In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I am actually going to post the blog entry I wrote of our visit to Ireland. It is long, I know, but we had a lot of fun there!
When I was a little girl on trips to my Grandpa Hess’s house, I always knew we were getting close when my dad started speeding up. He did this because as we neared grandpa’s house, there was a small hill in the road that we called “Tickle Tummy Hill,” the kind of hill that if you went fast enough over it, it made your stomach drop a little, like a small roller coaster. Driving in Ireland, especially Northern Ireland, is like driving on a road made of Tickle Tummy Hills. This was enough to make Campbelle squeal in delight as we drove over a long stretch full of them, “I…LOVE…THIS…COUNTRY!!!!” Later Campbelle asked if we could live in Ireland. Her reasoning was based on two factors: 1) She finally learned what a roller coaster might feel like, and she wants to drive those roads everyday; 2) There are no earthquakes in Ireland. Earthquakes are one of a long list of things Campbelle fears, right there along with toilets, hairbrushes, and buttons. Number three on her list of reasons to live here would have to be the Whaley family.
The Whaleys—David, Karen, Joe (18), Oscar (14) who was away at a school retreat, Grace (10), and their dog Ziggy—live in Irvinestown, Northern Ireland and are the kind of relaxed, open people, who make you feel like part of the family as soon as you walk in their home. Their house used to be a shop; the previous owner sold fishing tackle and supplies and displayed them in the front window, and ran a photography studio in the back. It has been converted into a lovely home with one of the best ovens I have seen. It was an oil oven that ran off a drum and slow drip oil system. The basic idea of it is that it is always on. Although they say it can make things too hot in the summer, it kept things nice and cozy in the kitchen while we were there. We made crepes for them our second night with them, and finally learned the difference between their pudding and our pudding. Puddings here in general tend to refer to a sweet treat—cake, muffin, tarte, etc. We had fun discussions around the table comparing the processes of getting driver’s licenses, how our school systems differ, listening to David tell stories of living on Fair Isle island off the coast of Scotland, the history of Northern Ireland, and a thousand other things. When Steve asked Karen if she spoke Gaelic, she said, “Oh, no. We’re Protestant. We’re the invaders!” We introduced them to the game Wackee Six, and watched Grace transform from a sweet girl to a fierce competitor with a bit of a sailor’s tongue! She had us laughing!
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| From Drop Box |
Grace was so sweet with Campbelle, and by the time we left, Campbelle was in tears saying she wanted to live not just in Ireland, but in that house with the Whaley's.
Of course, it wouldn’t be a true Schill visit if we didn’t also spend a few hours every day driving in the car. We drove to Donegal and checked out the castle. Then Steve happened to see a picture of some nearby cliffs in one of the many guide books the Whaley’s loaned us, so we drove to check them out. They aren’t as touristy as The Cliffs of Moher (i.e. less protection in the way of guard rails), but the Slieve League Cliffs are probably at the top of our list of impressive sights we have seen on this trip. To be fair, we first got out a good ways before the official lookout point, which did have guard rails and such. Where we were was just a hilly mountain side and we were probably just following a sheep path (the sheep were even out grazing). Brinnan got a ridiculous picture with her feet on the edge of the cliff, which means she now needs to be kept on a leash at dangerous sights. I think she is developing a need for adrenaline rushes which this poor mother’s heart can’t handle!
The next day we drove to Londonderry (or Derry, depending on which side of "the Troubles" you are on). We enjoyed walking around the city wall, and catching a glimpse of some of the murals which are part of the city’s political culture. As Rick Steve’s described it in one of our many guidebooks, they “blur the line between art and propaganda.” From there we headed to the Giants Causeway, a natural formation of thousands of rock columns. As we started out on the path—not believing Aubree at first that there was a shuttle stop for a ride to the site, we thought it would be a nice short walk. Then we rounded the corner and realized that the walk was probably at least a mile, which was fine except I didn’t know if Campbelle would make it. She starts dramatically bending over, and splaying her feet and legs in odd angles, saying she is stuck and her legs are too tired at any hint of extended walking. Miraculously, though, when we said it was a race, she teamed up with Brinnan and ran the whole way without any problem. She has a pretty strong competitive streak and possible potential in running! We had fun climbing over the formations and watching the waves splash up against them, but it wasn’t until we got back and were looking around the gift shop that I realized that it was another mile up the path where some of the most spectacular sights were. By then it was pouring rain and would have taken too long to go back. Which reminds me—we have had the amazing experience of having it rain mostly while we are driving, then when we arrive at a site where we are getting out, it seems to stop for a while. Then, when we get back in the car, it will start raining again! Maybe some of the “luck o’ the Irish” has rubbed off on us!
We drove a little further up the road to the town of Ballintoy, where Steve’s great-great grandfather Isaac Wilson was from and looked around the cemetery to see if we could find his gravestone. We didn’t have any luck, but decided it was a beautiful place for a final resting place looking out over the ocean, and headed back. We accidentally got on a road that took us on an amazingly beautiful drive back through the Sperrin Mountains. We kept spotting what can only be described as the quintessential old Irish farmer, wearing an Irish cap and wool sweater with plaid shirt underneath, weathered face with silvery stubble, standing randomly on the side of the road or at a gate. It was all truly spectacular scenery. At the end of the day, I think we had all decided that the true luck of the Irish is just to live Ireland.
