I could tell a Titian from a Raphael unless I already knew the painting—and there’s usually too many of the dang things. I’m thinking that museums should probably insist that anyone but art experts look at two or three paintings for an hour or so each and then go home—maybe then people would have some idea of what they had seen.
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Tomorrow I plan to say “hello” to Moses.

Mad Moses

I think I’m museumed out for this trip, but more on that later. I arose (well, not all at once, more in stages) at 7 a.m., agonized over my wardrobe choices for the day (one and a half possibilities), left, careened down the street bouncing off walls, situated cars, and old ladies who are always out at that time of day probably hoping to avoid people like me, crawled into a bar (coffee type), and had a cuppa and a roll. Thus fortified, I sauntered on down the street, no longer leaving a trail of old ladies writhing on the sidewalk and hurling epithets, and started looking for the hotel in front of which the bus I was waiting for to take me where I was going was supposed to stop, if and when it would deign to come (Yes I know that sentence needs fixing, but I’m not going back there alone; I might never return). This hotel turned out to be so exclusive that its name was affixed to a building three doors down, but a street sweeper finally pointed it out to me, using reverential tones and gestures that are usually reserved for cathedrals and football stadiums. Where am I going with all this? Oh, the bus. This was one of those hop-on-hop-off buses that make stops around the city, completing the circuit every two hours.

My first disembarkation was at the Coliseum, but my destination was a ten-minute walk away. I was headed to the Peter in Chains church, built to house the shackles that Peter wore while a prisoner in Rome. Actually there are two sets of chains, one from Rome and the other from the time the angel set Peter free in Jerusalem. They are arranged, quite artistically, in a glass case in front of the altar. I was a little nonplussed by the “Made in Taiwan” imprint on one of them—just kidding. I forget the original chain of circumstances that made them both end up in Rome.

However, it was Mike, not Pete, who brought me here. The church, plain and unprepossessing, also houses the rather meager (with one magnificent exception) remnants of what was to have been Michelangelo’s crowning sculptural work, the tomb of Pope Julius II. Julius, just as forceful a character as Michelangelo, commissioned the work early in M’s career. Over the next thirty years he worked at it sporadically, but never got it anywhere near completion. Little things like the Sistine Chapel ceiling (also commissioned by Julius) kept interfering. After the Pope died, the money ran out, and M. ended up feeling he had wasted many of his best years on the aborted project. He did, however, complete the centerpiece of the tomb, a portrait of Julius as Moses.

I came expecting to be impressed, but I was stunned. Pictures simply don’t prepare one for the power of this work. To begin with it’s huge. Moses is seated, but if he were standing, he would be thirteen feet tall. He sits, the Ten Commandments under his right arm, tugging on his beard with his left hand, and head turned (turning) to the left. His left leg is flexed as if he’s just ready to rise; and, if I may be a little vulgar here, he is quite pissed off. This is the moment he realizes what the Children of Israel are up to with the Golden Calf, and he is not a happy camper. Disbelief and indignation mingle in his expression, and it appears as if the horns on his head are sprouting in his anger. Could you read much of this into the stone if you didn’t know the circumstances? Yes, I think so.

I’m beginning to understand what sets Michelangelo apart from other sculptors. They represent situations, ideas, likenesses; he creates personalities. The longer I looked at the Moses, the more I was drawn into its world. It was the same with the Pieta; somehow these sculptures take you in. I don’t understand how stone can be made to do that. I understand how it can represent someone or something; I have a much harder time understanding how it can be something that is as unique as a person himself.

I made my way to the Capitoline Hill museums, which, after Moses, may have been a mistake. Many of the halls and rooms of these two buildings are filled, almost to overflowing, with busts and statues, mostly Roman copies of Greek works. A few stand out: the Dying Gaul, a nude warrior with a broken sword, reclining on an arm that can barely support him; Venus, surprised at her bath and almost covering herself; the little domed room she is in sets her off quite nicely; and in bronze a small boy, concentrating on picking a thorn out of his foot—there’s a marble copy of this in the Borghese. The 5th century B.C. she wolf that represents Rome is here; a suckling Romulus and Remus were added during the Renaissance. There are several fragments of a huge bronze Constantine which had me smiling, while at the same time its sheer size is impressive. The head is about five feet from top to chin; the face is mostly intact but the pate is missing. The hand, in huge proportion, has lost most of the fingers; it once held a nearby globe, which is mostly whole. Were I Constantine, I might wish that the whole thing had disappeared; it is slightly ridiculous—though maybe it’s better to be remembered in gargantuan pieces than not at all.

I had planned to take in the Jewish Ghetto next, but it was hot, and I was tired. Instead I took the bus to St. Peters, irresistibly drawn by the Pieta. Despite the crowds (much greater than in March) and the almost constant barrage of flash cameras, the statue, as usual, transfixed me, and I actually felt sad at saying what was probably a final goodbye. Wandering around in the church, I spotted a small door leading to the crypt and Peter’s tomb, which I had missed the last time around.

Oh, a note on Moses’ horns: during the middle ages the Hebrew word for “halo” was mistranslated as “horns.” By M’s time they had it all straightened out, but he liked the effect they added to Moses’ ire. Under the circumstances they certainly beat a halo; that would have slipped all the way down to his ankles.

Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones

There’s a small nondescript church on the Via Veneto that I had been passing every day without noticing its existence. As it turned out, I almost missed one of the oddest of all the strange sights of Rome. The church belongs to the Cappuccin Order. When the monks died, they were buried in soil brought over from Jerusalem. After enough years had passed, and there was nothing left but skeletons; they were exhumed, and their bones were arranged in artistic, abstract patterns on the walls and ceilings of several rooms in the crypt. This practice went on for about 350 years from the 1500 to the 1800’s, so about 4000 monks contributed to this art project—that is a lot of bones. The effect is…exceeding strange. It’s not all that ghoulish—unless one thinks too much about what he is seeing. Thousands of skulls and larger bones are piled along the walls forming alcoves and niches where intact skeletons, clothed in brown Cappuccin robes, are standing or lying. The profusion of smaller bones are plastered on the walls and ceilings, including the corridor one walks down, in a variety of graceful patterns, mostly grouped with bones of their own kind. It is the clothed figures that make the scene truly macabre; without them the visitor can almost forget the reality. Some of these figures are partly mummified, and they grin as if in on some kind of ghastly joke. The floors are free of bones and are apparently used for normal internments.

There’s a religious purpose being served here; somehow it’s all supposed to show how the gospel has swallowed up death in victory—I’m not sure, though, how well the idea works. Death appears to have the upper hand. In one room a complete skeleton plastered onto the ceiling is holding a long handled scythe made of bones. This, the grim reaper, is the most dominant figure in the crypt.

The rest of the afternoon, I took it easy. I ate Chinese down around the Pantheon; strolled, an anonymous shadow among the crowds; ate a gelato; then drifted back to the hotel for a nightcap of a glass of water; and so to bed.

Oh, I almost forgot: tomorrow I’m going to Florence.

The David

Why Florence? Well, the first girl I ever kissed was Florence, Florence M___. Her family had come from Tuscany, and she was named after the capital city of that province. The other kids sometimes referred to her as “Minnie Mouse” because her upper front teeth protruded slightly more than was absolutely necessary—unless stripping the bark from a tree limb was somehow involved--but I thought she was mighty cute anyway, especially when she nibbled cheese. Actually, her condition was not nearly as pronounced as her mother’s; my dad, a man not ordinarily given to hyperbole, once remarked that she could probably kiss her husband goodbye after he left the house.

I diligently practiced on my forearm until the skin puckered, and my mother threatened to take me to the doctor to see if I had leprosy; but when the moment arrived, I still was not accomplished at the fine art of osculation. One problem was that because of those teeth she lacked a chin belay point below her lips; a second was that since I was in constant danger of hyperventilating during the act itself, I couldn’t keep any suction going. Because of these unresolved issues, I kept slipping off the target and down into a void past that nonexistent chin safety net—I didn’t realize until much later in my career that since I kept ending up in the vicinity of her neck anyway, it could have been an option.

She and her family moved shortly after the ordeal (I don’t think there was a connection), and I never saw her again. But I’ve always worried that she might have become a nun out of disappointment. Later I heard that the family had returned to Italy. Perhaps she had gone to her namesake city and ended up in a convent. Since I would be in the neighborhood, I would check it out; and if she were there, I would…but, no; it would never work: I’m too out of practice; my forearm, even shaved, is no longer as inviting as it once was; I probably could not avoid the void; and with those high collars that many of the older nuns wear, the neck still might not be an option. Best to let things be: I will go to Florence and see Michelangelo’s David instead.

Florence lies about a 130 miles north of Rome. This trip, along with the one to Pompeii in March, has allowed me to see a pretty good swath of central Italy. Although I’m not crazy about them, I took a guided tour. I’m not yet brave enough to just hop on a train and head for parts unknown. Perhaps if I had longer, but with only one day I’m afraid I would waste too much time just finding my way around.

There’s something about the Italian countryside that reminds me of America, but I’m never sure just which region. Of course, as soon as a town, village or even a single structure appears, semblances to the United States vanish. The motorway follows the valley of the Arno River; and many of the towns, founded by those mysterious Etruscans, are walled and perched high on volcanic hills. They cry out for exploration. If I get to Italy again, I want to see more of the countryside and the small villages. There’s lots of agriculture in this region: mostly tobacco, vineyards, and olive groves. There’s little heavy industry; that’s concentrated in the north around Milan. Italy is in the midst of a severe drought; and, according to the guide, must soon make a decision as to whether to use its water for agriculture or electricity and industry.

