The Sky.

On a March Wednesday, after the first day the red Merlot and Shiraz grapes were picked, I was lucky enough to witness a spectacular sight. I had gone home after work full of grape juice stickiness and earwig and mouse itchiness to have a hot wash-away shower. I went back to the winery to use the Internet, but with a frustratingly low connection, I left with a worth-while experience. 

Check out this sunset.

Is this for real? yes.

Just minutes passed as I walked by before the deliciously vibrant flavors of the sky were licked up and swallowed by the sunset. I could not be luckier.

Then I got home and took off my sweater, and still found an earwig attached to the shoulder of my shirt. Hmmm. Still worth-while. 

I don’t know if I have said this before, and if I have it is to bewildered, unconvinced eyes, but I think that in another life I have and/or would like to study the sky and clouds. There is something about it that constantly finds my feet slowly coming to a halt, my eyes peering up wide-eyed, and my mind in a silent awe. I don’t think I could ever be an astrologist though, as the unfathomable expanse of the universe and beyond somewhat terrifies me. I can’t visual it so I can’t comprehend it. I don’t get it and I don't understand why we don't know more about it.

I don’t know how many pictures have been unrelentingly taken of the sunsets putting the Piscataqua River to sleep while waking up the nightlife of downtown Portsmouth. The early jet-lagged morning sunrises over the Dunfanaghy Golf Course bringing eastern promises of rain or sun to the Northwest coast of Ireland. The bike rides around Colorno that were stopped to absorb the sight of the clouds sweeping the culatello-weathered smell of Prosciutto di Parma and Parmigiano Reggiano across Emilia Romagna. The runs to the Indian Ocean timed perfectly as the heat of the sun disappeared into the water with the sun. The northern, very westerly clouds leaving Monkey Mia smeared like FunFetti vanilla frosting against the baby-blue sky that sweetly reminded me of skinny days of scooping spoonfuls directly out of the tub as an afternoon snack. 

If it's not the people or the food, it is the sky that will remain in my memories. 

Recently, as in since I've been at Frankland Estate for the last month (a month!), I have caught myself noticing they sky more than a couple times a day. At four in the morning when the moon is still lighting the night’s sky with the still-present stars, it confuses the sleepy hour of having to start work. Then later the sun starts to rise over the vineyard warming the grapes awake from the cool night. No picture I have taken has yet to capture the colors that make the early morning work hours worthwhile. Then, during the day as I walk to and from the winery along the dirt road and in between the vines, I twirl in place searching for a cloud amongst the blanketing blue sky above and around me. Not a cloud in sight. I envision a satellite or spaceship over me, looking down and having clear access to be able to see the remote, isolated Frankland River region with pristine precision. Me, barely a speck. Or when I'm standing in The Spot of mobile reception talking to John and Sheelagh, I look up at the sky in the dawn light or dusk sky and wonder what the sky looks like where they are, 12 hours behind. And if the timing is just right when I leave the winery after my dose of Internet communication with civilization or after a beer with the guys, I get my own sunset each night to marvel at as I walk home. This private show usually lasts the duration of my walk home, gradually disappearing behind the vines and stealing one last glimpse of the fading color specturm through the trees for myself before I step inside. Other times I share this with Felix as we sit on the couch that we moved out onto the veranda, watching the sheep chew their way across the field in front of us, the wind blowing a cool night breeze, the sound mice scampering across the wooden boards, and the spiders lurking somewhere. We have the best front row seat to watch the array of colors slowly blend into a single black backdrop of Jackson Pollocked-stars, so crystal clear they pierce not only the sky like sprawled sparkling diamonds on a black velvet tray in a jeweler’s shop, but sharpen your utter disbelief that you are witnessing such a sight. I'm not exaggerating, people. 

Ok ONE MORE I swear!

I heard in the Outback you can see the sun setting in one direction, and then you turn around to the east at that same moment and can see the moon, the night sky, and the stars already out for their nocturnal postings. I can't wait for that.

