Our First "Walking" Experience

My walk to the warehouse in Blackpool has me trudging three miles each way, every day. It’s a nice way to start and end the work day (when it’s not raining), and the exercise is an added bonus. My journey leads me past Cork’s Heineken-owned brewery, the birthplace of Murphy’s and Beamish stouts (among other beers, I think). They understand how tempting all of the kegs can be to passers-by––the brewery is protected like the Fort Knox of stout:

Those are some nasty barbs above that entrance.

While we’re on the topic of walks: our weekend expedition with the Cork Backpackers Club was a success, thanks in part to miraculously clear weather. We hiked in the Boughils near the town of Kenmare, and I’m glad to report that the stories about County Kerry’s natural beauty are well-founded. Check out the visuals we were treated to:

We had lunch overlooking the Black Valley.

Kenmare Bay, feeding into the Atlantic at the far right.

They’re not the most difficult peaks one can summit, but the views are really unmatched thanks to the almost completely treeless terrain. I’ve never seen anything like it. The barren landscape is shocking if you’re used to hiking in the eastern United States: along the Appalachian Trail, for instance, a thick tree canopy is almost always over your head. Wide-open views that let you see for miles are the exception, and sometimes you can hike for hours (or days) between them. It was quite a treat to experience the opposite for a change.

Oh, and walking on peat (or "turf") is an interesting sensation. It's pretty much like walking on a giant soggy sponge: it gives a little with each step, and squirts water in every direction. It will take some getting used to.

This weekend Katherine and I are heading to the Burren, a rocky region in County Clare (for reasons too many to recount right now, our Galway trip is postponed. But I did hear a song called “Galway Girl,” it’s very good and I suggest looking it up). There’s snow in the forecast, but hopefully it won’t be a hindrance.

***

The Irish accept our immigration in stride. Joyfully, even. But when I tell other immigrants in Ireland where I'm from, shock is usually the response. During one of my first days at the warehouse I was paired up with a Polish co-worker––attempting some introductory small talk, he asked me in a thick accent, "Where are you from?" When I said "Maryland, in the States," he reacted with shrill laughter. I smiled politely and asked what was so funny. He never told me.

And earlier this week I was working in the loading bay, taking three pallets of goods off of a big-rig. The driver of the truck was an immigrant (when we asked him where he came from, he only said, "I come from the heart of Europe," where ever that is). Hearing my accent, he asked me if I was from the U.K. I said no, the States. With this he actually stopped working and turned to face me with his hands on his hips. He said what was perhaps on my Polish co-worker's mind: "America? Why are you here? Everyone wants to be in America. There is more work, more money, better weather, better scenery, better women, everything is more modern...." He finished ticking these things off on his fingers, trailed off and looked at me in amazement.

I didn't know what to say. His opinions being so strong it felt silly to try to defend living in Ireland on its merits, so all I could respond with was, "Well, we're not here permanently." It would have been futile to try to explain during this brief encounter that many Americans see Ireland as a mystical ancestral homeland, and that the "Emerald Isle" enchants many an imagination back in the USA. Nevermind the fact that Ireland is indeed a beautiful place, and offers things you can't find back home (see above photos). I guess they don't feel the same way in the "Heart of Europe."