We arrived in Florence around 11 a.m. and stopped on a hill above the river to get a view of the city. Situated in the valley of the Arno, it is a lovely town of about a half million people. The gothic cathedral of Santa Maria dei Fioro, called the Duomo, dominates the skyline. Our tour proper began at the square of the Santa Croce church where we visited a leather factory; leather and gold works are two of the town’s main industries. Having no wish to get leathered up in the heat, I slipped out and visited the church. Buried there, among others, are Michelangelo, Dante, Galileo, Jones, Machiavelli, and Rossini—of Lone Ranger fame. Actually, there’s only a memorial to Dante: having assigned too many of his political enemies to the lower circles of hell in the Divine Comedy, he was banished from his home city.

After one of those ho-hum tour lunches (I ate with a lady from the United Arab Emirates who spoke little English and a lady from Alabama who spoke none but drawled it pretty well), we took a three-hour walking tour of the city. Florence is very compact compared to Rome; but, of course, we only got a smattering of what it has to offer: Michelangelo’s house, the home of the Medici, the beautiful bronze doors of the Baptistery (Mike said they were fit to be the gates of Paradise), and the Duomo with its modern, almost garish, façade and its plain, undistinguished interior. And finally, the culmination for me: the Academia, the museum housing the David. I’ve already carried on enough about M’s sculpture, so I’ll keep this to a minimum. Once again, even though I was expecting a lot, the David was so much more overwhelming and beautiful than I had anticipated: it’s a rare treat when reality outruns hype.

There are some unfinished pieces in this museum that were to have been a part of Julius’ tomb. These figures seem to be crying out to be released from the stone or struggling to realize their destiny. One can see how M. worked from front to back, the figure slowly emerging as if already fully formed within the marble—but, of course, that’s not really true. What makes the process even more remarkable is that the full creation existed, not in the stone, but in M.’s mind; and, perhaps, somehow, in his hands. His chisel marks are still visible, which gives these sculptures an immediacy the finished pieces don’t have.

There is another Pieta in the Academia (Michelangelo did four altogether). He sculpted the one in St. Peters in his early twenties, the one here when he was in his seventies (he was still chipping away at 87, a year before he died). This Pieta is much rougher and more modern looking, bordering on the abstract. In it two figures support the body of Christ as he is taken from the cross. They strain as if supporting an intolerable weight, as if his body does contain that which killed him, the sins of the whole world. This statue reveals only the essence of sorrow and loss; but that is enough. In its way it is as moving as his earlier one.

And then, back to Rome, dinner, and bed to complete a fourteen-hour day.

Farewell, Rome

My last day, and I’m not planning to do anything much, just a farewell stroll around Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon this evening. Currently, I’m sitting at a sidewalk café and writing up my journal…well, Rome still has its surprises: as I sit here scribbling, clip-clopping up the Via Veneto (one of the main thoroughfares of the city) is a two-wheeled horse drawn cart containing hay bales.

Later…

The Lonesome Traveler

Postscript:

As you have no doubt noticed, as an art novice I have been struggling to put down some coherent thoughts about Michelangelo’s sculpture and why it has affected me so deeply. By my own standards I’ve done a poor job. I’m going to take out my verbal chisel and have one more whack at it; so if you have had enough, now is the time to bail out and go do something practical that will make the world a better place.

While all of Michelangelo’s art that I have written about has a context, it seems to me that most of it is superfluous. In other words if you came upon these works without any knowledge of the circumstances, the history, or their creator, you would be little handicapped, if at all, in your understanding or appreciation. That is because Michelangelo has somehow managed to strip away all but the essence of a fundamental human experience, while at the same time keeping its representational form. To me that is an amazing and an almost unique accomplishment. I think much of abstract art attempts to get at the essence of things also, but in doing so it has to dispense with most of the representational. Without the representational, we move away from the feeling, emotional, human side into a more intellectual, abstract arena. We’re still connected with the human but not in such a visceral, immediate way.

When I look at Bernini’s realistically idealized works (is that too much of a contradiction?), I realize that without the background, the story, I lose too much information. I admire the skill and beauty, but without the context, there is a lack of meaning. But even when I know the story, these figures turn out to be mostly stock. Any feelings attached to these works are of a generic rather than an individual nature, and I share them only in an abstract way. Somehow these works miss the essence of a universal human experience that is at the same time individually unique. They insist on standing for something, and that limits the range and power of their appeal. They don’t exist as pure entities in their own right.

When I stand before the Pieta (and that’s important; the experience doesn’t come through nearly as clearly in pictures), I see the representational Mary and Jesus; that fact matters to a degree, but not a very large one (if you know the context, you can’t entirely divorce yourself from it). I see the forms, and that seeing connects me to the everyday human side, but what I also acknowledge is the universal--yet at the same time—uniquely personal, human experience of grief. Sorrow, loss, denial, resignation, and finally acceptance are somehow contained in the stone, the whole gamut of human grief. How is that possible? How can a piece of stone so purely distill an emotional experience? In my own experience of grief, the feelings are confused, fragmented, and transitory; but in this cold, dead stone I feel permanence, order, purity, and, in the end, serenity and acceptance. And all of this exists in its own self-contained world; the only thing it needs to reference is something inside of me. It is in this self-containment, and my participation in it, that the beauty, the wonder, and the genius of Michelangelo resides.

I do love words, but sometimes they are so inadequate—or maybe it’s the thinking that goes amiss. I guess I shouldn’t feel too bad; there are plenty of other things I can’t put into words either: love, obviously; my daughters’ births; my first glimpse of the Grand Canyon; evening light; the light and longing in another person’s eyes; but why go on? It would be a dull, dull world if we could explain it all.

TLT

written by

ed on October 29, 2005 from Rome, Italy

from the travel blog: ROME REDUX

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AROUND THE UK AND IRELAND
With the Lonesome Traveler

London

The adventure has begun. If I were writing this a hundred and fifty years ago, I might have put down: The ADVENTURE has begun—but nowadays that would be considered capital punishment. I arrived in London about noon, an hour late, but by airline standards, the very soul of punctuality. In the terminal I immediately booked a bus to Edinburgh for later in the afternoon. On the way into London, my quick trap- like mind began to work; and I realized that waiting around for the bus another seven hours, after a plane ride of ten hours, plus a bus ride of another eight hours might not be in my best interests. Instead I got a hotel for the night and rebooked for the morrow.

Looking at the foregoing, I get the feeling that this trip is going to be as formless as this introduction. I haven’t the foggiest notion of what I’m going to do in Edinburgh or where I’m going from there. For someone who has always meticulously planned his trips, this is a real departure—so to speak.

I took a brief nap when I got to my hotel, but not before I rinsed out my clothes. Yes, that might sound inconsequential, but there may be some among you who have questions about the new type of technical travel clothes. Rinsed out at night, will they dry by morning? Do they wrinkle? Will they make the wearer look svelte and debonair? Stayed tuned, I will keep you posted.

On to Edinburgh

I arrived in Edinburgh this evening around eight p.m. after a long ride. I don’t know if I would do the bus again; trains kept zooming by as if we were standing still. Our lack of speed, however, had more to do with horsepower than it did desire on the part of the driver. As we careened over hill and dale and through city streets, I realized that a constant battle with motion sickness was on my agenda.

I suppose there must be something nice to be said about the countryside between London and Newcastle, so I will try: it’s not Kansas—but only because it’s greener. As I always say about much of the Midwest: the scenery actually looks better if you go through at night. After Newcastle we traveled along the coast; and around Berwick the environment began to improve. This was my first “Maybe I should have stopped here” location. What! You don’t know where Berwick is! You’re telling me you’re not following these peregrinations on a large wall map with colored pins? I’m flabbergasted and semi-demolished.

Now where was I? Oh, after “where in the dickens is Berwick?” (as far as I know, it does not appear anywhere in his novels), both the scenery and I began to perk up. Down in one lonesome, little valley by a meandering stream stood a ruined castle. There were no houses nearby, and I couldn’t see a road anywhere. Stick something like that in America and there would be eight tour buses, five fast food places, and an Indian casino next to it. Speaking of fast food, over here McDonalds is a restaurant—and I thought the Brits were the sophisticated ones. KFC, however, is still just KFC; I like a joint that knows its place.

In Edinburgh I found a nice Bed and Breakfast (hereafter referred to as a BB), and ate at a bistro type place. I walked back to the BB about 10:30, although it was still twilight this far north.

I love the Scottish accents; they’re thick enough to spread on a sandwich. However, between my lack of hearing and the more curdled ones, I could use a translator. I bought a ticket to Inverness for the day after tomorrow—at least I think I did—I couldn’t prove it by anything the ticket agent mumbled.

Edinburgh

I toured Edinburgh today; one can pretty well walk anywhere in the Old Town. There’s a wonderful castle on top of a crag, old buildings and churches everywhere, and lots of green parks. Scottish people seem friendlier and less reserved than the English. It’s a very busy, not so little town, the capital of Scotland with three universities and a medical school. I saw the crown jewels at the castle, and these are the genuine articles, not the facsimile ones which are foisted off on an unsuspecting public at the Tower of London—as our very Scottish guide kept pointing out. By the way, the Queen can only touch this crown; she’s not allowed to actually wear it. I seemed to sense a mild anti-English sentiment hereabouts.