If it weren’t for the prickly dry grass and the looming presence of night critters, I would totally go out and lie in the field and stare up into the sky until the sun rose again. But, unfortunately, that sheer fear of creepy crawlies will keep me safely on the veranda, home to it’s own zoo of Western Australian creatures. 

And...

As hard as it is to leave this place, I am ready! 

Goodbye 2011, Hello 2012.

The end of 2011 ended with an entire month in Ireland (ok, 3 days in Northern Ireland). The start of 2012 started in Ireland. 2012 may or may not be the end of the world. That saying, 2012 may or may not be a good idea to go half way around the world.

Mum arrived 3 days after me. Dad and Jess arrived the Friday before Christmas. We celebrated Christmas Eve, Christmas Day on Sunday, charades & games, Christmas again on Tuesday with the cousins, holiday cocktail party, trivia night, 80's/90's night at Roonies, New Years Eve, my Birthday, New Years Dip, birthday dinner.

28. Let's not talk about it.

Now everyone is gone.

Three days later - weather permitting- I finally decide to leave the house. For over an hour and a half the sun graciously shone, not a spit of rain or hail stone descended from the January sky while I was outside. The wind, however, was as persistant as ever. In terms of getting some excercise, this means: run in one direction, powerwalk the other way back. The blowing sand stuck to my black yoga pants and Northface pullover, my un-straightened hair tangled in the wind, and my lungs embraced the crisp ocean air. Over the sand dunes, the golfers persevered and I wondered how they could muster up the strength to hit the tiny white ball into the forceful gale winds. It seemed utterly useless to me. But I turned around and looked out upon the thrashing waves breaking the sea, and thought, Killahoey sure does heal the soul. The wind is so loud that it creates a rushing silence so that you cannot focus on anything else, barely hearing your own thoughts. The only thing I could think (despite as many life-changing, world-realization type thoughts you think could be had) was how lucky I was and how special this place was. As I faced the oncoming winds heading home, I wondered if my kids (don't laugh Jess) would ever get to experience Dunfanaghy as it is or what it would be like in a few years. I wondered if I'd ever be able to express what this place means to me, to my family. Regardless of where we leave to, the rhythem of the ocean's waves will continue to constantly play their mesmerizing melody against the sand, still going on and on, minding it's own business, until we come back again. 

 As of today, there are 12 days until I arrive in Perth Australia, 11 days till I spend thirteen hours in the Singapore airport, 10 days until my flight takes off, 9 days until I'm in London and get to see Arina, which means 8 more full days here in Ireland. I miss my family tremendously. Even though they seem far away in America, my heart tightens when I think how much further away they will be, how far I will be halfway across the world. Literally.

Then I think about how much food is left here that I have to eat before I leave! I am not a waster of food. Which is a bad thing, because despite the hour and forty minutes I spent outside today, the only thing I have consumed are 2 cups of coffee, a couple vitamins, and some accompaning glasses of water. The amount of cheese in our fridge, my goodness you'd think I'd be the happiest person to be left with that much, but it is Beach Weather in Australia. The amount of cheese we've eaten here this past month would probably turn anyone vegan as an excuse for a cheese-detox. I LOVE CHEESE.

So as much as I miss my family, I have appreciated the two week detox. As much as I wish the wind didn't damage the Sky box, I read an entire 347 page book in one day. As much as I love this place, I can't wait for summertime in Australia!!

My. So. Called. Real. Life.