I know you’re waiting with breathless anticipation, but I’ll save my soggy clothes report for a slower day.

Inverness

I’m on the bus getting ready to leave Edinburgh, heading nonstop to Perth; there I will have a whole five minutes to make connections to Inverness where I will stay the night. The folks at my Edinburgh BB called ahead and made reservations. So far everything has been a little over my proposed budget of about twenty-five pounds a night, but the comfort of knowing I have a place at a popular location on a weekend is worth a few extra dollars. Anyway, we’re moving, so I’ll stop writing; I can feel the urps coming on.

It’s evening now, in Inverness; there’s no sign of Nessie, but I’ve seen only the river, not the Loch. Originally, I had planned to arrive here by way of the coast route. I wanted to stop at Stonehaven and see Dunottor Castle, a ruin perched on a cliff above the sea. But that route would have necessitated another night before Inverness, so I opted for a ride through the interior instead.

Today there was scenery worthy of the name: rolling hills with occasional cliffs for variety, but nothing I would be tempted to call a mountain, and long, long valleys always accompanied by a river. There are many more trees than in England, also more uncultivated areas of almost wilderness, but true wildness lies still farther north. Sheep are everywhere, lying like rolled up socks on the hillsides or lolling in streams, as it’s a muggy day and they are still unshorn.

I’ve booked a bus and ferry ride to the Orkneys (check your wall map). I don’t know a lot about them, but I seem to remember reading about ancient burial grounds, standing stones, high cliffs, tons of birds, and, of course, the sea, which always draws me.

I ate this evening in a restaurant called Little Johns and am currently sitting in an internet café called the Gate where someone next to me is dancing with himself and bumping my elbow. I’m hoping it’s not some sort of Scottish mating ritual. At Little Johns I had chicken stroganoff without much stroganoff. They also served traditional haggis, and I was briefly tempted—but the phrase “steaming entrails” put me off, and I passed—although I’m not sure the haggis would have, as I had a vegetarian version the other day that stuck around like a visiting mother-in-law.

And so, another day fades into a haggis-like sunset—they do linger around these parts. I’m beginning to question my rather frenetic pace; it seems as if I’m constantly on the move. I’m not going to see but a smidgen of what’s out there, so maybe I should take a little more time to just soak in the ambience of places.

Well, this has been a good day; it’s coming your way, and I recommend it highly. Use it well.

Leaving Inverness

I’m leaving for the Orkneys this morning, but first some exciting news. After eating last evening, I walked back to my BB. I crossed the River Ness and decided to take a stroll along the bank. It was late although still twilight, and the area was completely deserted. The river flows quite swiftly, and I stopped to watch a flock of seagulls floating backwards and bobbing for scraps. Suddenly, they all rose, as in a panic, and flew toward shore. I saw what had disturbed them, a large v-shaped ripple moving rapidly against the current. I watched curiously, wondering what could be pushing so powerfully against the force of the river. Then the ripple turned and came toward the bank where I was standing. I stood in wonder and then fear as a large, tubular shaped object reared high out of the water. Submarine? Periscope? I thought confusedly, until I noticed big round eyes almost covered by coquettishly long lashes. And then, at least twenty-five feet past the head, I saw a tail flick out of the water. Stunned, I could only gasp, “Nessie!”

Then, to my even greater amazement, the cavernous mouth opened, and past rows of large yellow teeth, a thick brogue emerged, “And just who else did you think it would be, Sherlock?”
I staggered back; “You…you don’t eat Americans, do you?”

“Give me credit for some taste, Laddie; though actually I turned vegan a hundred years ago.” I fumbled excitedly for my camera. “Nay, we’ll have none of that; more publicity is all I need.”

Disappointed that my fifteen minutes of fame was going glimmering along with the twilight, I put the camera aside. “You were coming up from the sea,” I said; “Been away?”

“Aye, been visiting a lass that summers in a Norway fiord.”

“Excuse me for getting personal; but although you’ve got those long lashes you keep batting at me, and although your name is ‘Nessie,’ you don’t sound female.”

“And that I’m not; I was christened ‘Robert,’ but you can call me ‘Bob.’ Take everything
you’ve heard about me with a shaker full of salt.”

“Besides you and the Norway girl, how many of your kind are left?”

A sad look came into his eyes, “Not many: a fellow down in the Congo and a cantankerous,
old biddy in Lake Champlain; that’s about it.”

“You got anything going with this Norway gal?”

“Nay, Lad, we’re just friends. Our whole clan put a moratorium on that kind of thing a few
hundred years back. We older ones can take care of ourselves; but with all your technology,
sooner or later, you would have captured one of the wee ones; and then it would have been
dissection or Marine World. We couldn’t have that. When we go, that will be the end of it.”
We were silent for a while. “Tell me, Lad, do you believe in the Abominable Snowman…Yeti, Sasquatch, Bigfoot?”

“Not really,” I said, “although I could change my mind. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know,” he replied after a long moment. “I guess I don’t believe in them either…but I would like to. The world needs something like them, odd, mysterious, not pinned down by
science. Something you can’t quite believe in, but something you can never be quite sure
about. Am I making myself plain, Lad?”

“Yes, you are; I felt that way myself until quite recently.”

“Well,” said Bob, glancing around, “I must be getting on. To tell the truth, I’m just a wee bit afraid of the dark. It’s been a pleasure.”

“The pleasure was all mine; are you sure about that photo?”

“I’m sure; it just won’t do.” He hesitated, “But I’ll tell you what, hand me your camera” I did, and a long, pink, surprisingly delicate forked tongue flicked out. One fork held thecamera, and the other fiddled with the controls, “Say ‘Cheese.’”

“Cheese,” the camera clicked, and the flash illuminated the fading twilight. “Nobody’s going to believe this,” I said.

“You’re right, Lad; but you will.” He dropped the camera in my hand, and then the great bulk
slid backwards into deeper water, the head disappeared with a last wave of the lashes, and I watched until the v-shaped ripple vanished upriver into the gathering night.

On the Bus

We left Inverness around 2:30 p.m. and headed north up the coast. I saw my firth oil platforms, great, hulking, ugly, rusted iron brutes. They’re being closed down, but no one knows what to do with them: dismantle, minimum maintenance, hotels and casinos? Probably nothing will be done, and eventually they’ll flake away.

This part of the Scottish coast is lovely but not nearly as dramatic as the central part of California’s. But for some reason the country up here seems to be on a larger scale: endless sea and sky and rolling hills. You can see so much farther, or so it seems. Buildings appear to get lost against the backdrop of the landscape. Sheep, though, stand out; they’re great wooly beasts almost like miniature mammoths. With their unshorn coats, they are almost as wide as they are long. They look inflated, as if someone blew them up with bellows. Maybe they are inflatables, designed to impress tourists like me. They don’t appear to move—I take that back: there was a lamb so large that it had to get down on its front knees to nurse. Its tail was going round and round like a little propeller; had he been any more ecstatic his hindquarters would have lifted off the ground. I saw another sheep lying partly on its back and partly on its side with all four legs sticking straight out. I laughed and laughed: such a silly way to sleep. There is certainly a plethora, a sufficiency, a repleteness of sheep in this country. Anyone trying to count them would soon take leave of his census.

Eventually we reached John O Groats, the farthest point from Lands End in Cornwall where I was in April. There may be many places that are more remote, but I suspect that few of them look the part any better. It’s just a few buildings perched on a barren shore, seemingly at world’s end.

The woozy urps had been besieging me on the trip up, and I now faced a forty-five minute ferry ride across open water. But I had discovered a secret weapon in my recurring battle with motion sickness, and at a small store I replenished my arsenal. This weapon is none other than—drum roll, please—Scottish oatcakes! These cakes are quite a mystery to science; no one understands how something this dry can actually stick together. The most current theory postulates some kind of subatomic attraction, perhaps an abundance of overachieving muons, gluons and morons. I myself have no trouble visualizing the sandy parts of the Sahara as crumbled-up oatcakes. I believe they prevent rolfing because it takes a least a modicum of moisture to puke; and any kind of damp simply cannot survive in their presence. It has been estimated that the victim needs at least eight gallons of water to wash down one; from my personal experience that estimate is conservative. Anyway they worked, and I stepped ashore on South Ronaldsay with nary an internal gurgle but with an overpowering need for the bathroom. Perhaps it would have been just as convenient to throw a couple in the ocean and walk over on dry land…Ha! now we know how Moses did it.

The Orkneys: love at first sight—rolling hills, infinite skies, sparkling waters; old, old stone buildings everywhere, many ruined and roofless. But against this landscape even the whole buildings have an air of impermanence. Most really ancient buildings seem to be a part of the land they stand on; but here they merely lease it for a time. There are sixty something islands in the archipelago, but only sixteen are permanently inhabited. They are bigger than they look on the map—but what isn’t? On these little islands, which are connected by bridge, causeway, and ferry, there are 350 miles of road. I’m staying on the biggest island, oddly called the Mainland, which has Kirkwall, the capital; but I’m moving on to the smaller town of Stromness, about seventeen miles away. We finally arrived in Kirkwall about 7:30 p.m., but all the buses were bedded down for the night. I had to find a taxi.

Stromness

I’m at my BB, Mrs. Hourston’s; it cost less for a night (eighteen pounds) than my taxi here (twenty pounds). I have a quick decision to make after breakfast. There are some of the oldest (predating the pyramids) Neolithic ruins and burial chambers hereabouts. Do I tour those, or opt for a ferry ride to the neighboring island of Hoy, which has an old man and the highest cliffs in Britain? No contest: I’m off to Hoy.

(Evening) “Ship a Hoy,” I shouted merrily as I boarded the ferry this morning. Although they must have been bursting with mirth at my witticism, the half of my fellow passengers who were English greeted my statement with typical reserve. The other half, who appeared to be mostly German, were just as undemonstrative; apparently, it did not translate well.

After a thirty minute ride, we landed and scattered; some walking, some on bikes. I took a minibus six miles to the other side of the island, my destination the cliffs and the Old Man of Hoy. On the way we stopped and took a short hike to the five thousand year old Dwarfie Stane (stone). It’s a low, flat topped burial chamber for...dwarves? It’s built in a Mediterranean style, the only one like it in the British Isles. The most recent theory is…I don’t know what the theory is, and I don’t care. Why does there always have to be a theory? You want to know what the dad-blamed theory is, you come over here and examine the silly thing yourself. Probably some short, Club Med male got lost, refused to ask directions, ended up on this forsaken island, and died of embarrassment. Or maybe the locals got tired of piling dirt in mounds. It’s here, okay; what are you going to do about it?

Well, I don’t know what brought that on, but I feel better. Actually, I do have an idea: I suspect it had to do with breakfast. I had kippers, so I had a bone or two to pick from the beginning. Why would I order kippers for breakfast? Why would I order them ever? I think it has something to do with nostalgia: I like to revisit breakfast often during the day. I will have more to say on British meal customs, but back to the Old Man.

The starting point for the hike is Rathwich, a community on the southern shore. It was once a thriving town, but there’s very little there now. Hoy, which is the second largest island, has only 450 residents; it had 50,000 during the WWII. There are no stores or other services, just a few inhabited houses and, of course, sheep. Shoving aside a few dozen of the critters, I started up a steep hill above the cliffs. After a mile or so the trail began to level off. In places it was rocky, at other times it consisted of a black loam. On these latter sections I began to notice a bounce in my step and a song in my heart. For a while I thought I was shedding the years like a scab, but soon realized I was walking on springy peat. Disappointed, I went back to my usual shuffle accompanied by a dirge.

After another mile I rounded a corner, and there, still a mile away, stood the tip of Old Man Hoy, rising some fifty feet taller than the cliff itself, an impressive sight. I finally stood at the edge of the four hundred foot sheer cliff. About a hundred feet away a tremendous rock spire rises out of the crashing breakers and towers above, about four hundred and fifty feet overall. Farther north the cliffs rise to over eleven hundred feet. The guidebook suggests photographing these cliffs with an oil tanker or large passenger liner as a backdrop to lend a sense of scale. Silly me: I forgot to make the arrangements.

I strode along the cliffs for another mile or so but began to notice a feeling, which I later identified as tiredness; so I turned back. Ah, me lads and lassies, ‘twas a grand day and the best weather yet that I’ve seen in Scotland. I returned to my BB and talked awhile to Mrs. Hourston, a woman full of an inexhaustible supply of the “lovely, lovely” lovely’s. Then I ate and collapsed.

Back To Inverness

This morning I took a bus, then another bus, then a ferry, and then another bus to Inverness. I then took another bus to Drumnadrochit, about twenty miles down the road where I will stay the night. Tomorrow I’m off to the Isle of Mull.

Drumnadrochit to Iona

Drumnadrochit, situated on Loch Ness, is the epicenter of the Nessie craze. It’s a small town with two large monster exhibitions. I tried to explain to everybody I met that they were going to have to change everything from “Nessie” to “Bob,” but got nowhere. I’ll shake the mud from my sandals (it’s raining again) and go Mull the situation over. The ride down to Oban, the jump off point for Mull, was breathtaking. We were always in sight of lochs, forests, tumbling rills, rushing rivers, open meadows with—would you believe it—sheep. Rhododendrons and wildflowers everywhere, moss encrusted rocks, mist, intermittent sunshine, and small islands, some with the obligatory ruined castle on the shore—I can’t do justice to it all. Too bad Mrs. Hourston, my Orkney landlady, wasn’t around; she would have been spewing out lovely’s like a gatling gun.

(Later, sitting in a pub, waiting for the bus to Iona) A lowering grey sky has finally turned to rain. I just found out (quite luckily overhearing someone’s casual conversation) that the ferry I was planning to take to Northern Ireland isn’t running this year. So, I’m in the market for an alternate route: any ideas?

While I’m waiting for the bus, I will tell you a little about Iona. Don’t worry; it won’t take long; I don’t know that much. Iona is a small island about a mile off the southwest tip of Mull (itself an island). St. Columba founded a monastery there in 563. He was a former Irish warrior who had been involved in fighting and killing. He had a change of heart and decided that he needed to save at least as many souls as he had killed. Christianity had not yet been introduced to Scotland; so he thought it would be fertile ground. He attracted many followers, and pilgrims soon started coming to the island. Later Columba and his followers took Christianity to the mainland. After Columba died in the 590’s, Iona’s influence began to decline as the Norse stepped up their raids. The Book of Kells (more later) was actually started on the island, but was removed to Ireland for safekeeping. Iona is still considered a holy place, and the current Abbey attracts many modern pilgrims. During the day hordes of tourists tramp about the island, but most of them leave at night, and things are supposed to quiet down. I plan to stay at least a couple of nights.

(Later yet, on Iona) The trip through southern Mull was nothing like I expected. It’s gorgeous: a wilderness of tall mountains with innumerable streams cascading down their sides, a river running through the valley, sometimes meandering and sometimes rushing, then a chain of lakes, next a long arm reaching up from the sea, and finally the sea itself dotted with islands and fringed with cliffs. I am out of superlatives, so I say simply: lovely, lovely, lovely.

The thirty-mile bus trip to Iona’s ferry was on a one-way road with turnouts. There was surprisingly heavy counter traffic (all those pilgrims returning), complicated by sheep with a penchant for grazing with their heads in the ditch and their arses on the road. If I were a local, I would tie a big, fluffy pillow to my bumper and see how many of the silly creatures I could send flying bum over air-filled head into the scrub.

(Still later, I’m trying to catch up) I went to the Abbey for a nine p.m. vespers, a simple but poignant service. From a pile, we each selected a rock, symbolizing commitment. During the service, we placed them on the floor by a small cross in the middle of the church. There is a profound sense of continuity worshipping in a place that’s been used for that purpose for fourteen hundred years: truly a blessing.
At ten o’clock I returned for a piano recital by a young German who was working as a volunteer at the Abbey. A wonderful sound in the old place: both Schumann and Schubert were on the program. I was glad he played both composers right away, as I hate hearing one and then waiting around to see if the performer is going to drop the other Schu. Tomorrow I’m taking a day trip to Staffa, the Cave of Fingal, and the Trennish Isles. You’re welcome to join me.

Boats, Birds, and Caves

I woke up to a nice day, a little cloudy, but threatening sunshine. The Trennish Isles and the Isle of Staffa are uninhabited and lie about an hour away from Iona. Our little boat was crowded but congenial, boarded mostly by birders as the Isles are home to large nesting colonies. At the first landing our dock turned out to be a rock. As the boat bobbed up and down in a heavy swell, we all timed our leaps and prayed. Everyone made it: old ladies in walkers, men in wheelchairs, mothers nursing their babies; the lame, the halt, the blind. Never in America: there would be a Congressional sub-committee holding hearings--appropriately--on the poop deck.

Birds were everywhere, nesting on the cliffs and in the tall grasses. I will list them for you ornithologists. There were some fairly big ones, some middling sized ones, and some smaller ones. There may have been others, but those were the only ones I positively identified. I had always thought of birders as little old ladies (some of them men) standing around in gaggles and arguing over whether they had just spotted a rustfooted boobyhatch or a nutchested finchburger (or, if in a whimsical mood, whether or not male titmice should wear brasseries), anyway, not exactly a hardy bunch. But I was wrong. After following some of the group along goat trails over treacherous cliffs above dizzying drops falling sheer into haddock infested waters, I know better. And you have to be brave in other ways: aggregations of birds in these numbers smell—nay, they reek. It was interesting for a while, but this is one time it can be safely said that once you’ve seen ten million, you’ve....

So I peeled off and clambered up the cliff like an arthritic goat. From the top I could see islands everywhere and the mountains of Mull looming in the distance. Simply a gorgeous day: I’m really lucking out; it seems that every time I have an outing planned, the sun shines, and every time I have a travel day, it rains.

I found a half dozen ruined stone houses on the north slope, vintage unknown, but only the walls were left. What would it have been like to live in such a place? I can’t really imagine, but I feel more than a touch of envy. When I find places like this, I begin to have visions of living alone in them for at least a year. Could I do it? I don’t know, of course, but I think maybe I could. Would there be any epiphanies of self, God, and the universe; or would I come back a little odder, but none the wiser? If you would like to find out, someone start a fund; and I’ll give it a whirl.