So, "wedding season," or so coined for this summer, is officially over. Well, at least the first wave of weddings - I've heard they go in waves. This summer was packed with showers, festivities, get aways, ceremonies, and parties. As much as I absolutely loved the opportunities to get together with everyone - especially especially after being away in Europe for 15 months - I am ready for fall to settle in and have a little break from all the gift-buying, new dresses (or borrowing really, in my case, thanks Jess), the travel expenses, and the sore dancing feet. The first wedding in May and the last wedding in October were pretty much the reasons why I stayed in America for the summer and put off my post-graduate "Real Life." It certainly wasn't financially possible for me to fly back and forth for each event, nor could I imagine missing any of them. Furthermore, no company was going to hire me and then let me have two separate months off to spend in America. So, originally, the plan was that I was supposed to come back in May and stay for month until my Bucknell 5-year reunion weekend, then spend the summer in Donegal, fly back in September for a month to attend a bachelorette party and then stay for the wedding 3 weeks later. Real Life was pushed back until October 2nd (today is October 12th). I loved being back with my family and seeing my friends again, both in NYC and Portsmouth - especially especially after 15 months apart in Europe - and my sister pretty much convinced me to stay for the summer. A car accident 2 days before I was supposed to get back on a plane to go back to Ireland sealed the deal. Portsmouth eventually won over NYC and I changed my flight back to Ireland to December 1. Real Life would start then. Or, after Christmas when the family goes back to America. Ok, January 2nd. I'll be a day older than 28 and ready to start Real Life. 

I don't regret staying here for the summer. Summer in Donegal would've been filled with a lot of montanaiety (monotonousness?) and alone time. Maybe I would have a lamb for a pet and chickens for eggs every morning and bees making me honey and would have planted a full vegetable garden - but unlikely. Maybe I would've worked up the courage to learn how to surf and not be scared of further-ruining my knees - or was it actually the intimidatingly cute surf instructors that kept me away? Maybe I would've learned how to pour the perfect pint of Guinness - oh wait, I already learned how to do that from living there and working there in the spring. 

Staying in Portsmouth and working for a local farm this summer has been a terrific learning experience. Despite the fact that my friends don't understand what I do at all and my sister thinks that I'm a hillbilly, I don't regret it one bit. I have learned so much not only from the farmers but reading up on the produce so that I can answer questions for customers and write for the farm's newsletter as well as keep up with my own blog. I have a deeper confused-understanding of the pros and cons of organic and conventional farming as well as the reality of it all. Maybe the "confused-understanding" means I don't actually get the reality of it all, but then that blurriness of right and wrong is pretty much the reality of it today. There's so much more that goes into running a successful farm, the politics of farmers markets, and grasping the difficulties of what people eat and what they actually know about where their food comes from is alarming. So much of it people take for granted. Even after this entire summer I have a hard time knowing what to eat or what not to eat: pesticide-ridden but local, morally-righteously but  restaurant-available, eating for the sake of not wasting, or even just having a craving for something when I know I am being hypocritical. 

But all of this has not lead to me to Real Life. The last farmers market ends November 5th. One month in America. Portsmouth? NYC? Then a flight December 1st. One month in Ireland. Can I get a job at Fallon & Byrne again and afford to live in Dublin? Are there even any people in Dunfanaghy in December to possibly find a job? Too many questions, too many unknowns. I'm feeling a little overwhelmed as summer comes to an end. 

Rather spontaneously on a Friday night, I applied for a working-holiday visa to Australia.  Sunday, I was approved. (!!!!!!!!!!!!) The economy in Ireland is too shitty to look for a job. I need to move out of my parents place and be a real 27 year old. I've had my fair share of Portsmouth - love it, but it's time to move on, again. I don't want a corporate job in NYC and any other sort of job will be unaffordable to live there. So, why not Australia? I've wanted to go there since 3rd grade when we learned all about penguins, I fell in love, and learned that there were warm-weathered penguins, the Little Blue Fairy Penguins, living and causing a raucous in Australia. I always thought that a semester abroad would bring me the opportunity to go there, however, a double-major in Spanish taught me that they don't speak Spanish in Australia. 

Lewisburg 4 years. CT 8 months. New York 2 years. Portsmouth 13 months. Italy 1 year. Ireland 3 months. what's next? Australia? why not? my travel lust is calling my name. 