We stayed in bird land for a couple of hours, reboarded the boat without loss of life, and headed for Staffa. The wonders on that island are caves and unusual rock formations. As we approached, we saw a great cliff face made up of basaltic, hexagonal columns pockmarked by caves large and small. The biggest is Fingal’s Cave, named after a giant who had a quarrel with a fellow hulk on the coast of Northern Ireland where there are similar formations. Anyway, they started slinging rocks at one another, and—I forget the rest of the details, but there you have it—or do you? Fingal’s Cave is two hundred and forty feet deep, eighty feet high, and narrows from a fifty foot wide entrance. After landing we made our way along the rock wall and about halfway into the cave before the ledges became too narrow and slippery to continue. Felix Mendelssohn came, was inspired, and wrote a piece to commemorate his visit. No, I’ve never heard it; have you?

Glasgow Bound

I woke up to a blustery, drizzly morning; I had thought I might stay another day and walk Iona, but it was so cold and windy, I decided to move on. I am on the ferry going from Mull to the mainland, trying to work out a new route to Ireland now that my ferry has gone belly up.

(Late afternoon) Well, it ain’t Ireland; it’s Glasgow. There’s a ferry that goes from a town called Stanraer (a red pin) to Belfast (yellow would be nice), but my bus was late getting into Glasgow (purple, maybe), and I just missed connections. I’m staying the night at, of all things, a Holiday Inn. It’s only a block from the bus station, and I wasn’t in the mood to go BB hunting. I wasn’t planning to come to Glasgow at all, but with my original ferry moribund and more, all sea routes to Ireland come through here. The ride from Oban to Glasgow was—surprise—spectacular: rugged mountains, green valleys, and lochs. Just so you’ll know there is an occasional down side, and so I can take on the air of a jaded world traveler, I am beginning to think that the motif of the crumbling castle on the deserted lakeshore is becoming a trifle clichéd. We all have a finite supply of “oohs,” “aahs,” and “lovelys”—Mrs. Hourston being the one exception—and I’ve about used up my ruined castle quota.

Still in Glasgow, Beware the Underwear

This town is like the Hotel California; you can check in, but you can’t check out. Actually, I do have a ferry reservation at Stanraer for 4 p.m., which means I’ll be getting into Belfast around 10 p.m. Glasgow is big, about a million people, and it’s harder to pin down and take in than was Edinburgh, especially in the short time I have. I walked down to George Square this morning and listened for a while to a jazz band, a rather surreal experience with all the old buildings looming around. There’s a bronze William Gladstone in the center of the square; I wonder what he would have thought of the music—probably he would have blamed it on Disraeli.

Glasgow was once known as being somewhat pugnacious, but it is now a friendly tourist town. The square had all kinds of things going on: puppet shows, gold body-coated angels with gossamer wings, and assorted other Disney-type characters. I don’t know if this was a usual thing, or if it was all being done in my honor.

Next, I strolled a mile or so to Glasgow Cathedral, a sooty old thing, but impressive nonetheless. In the center of the church, there was a strange sculpture, consisting of cardboard cutouts, some three-dimensional, some not. The figures weren’t cartoonish, more like realistic comic book types. I asked three older ladies at a booth what the thing represented. Quite vehemently, and all at once, they assured me they didn’t like it in the least and had had absolutely no say in it being there. After they calmed down, they explained that it was “supposed” to represent the resurrection...maybe so. I left them muttering darkly and went to visit the tomb of St. Mungo. Who is St. Mungo, you ask? You’re asking the wrong person. However, I did some quick research in my guidebook and found out he is the person buried in St. Mungo’s tomb. If some of you have detected a somewhat cavalier (or is it roundhead?) attitude toward historical details, it’s not really so. It’s just that there is so much, and any attempt to take it all in would interfere with what I’m trying to do—which is to try to soak in the atmosphere of this marvelous country.

And since this is a slow day, I will now give you my Wicked Wicking report. First, I want to thank you for your patience. I know that some of you have been waiting with bated breath (no, don’t tell me what you baited it with!) for the long promised dissertation on the drying properties of my underwear. It’s not as if any of you have asked via email, but I put that down to your politeness and restraint. Without doubt, these are the lightest, most comfortable clothes I’ve ever worn. They are so light and unobtrusive that I go about in constant fear that I’m not wearing them—and an even worse fear that nobody will notice or care. However, you want to know about the clothes and not my psychological quirks, so here goes.

The shirts are simply amazing; they don’t wrinkle (if I see wrinkles, I know I forgot to put one on); and they go from damp to dust in a twinkling. The pants take only a little longer to dry, mostly because of the waistband. One of the pants is convertible and can be transformed into shorts in an instant by a simple zip of the zippers.

Let us now delve into the nether world of the underwear. I have two kinds; one is Coolmax, and they dry about as well as the pants and shirts. And then there is the other kind, the crinoline ones. No, I don’t mean “crinoline,” I mean “capilene.” I get mixed up because of the ruffles. No, “ruffles” isn’t exactly what I mean either...I need to slow down and admit something. (Excuse me, while I take a deep breath.) These particular underwear confuse and trouble me. The word “voluminous” springs to mind, but it is completely inadequate. I don’t understand the amount of material as it relates to the intended purpose. While I can’t say there are ruffles, there are folds, plaits, creases, swathes, crenellations, and, yes, caverns, and maybe chasms. These features make a certain object difficult to locate especially under pressure. Of course, one can always explore upstream to the source, but by then it is too late. The waistband is normal, but after that it is one size fits all—and I mean collectively, not individually. I now have a better concept of the expanding universe. I wish I had kept the original packaging—the part where it explains how the underwear can double as a portable carport or a parachute.

Sadly, I must turn to the socks. The salesman assured me they were quick drying. He lied. Or else he was a former geologist and was thinking in a completely different time frame. I wring those suckers out at night until not a whimper of moisture remains. Then in the morning, I wring them again; and they flow like Niagara. They actually seem to draw water out of the atmosphere (perhaps the marketing people missed the mark; they should have been sold as dehumidifiers). In truth, I think they may be some kind of predatory sponge, disguised as common socks, so they can attract some poor, unsuspecting sole. Actually, I think the problem is they are not truly and fully “technical.” Somehow some miscegenated cotton or wool got mixed in.

Okay, end of report: from now on, unless there’s a ripping good reason, I’ll leave the underwear where it belongs—acting as a tent for some Midwest revival meeting.

Some of you have asked me about the food. For the most part it has been good, if not remarkable. Breakfast at the BBs always consists of eggs and pork; each person gets a whole pig. The portions are not those curled up, cinderized, get-lost-in-a-cavity slices of bacon that are served in America; we’re talking slabs of porkified sheetrock accompanied by logs of sausages.

The eggs come any way one likes: poached, pilfered, stolen, borrowed, filched, and confiscated, to name a few. Along with the eggs and pork, one can order tomatoes, mushrooms, haggis, and, occasionally, the “I’ll-come-back-to-haunt-you kippers.” Toast with jam, and tea or coffee is mandatory; and there are assorted juices and fruit, mostly canned but sometimes fresh—oh, and various dry cereals with yoghurt. I usually eat two meals a day, supplemented with oatcakes when I travel. Since I’ve been close to the sea, I’ve had lots of fish for dinner; but steak or lamb is commonly served. In most places there is at least one vegetarian dish, and one can always order a plate of vegetables. Salads are, well, adequate; but the soups and stews have been universally good.

I love to sit in a restaurant and watch the British eat. They all seem to be conducting a two-handed symphony as knife and fork cut graceful arcs through the air. Beethoven’s Ninth seems very popular, and I often find myself humming along. It’s fascinating to watch an older couple; they are often on the same note. There are a few people who seem to feel they must subdue their food before eating it. They attack with relish, using rapier-like thrusts and ripostes.

When Brits eat soup or ice cream, they often seem a little nervous; as if afraid the idle hand is going to do something naughty. I am amazed and jealous at the way even small children can shove peas on the back of the fork tines and mash the little green marbles before they can escape. Then they eat them as if this were a normal human activity. I tried it, but my peas fled to the far corners of the room and hid.
I’m in Stanraer awaiting the ferry to Belfast. I’ve seen the first signs of security since I left America; it’s minimal, but it lets one know he is entering Northern Ireland. The ride down from Glasgow was uneventful and unspectacular. Off in the distance I could see Arran and Kintyre, the last bits and pieces of Scotland, still exerting their siren call. Reluctantly, I’ve put away my guide and map of Scotland, but, with anticipation, have replaced them with their counterparts for Ireland.

For you history buffs, here’s a suddenly recalled snippet of Scottish history. There are over forty kings of Scotland buried at Iona, including Macbeth and the predecessor he murdered, Duncan. I don’t know Mrs. Macbeth’s present whereabouts, but I suspect she is in a much warmer clime than Iona.

(On board the ferry) Finally we’re moving—or the shore is. Did I say ferry? Strike that; floating palace is more like it. It’s huge, holding 1500 passengers and 375 vehicles. There are bars, game rooms, restaurants, and who knows what else. I’m going to find a seat, plop down, and coast. I’ve run out of oatcakes, but this baby isn’t going to quiver in anything less than a Category Five hurricane. I’ll let you know later if I survive the rigors of the crossing.

Anyway, we’re gliding across a calm Irish sea; I’m watching the sun slowly set, thinking of home, and wondering what the morrow will bring. May God’s blessing, or the blessing of whatever you believe in, be with you.

Barely in Belfast

I have almost nothing to say about Belfast (originally, I had not planned to be here at all). I arrived after ten p.m. last night, and was gone by eight this morning. I have an impression—maybe not fair—of empty streets and silent people behind shuttered windows. The town seems depressed—or was that me? In any case, I fled at the first bus opportunity, heading south for Dublin.

Dublin

I walked a million miles today—well, sometimes I exaggerate, so you can cut that in half. I did see a lot of Dublin, some of it inadvertently. I was looking for a modem adaptor for my handheld, and it wasn’t easy to find. I covered most of the miles on foot, a few of them by city bus. Unless you have a long way to go or have reached an advanced state of poopidity (which I finally did); it’s probably as fast or faster to travel on foot. This is an absolutely wonderful old town: such a hustly-bustly chaotic madness of pedestrians, cars, buses, and lorries. The confusion lessens some, but not much, as you get away from the city center, which takes in both sides of the River Liffey. There’s an ongoing game of “I dare you” between walkers and drivers; I don’t know why the streets aren’t littered with bodies.
The modern and the ancient blend in quite nicely, and monumental buildings are everywhere. I took in two cathedrals, strangely neither one Catholic in this Catholic country. The first was St. Patrick’s (and the man himself was said to have baptized converts on its grounds). Jonathan Swift (Gulliver’s Travels) was dean for many years and is buried there. The other church, only a few blocks away, has a wonderfully spooky old crypt running under the nave.

I also went to Trinity College, a huge walled-in block in the middle of the city. One of the wonders of the Western world resides there, the Book of Kells that originated on Iona. It is a beautifully illuminated (illustrated) volume of the four gospels that was begun around 800. It’s done on vellum (about 185 calves worth) and is in remarkably good condition; today it was turned to the illustration of Christ’s temptations. It’s called the Book of Kells because it was taken to that monastery after Iona. Later Kells was destroyed and the book disappeared for a while. After it was recovered, it was taken to Trinity for safekeeping. It really is a marvelous, beautiful old thing, and I feel privileged to have seen it.

Upstairs is a room that took my breath away; it is without doubt the most remarkable room I’ve ever seen—and that includes those in such places as Versailles. For some reason it brought a lump to my throat. It’s called the Long Room, and it contains 250,000 of the oldest books the college owns. They are shelved in two-story alcoves lined on the lower level with the busts of famous people I don’t know. Each alcove, upper and lower, is about fifteen feet high and has a ladder to reach the top shelves. It’s a working library, and I was simply overwhelmed.

(Later) I wandered back to my hotel and then ate at a Thai restaurant. It was a nice, little place, playing early Bob Dylan in the background—go figure. My last three meals have been Italian, Chinese, and Thai; I’m not sure if there is a distinctive Irish cuisine—pub food, or maybe meat pies, stews, and surely potatoes. Actually, now that I think about it and judging by the number of establishments, it’s probably Guinness.

I’ve pretty much decided that I’m going to rent a car for the rest of my time in Ireland. Public transportation is just too spotty and unreliable, and right now the trains are on strike. I can’t believe that my time is already half over. Keep me in mind and maybe pray about my driving on the other side of the road.

Connemara Here I Come

I called my daughter (a travel agent); and she arranged a car for me, a forest green Ford Fiesta. I left Dublin around ten this morning, and I must admit to some degree of trepidation as I squirmed behind the wheel. My main fear was that I would find myself driving down the wrong side of the road with a lorry bearing down on me—the stuff of nightmares. Besides the wrong side issue, shifting the manual transmission with my left hand took some getting used to. However the hardest thing to deal with at first was simply knowing where the left side of the car was situated in space. I finally quit thinking about that and concentrated on how close I was to cars passing on the right. That seemed to help, and I quit nicking the curb, berms, dogs, and people in wheelchairs.

Motoring out of Dublin, I found myself on a highway heading much farther south than I had intended. After a few miles, I felt confident enough to take on secondary roads, so I cut back north through the Slieve Bloom Mountains. Naturally, I got lost...well, hold on just a minute; that L word is a little hard on my delicate male ego. I will admit that I had no idea where I was, hadn’t the foggiest notion of how to get where I was going, and had only a rudimentary grasp of how I had gotten to my present location. But come on: Lost! That’s harsh. Maybe we could say that I was temporarily whereabouts challenged.

I finally made it through the blooming mountains—actually more like hills by California standards. It was wild country though; for miles I saw no houses and only a few cars. I eventually got on a road to Galway, and coming into that city, I had my first real encounter with roundabouts. On main roads in this part of the world, there are seldom intersections; instead the driver rides a carousel. The rules are simple: go around clockwise and yield to the vehicle on the right. A few are controlled by lights, but most are self-regulated and work amazingly well. The first few go rounds were exciting, however; there were about ten of them getting into Galway, and they kept trying to hurl me off into the vortex of the city center. I resisted bravely; and through skill, determination, and lightning-quick reflexes (read luck and the grace of God), I managed to stay out of the black hole of Galway. Finally, I was through and on my way to Connemara.

(Later) A look at the map will tell you that a coast-to-coast drive in this part of Ireland is about a hundred and fifty miles. I did well over two hundred; but that’s okay: I did it my way. After Galway the scenery was pretty, but not spectacular (Scotland spoils you). Sheep are plentiful, but not ubiquitous as in Scotland. (Perhaps the same thing happened to them here as occurred in Turkey. There fifteen hundred of the dazed creatures suddenly decided they were lemmings and took a header off a cliff; a thousand or so survived as the pile got higher. I thought that counting them engaged in that activity might help me sleep at night; but it didn’t. It’s hard to doze off when one can’t stop chuckling.) I stopped at a small ruined castle, Aughnanure, built by the O’Flaherty clan around 1500. The main fortress has been well restored, but the rest is nicely crumbling. The O’Flaherty’s apparently got too big for their knee jerkins and were exiled somewhere. I figure a little history, very little, won’t hurt you.

A few miles after the castle the scenery picked up considerably as the Twelve Pins (Gaelic: Bins) a series of rugged granite peaks hove into view across an open valley dotted with lakes—honest-to-goodness mountains for a change. I finally came to my destination for the night, Clifden, a village sitting at the end of a sea inlet. I found a BB a few miles from town right on the edge of the water, a tranquil location. I went back into town for dinner and had the best meal of the trip so far: pan seared salmon with a dill sauce, simple but delicious. I was so inspired I had dessert, something I seldom do: ice cream and an excellent slice of apple pie.
It was just 8:30 when I was done, but I was tired; driving was a bigger strain than I realized. I filled up with gas; two hundred plus miles, and it came to sixteen pounds, about thirty dollars, and this is an economy car. There are some advantages to bus travel, but I feel so much freer with my own set of wheels. Public transportation worked out well in Scotland; because of all the ferries, a car would have been a problem. But here in Ireland, a vehicle of your own is the only way to go—or, Yuck, a tour bus.

Tomorrow I’ll finish up Connemara, try to sneak through Galway again (the only way to avoid it and go south is to detour by way of Scandinavia), then head for the Burren and the Cliffs of Moher.

(Later: some late evening ruminations) I’ve been thinking about that Long Room in Trinity College and my reaction to it. I suppose 250,000 is a lot of anything, sand grains and such excepted. But there is something else I’m having a hard time putting my finger on. All those old, old books—with how much effort over how many years have people tried to understand themselves and the world they live in? In some strange way I see those books as an antidote to 9/11, the Holocaust, and all those terrible sicknesses that we visit on each other and ourselves. The books contain the best we have to offer, or at least they are an attempt to understand and record what is best in us. I know they have lies, errors, and misconceptions, and some may have been written in plain bad faith; but the greater numbers of them are trying to tell the truth as the authors saw it. Of course, our truths are always partial and come at best in fits and staggers. Some of us may believe that the book in the room below, the Book of Kells, is all truth; but even it is not that: the Truth will always be beyond us. Anyway, the room gave me a sense of joy, a twinge of sadness, and a touch of pride in that spirit within us that is always striving for a clearer understanding of the world and of ourselves.

Inishmor

I wandered around Connemara, with some of those wanderings being completely involuntary. (Connemara is one of the Gaelic speaking centers of Ireland, and the road signs are in that language with English sometimes added as an afterthought—well, smarty pants, maybe you’d get lost, too.) I really don’t have a great sense of direction; I do all right with up and down and am passable with left and right; but after that, it’s a crapshoot. But eventually I seem to get where I am going which in this case was the Arran Islands. They are a group of three low lying rocks off the southern coast of Connemara. The main attraction for me was on Inishmor, the largest island, about forty minutes by ferry from the mainland. Dun Aengus, an old hill fort, was built there, the finest of its kind in Europe—do I sound like a guidebook? The island is about nine miles long and three wide, so I broke down and took a tour van. There are no buses: the roads are too narrow, seemingly having been built for snakes. The tour turned out fine as there was no guide, and the driver stayed behind while we walked a mile to the site. The fort is 2500 years old and looks every day of it. There are walls and a few preserved rooms, but the charm is in the location. It perches on the very edge of a three hundred foot cliff that falls sheer into the sea. The wind howls, the sea roars, but the silence of the ages drowns out everything else.

Inishmor itself is an island of stone: stone houses, ruined and inhabited; a warren, a maze, a labyrinth of stone fences; and stone, stone, stone every place else; great limestone slabs paving acres of the island interspersed with small avenues of green grass.

I made it through Galway, came to the little town of Kinvarra, had another great meal, and bedded down.

The Burren, the Cliffs of Moher, and on to Dingle

This morning I visited a little castle in Kinvarra, really a fortified town house that became fashionable in the Middle Ages, built for looks rather than protection. Next, I headed into the interior for an isolated ride through the Burren, a treeless, wild land filled with rocks and, at this season of the year, wildflowers. In the middle of nowhere, I came across a portal tomb, huge slabs of upright limestone, with one balanced on top. Next, I drove to the small town of Kilfenora and visited the partial ruins of a 12th century church with several high crosses; then it was back to the coast and the Cliffs of Moher, dramatic and wild, about seven hundred feet high, and more accessible than those of the Orkneys; and finally, on to the Dingle Peninsula, of which I will have much to say—later.

(Later: time flies when you’re having fun) I first heard of the Dingle Peninsula when visiting Bath in the spring. At the library there was a photo exhibit by a local who had been there several times. Most of his pictures were just snapshots—but, ah, the place itself. I knew then that it was one Irish destination I had to see.

As I drove down into the peninsula, the landscape turned from merely splendid to phenomenal. The road started up the north side of a range and curled over a high pass heading south. There spread out before me was a green valley against a backdrop of dramatic mountains, and fog rolling in on the far southern shore. I came to Dingle, the main town, bustling, but too touristy for my taste. I checked the guidebook and picked a promising sounding BB out near a little village called Ballyferriter.

Driving out of Dingle, I immediately got lost in a maze of hills. Small villages, really just clumps of houses, appeared out of nowhere, Gaelic names only, no road signs, and the fog getting thicker. I stopped at a pub and asked directions: “Aye, Ballyferriter, about five miles down the road; can’t miss it.” Could, too! I was still looking ten miles later when it suddenly appeared on its own. I tried to call the BB, but the telephone box kept spitting back my money; so taking my chances, I went looking but couldn’t find it. I saw a lady out walking in the lingering twilight and asked directions: “Oh, that place, they closed it down; went on the auction block today…Yes, there’s another bed and breakfast somewhere down this road; you could give it a try.” I did, there was, and they had quite a room at that, furnished with a queen and two doubles. I could Goldilocks it to my heart’s content.

I settled in and then headed back to Dingle for a late supper. Afterward, the drive back to my BB was surreal. It was after ten and any lingering twilight had disappeared in a thick fog. I got lost (do I repeat myself?) and ended up on a one-lane road, a cliff falling into the sea on my left and rising out of sight on my right. A light rain was mizzling down, and small streams were flowing out of ravines and washing across the road. I rounded a corner, and there in the headlights against the stark cliff was a life-sized statue of a crucified Christ, painted red blood seeming to flow. I stopped and stared. Eventually, the turn off to Ballyferriter appeared (on the wrong side of the road); I found my BB and tumbled into bed.

A Dingle Day at the Blaskets

It was nearly Christmas, 1946. A storm was raging late at night. A young man lay sick with a pounding headache that had lasted for days. His sister and some older women applied cool compresses to his head, but they hardly helped. He finally fell into a restless sleep, and in the flickering candlelight the women gave each other troubled glances. Finally, the older women left, and the sister tried to sleep. When she next checked on her brother, he was dead.

Off the tip of the Dingle Peninsula lie a group of small islands called the Blaskets, the farthest west that Europe goes. The largest, the Great Blasket, is only three miles from the mainland; but in 1946, in a storm, it might as well have been on another planet. It was there that the young man Seainin O’Cearna, Sean Kearny, died without benefit of doctor or priest. His death was the straw that finally broke the will of the few remaining islanders and led to their final evacuation in 1953. For centuries, between two and three hundred islanders had been eking out a living from soil and sea. The island produced some of Ireland’s finest writers, but after WWI the population gradually declined. Most of the younger people left, looking for jobs; that was why Sean’s death was such a blow to the community. When the final evacuation took place, only twenty islanders remained to be resettled on the mainland.

A small ferry took me to the Great Blasket today. It is without doubt one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been—but I haven’t lived there in a howling storm. After only fifty to a hundred years of neglect, most of the stone houses are roofless and starting to crumble. Some have been kept up, and a few people stay in the summer. A cafe and hostel have been built, but there is still no electricity; the workers have cell phones.

After landing I wandered awhile among the ruins, and then started straight up the slope toward a distant track that curled around the mountain. My foot slipped sideways, and I felt a nasty pop that I knew meant one thing, a muscle pull. I limped back down and took stock: I could wait around for another five or six hours until the ferry came back, or I could hobble somewhere. I decided to hobble and found I could get along reasonably well on slight inclines and the level—two commodities in short supply on the Great Blasket. Stubbornly, I kept going, and while there was no spontaneous healing, I managed a nice four-mile limp.

I wish I had words to describe this island: it’s just a treeless, grassy, mountainous lump rising straight out of the sea; but it is truly beautiful. Coming back from my circular jaunt around half the island, I rounded a corner, and there, spread out before me, was the ruined village, a sandy beach, another beautiful grassy island, the sea, and the mainland.

I felt an inexplicable joy: so much beauty in this imperfect, old world. And with the joy, a touch of sadness—that beauty and grace like this are always only for a moment. I have had this feeling only rarely; and, perhaps it’s just as well that it does not last: I’m not sure I could stand it in more than the dribs and drabs with which it gets doled out. Maybe it’s a taste of that constant joy we’ll feel in the hereafter, minus the pulled muscles and the pangs of brevity.

On the way back on the ferry, we were heading toward a dark shore and rain clouds above the mainland: I looked back: the Great Blasket was in sunshine—a final benison.

A Crash in Killarney

I’m in Killarney—for the second time today and wishing this was one story I didn’t have to tell—sometimes nightmares do come true. I left Dingle early, came to Killarney, and walked awhile in the national park—more of a city park, really, than the wild ones we’re used to in America. I ate lunch and about 2:30 p.m. left for the Rock of Cashel, another fortress. I got off on another of those roads to nowhere (surprise!) and finally decided to turn around. I have no excuses or rationalizations for what happened next; I was tired and simply lost concentration. I started back the way I had come, trying to remember where I had made a wrong turn. Suddenly, a feeling of something not quite right hit me; but before I could react, a small lorry came charging around the bend on my side of the road (actually, his side). All I had time to do was shut my eyes (I have a horror of glass getting into them)--and no, your life doesn’t flash before your eyes, just the thought, “Crappola!” I guess T.S. Eliot was both right and wrong: the way the world ends is not with a bang or a whimper, but both.

Time and motion were suspended for an indeterminate while, but I finally noticed what appeared to be smoke pouring from the dashboard (it turned out to be steam); and I thought it might be a good idea to vacate the premises. The doors were jammed, so I kicked one open. I crawled out, leaned on the top of the car, and looked at my fellow impactees; they seemed a trifle disconcerted but otherwise okay. As it turned out the truck had relatively minor damage, but my car was totaled. When we hit, I was still in third gear, and the other driver had slowed somewhat for the corner, so our combined speeds were only seventy or eighty miles an hour. Our bumpers were locked, and my car had apparently been shoved back a ways; it could have been worse.

Eventually, the Garda came, took a report, and the lorry drove off. No one made me feel like an idiot—no one had to. One of the Garda even explained that these wrong-side-of-the-road accidents almost always happened like mine: a turn onto a road without lines and the person at fault driving alone. They took me back to Killarney and the car rental office. The people there didn’t make me feel stupid either; but since this was on a Saturday and the insurance office didn’t open until Monday, there was no way to get another car—which I doubt they would have given me anyway.

Tomorrow there’s a bus heading for Rosslare, my ferry point to Wales; and I was planning to turn in the car anyway. So, I’m back to public transportation. Would I drive again in the UK or Ireland? Maybe foolishly, the answer right now is “yes.” But that could be bravado; in a day or two I might not be so sure. By the way, my daughter talked me into full coverage; I didn’t have to pay a penny.

How am I? Thanks for asking: I’m grateful, depressed, and angry (at myself) in no special order and at various times to varying degrees. I got a BB in Killarney and spent three hours walking around in the rain, much to keyed up to sit still. Physically I appear to be okay; no one suggested a checkup. If you’re walking and coherent, apparently everybody figures you’re all right. My left hand is pretty well scraped up, probably from the airbag deployment. Over the next few days I suspect I’ll discover some aches and bruises, but I think it’s depression I’ll have to fight off. That is from an old perfection thing: come on, I should be able to drive around Ireland without a head on--or, figuratively speaking, was that what I was doing?

But as always, I’m probably concentrating on the wrong aspects of the experience: I’m alive and ambulatory, and yesterday I did know joy—and this, too, shall pass.

On to Wales

(Back on the bus again) I suppose there is something to be said for this mode of travel if a person is just heading for an end destination. I can relax; it doesn’t take constant vigilance, at least on my part.

My night in Killarney was restless, full of ugly dreams; at times the daylight hasn’t been much better. I close my eyes for a few moments and…unbidden, the lorry appears, barreling around the curve, the windscreen framing the open mouthed face of the driver. I feel that moment of astonishing impact, the explosion seeming to come from inside of me. Next, I relive those awful seconds when time and space are suspended and the silence is absolute; and then, finally, I begin to breathe, as the world ever so slowly reclaims me. I will the images to go away, but they won’t, replaying in an endless loop behind my eyelids. Perhaps, somehow, they’re a semi-conscious reminder of that mysterious event, common to us all, but which we can never remember: the time we were expelled from the warm, comforting darkness into the harsh light of reality.

I am sure these images will slowly fade along with the aches and bruises. I am somewhat stiff-necked, a bit more pharisaical than usual; but on the upside I hardly notice the occasional plaintive moo emanating from my torn calf muscle. I do have a constant headache, so I probably suffered a mild concussion. Last night as I walked about Killarney, I stopped at a bookstore and picked up a volume of poems by Seamus Heaney, Ireland’s Nobel Prize winner; he, too, is helping to keep things in perspective.

(Later) After a six-hour ride, I’ve arrived in Rosslare; and I’m looking across the Irish Sea toward Wales, invisible, at least on this overcast day. We came through Cork, Ireland’s second largest city; it seems older, seedier, and much less vibrant than Dublin, but that may be just a reflection of my mood. I have a two and a half hour wait for the ferry and then a one and a half hour ride—I’ll go back to Seamus for a while.

(Later yet) I’m on board now, and we’re moving. This is a smaller boat than the palatial Stanraer one, and it looks like a rougher passage (oh, oatcakes where are you!). Ireland is slipping away from me into the mist, perhaps forever. I’m not ready for any sort of summing up, but I will say this: it was a coming home to a place I’d never been. And, although I pose as no expert, I will also venture this opinion: if you come to Ireland and have only a few days: see Dublin, go to the Dingle Peninsula, walk on the Great Blasket—and you will have missed nothing essential.

Wales

The ferry opened its maw and upchucked me onto Wales last night around eight o’clock, a light rain falling. I took a taxi into Fishguard and found a BB on the main street. It’s a nice little town sitting on a hill above the harbor, but on this Sunday night it was closed down tight. The dining room was also closed; but the proprietors, a husband and wife, kindly rustled up a good makeshift meal. Encased on a wall in the dining room was a seven-pound shot, fired from John Paul Jones’ ship during the War for Independence. He held up the town for ransom; and when the townspeople tried to welsh on the payment, he fired off a few rounds to encourage their cooperation. This particular ball struck one Mrs. Fenton on the heel, and she limped the rest of her days—all because of that no good, no better than a pirate, J.P. Jones. That was my host’s story; for all I know there may be a Fenton cannonball in every guesthouse in town, but who wants to spoil a good story by checking it out?

I had a better night; the dreams turned from ugly to merely homely. I still have a stiff neck, but that probably won’t get better until I stop lugging a thirty-pound rucksack around.

I’m on a pilgrimage—well, at least a half of one. I’m off to St. David’s, a place where Pope somebody declared that two visits were worth one to Rome.

(Evening) The bus ride to St. David’s was worth every pence—and then some, since it only cost 1 pound 35 p. The two towns are only sixteen miles apart, but the journey took nearly an hour; I think we covered the whole peninsula. The Welsh scenery is striking, both inland and coastal. Tiny villages pop up unexpectedly; the roads are—I didn’t think it was possible—even narrower than Ireland’s, many of them one lane for quite long distances. There are few turnouts, as the roads often run between embankments five or six feet high; fortunately, traffic appears to be very light.

St. David’s is a quiet little city, plain and unpretentious. Its glory is its cathedral, an anomaly in this small settlement (glorified village, really) in the middle of nowhere. The cathedral sits in a little valley below the town, a bubbling stream running through it (the valley, not the cathedral). The building is certainly no St. Paul’s or Salisbury Cathedral; but it is quite impressive in its own right, especially in its beautiful setting. It is more solid than soaring; but I love the feeling inside, not gloomy at all, but open and airy. St David founded the place in the 5th century, so people have been worshipping God here for fifteen hundred years.

The present church was started in the 11th century, and has been added to and modified countless times; but to my untutored eye, it all comes together quite nicely. Next door, across the stream, stand the ruins of the Bishop’s Palace, a complex of rooms, halls, and chapels. Besides being the abode of various bishops, it served as the Ritz for the many well-heeled pilgrims who came seeking a blessing. It is a mightily impressive ruin, the more so because it is so little restored; however, a pox upon them, as I noticed a lot of scaffolding about.

The tourist office in Fishguard booked me a room for two nights in St. David’s. When I first saw the BB, my spirits sank a little; it was across the street from a Texaco station and the town garage. And then they showed me my room in the back, with nothing in view except fields, hills, and a faraway coast. It is, without doubt, the nicest room so far on this trip.

After touring the cathedral and the palace, I stayed for evensong, sung by an all girls’ choir of twelve strong. They weren’t completely polished, some beginnings a little raggedy, but what a sweet sound in the old cathedral. Sunshine finally broke through the clouds around 5:00 p.m.; but now, at nine o’clock, it’s raining again. I’ll let you know what the morrow brings.

The Pembrokeshire Coast

I awoke this morning to a light rain patterning down. I skipped breakfast and lazed around until 11:00 a.m.—my, I didn’t know you could do things like that on vacation. I finally shoved myself out the door and had a baguette and hot chocolate. Fortified with a Snickers bar and a bottle of water, I set off for what had drawn me to this area in the first place, the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path. The way there is a half-mile through town and then another half mile along narrow country lanes. I intersected the path at the ruins of St. Non’s Chapel, with the rain still falling and darker clouds and mutters of thunder out to sea.

St. Nons was the mother of St. David; her original chapel is just a few low-lying walls in a little swale. Nearby is a small well with stone steps and an arch, the water overflowing and gurgling down to the sea. This well came into being during a thunderstorm the night of St. David’s birth. You can still see St. Non’s handprints where she gripped a stone in the throes of her labor—well, don’t be too skeptical: I once passed a kidney stone, and I could have left imprints in a diamond. It’s claimed the water has healing properties; I thought about dipping my neck but couldn’t visualize a possible position.

I stood hesitating for a while, taking stock of the weather; but, as it appeared no worse, I set off down the coastal path. True to its name, it stuck as close to the cliff’s edge as possible. It faithfully follows the curvature of every inlet, bay and ravine. On this section at least, it about doubles every straight-line mile. It’s narrow, but well defined and well maintained. Today it was muddy and puddled in places, but rocky enough that it didn’t get too sticky. I met perhaps a dozen other people, so I was encouraged that I wasn’t the only idiot out walking. It wasn’t cold at all, virtually no wind, which I’m told is a rarity; usually when it rains, the wind howls. There were wildflowers everywhere, no trees but lots of heather. The cliffs are only fifty to a hundred feet high, but sheer; I saw no way down to the rocky beaches. Just offshore, a boat kept pace with me for a while, a lobsterman out checking his traps.

After I had walked an hour, the rain got wilde, coming down in earnest; and realizing my performance wasn’t going to earn an Oscar, I began to contemplate the importance of being dry. In a small, protected cove, I took refuge in the gent’s room and again took stock of my situation. It was still five miles to my destination (a beach resort called Whitesands, from which I had planned to take a bus back to St. David’s). The rain wasn’t letting up; my pants were soaked, so reluctantly I decided to turn back. As it turned out, it was probably for the best. Since the accident, my energy has flagged, and I arrived back at the BB well nigh exhausted.

(Evening) I went back to the cathedral for evensong: a boys’ choir this time, half a dozen strong—nicely done. Tomorrow I’m off for Bath to see my daughter and her family; the weather isn’t improving, and I’m ready for some familiar places and faces. Regrettably, I’ll be missing a performance of Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion Saturday night in the cathedral; the sound is pretty incredible in the old church.

On to Bath

No rain this morning, but no sunshine either: really, I can’t complain; yesterday was the first time one of my major activities was curtailed by the weather—for the British Isles that may be some sort of record. I don’t know if it rains in Wales as much as they say; but when a strange, yellow orb made a fleeting appearance in the sky, I overheard Welsh parents explaining its function to their smaller children. I took a bus to Haverfordwest where I boarded the train direct to Bath: “direct” meaning that I don’t have to get off, but that we stop at every town, village, hamlet, city, pub, crossroad, and various points in between.

I need to say a few words about Welsh spelling. I think I could bring the internet to a crashing halt by simply writing down some of the place names. The Welsh have fallen in love with the letter “y”; “y,” I don’t know. They stick it in the front and middle of many words and often double it as the mood strikes. Their consonants have run completely amok, but they suffer bouts of amnesia when it comes to inserting vowels—and they don’t pronounce half their letters. I suspect that the Welsh themselves don’t really understand the language, but they’re too embarrassed to admit it. For instance, checking my map at random, I find “Llanymawddwy”and “Yllethr;” both pronounced, even by native speakers, as “Huh?”

There’s really not a lot to see in this part of Wales, at least from the train. The towns are getting bigger and more industrialized: tenement housing, a patina of grime, a touch of smog. It’s a bit depressing after all the magnificent scenery I’ve passed through. Thank goodness Bath is in contrast to all this; it’s an industry-free zone. Speaking of the place, it’s just down the tracks; and I’m more than ready to settle down for a few days. Thanks for joining me in these ravings and ramblings.

Until next time…

The Lonesome Traveler

P.S. A news item that caught my eye this morning made me feel a bit sheepish. It seems a band of renegade sheep here in England have found a way across the metal road grids designed to stop them. They simply lie down and roll right on over…I will tell you right now they are not doing this on their own; they are channeling something smarter than themselves—say a doorknob or a rutabaga.

TLT

written by

ed on October 27, 2005 from London Colney, United Kingdom

from the travel blog: AROUND THE UK AND IRELAND

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