"Why not" probably isn't an acceptable answer. Especially for those who have stable jobs, steady relationships, some sort of career path or even a goal. But for me, I don't. I like taking what life has given me and using it as a learning experience, creating my own stages along the way, and hopefully, it will lead me to where I'm supposed to be. I don't think I'm supposed to know what I'm supposed to do, but I do know that a corporate life is not well suited for mel, and I'm perfectly happy taking what I can get, adjusting and/or improving along the way. I don't have a plan in Australia, yet, just an approved visa. Maybe there was another reason for going to Australia, maybe I lost it. Is it an escape from Real Life going half way around the world or will I find it there? What do I do if I don't go to Australia? Maybe I will miss the next wave of wedding showers, festivities, luncheons, parties, ceremonies, and sore feet from dancing, but I've learned that I can't stick around for those - as much as I may not want to selfishly miss them. I can't put off my Real Life for any one. This is my (so called) Real Life. I've enjoyed this intermediate-pause-on-real-life-but-huge-learning-experience-and-friend-and-family-filled-summer, but I'm ready for "Real Life." Whatever that may be, even if it's half way around the world. 

*I miss you already, but what better excuse than come to visit me?! 

“Don’t be content to merely survive. You must demand to live in a better world, not just dream about it.” La Finestra di Fronte

Waking up to this view every morning, I don't know why I would want to be anywhere else. Until I came back to America and realized how much I missed my friends and family. 

But now, how can I resist this gorgeous view?

Come For a Walk with Me Around Dunfanaghy.

 From Dunfanaghy to Port na Blagh

 Celtic Crosses.

 Famine Graveyard.

 Is this where Judy fell?

 Dad taking pics.

 Old Church.

 Thought he was going to come after me. Stare down.

 Sunset.

 Red Sky at Night, Shepherd's Delight, Red Sky in the Morning, Sailor's Warning.

Double Rainbow for Mother's Day!

Come For a Walk with Me on Killahoey Beach.

The beach from the road.

Sheelagh.

 Most peaceful place on Earth.

storm coming!

 Horn Head is getting covered.

 Angry waves.

 Clouds sneaking up from the back.

 Muckish has disappeared.

 Reflections.

Tiny Treasures.

Spring Has Arrived !!

A Lesson on Lambing.

Ever since I texted Frazer that I would be back in Donegal in March after graduation, I have been looking forward to experiencing "lambing." He responded that I would be returning just in time for the ewe's lambing, or giving birth. How excited was I to witness such an event! Once I arrived in Ireland, my parents and I drove through the green countryside on the way from the airport to our house, and everywhere I saw little baby lambs fumbling around their mothers in the field. I was worried I was too late. Frazer assured me that, although one was born early, the rest were due on Monday. How did he know that the sheep were due on that specific day? My cousin just had a baby 10 months early, how could he possibly know when all the sheep would give birth?! (It's all scheduled, very romantically, with the rams). The next couple days, no word to visit his farm except that he was sick with a cold and not working. I was sadly disappointed that I had missed my first, maybe only, spring lambing.

Lambs everywhere...Did I miss the Lambing?!

but, today, today was the day.

Frazer picked me up and we drove to the barn where the 150 ewes were waiting in pens to give birth. they had dots on their backs indicating the number of lambs they were pregnant with. one. two. or three. the smell of animal sensation and wooly hay filled the chilled barn, or maternity ward, as I wondered why I hadn't brought my inhaler. Oh, right, I remembered: I was too excited to go I even forgot my proper poop-proof wellies and a jacket, only grabbing my mandatory camera as I left. Frazer's dad was there monitoring the action, or lack of action. It seemed to be like a lot of waiting around for these expecting ewes to give birth.

First, they are "sick" and scratch their front hooves on the grated ground. The scratching is, I guess, an old habit ingrained in the sheep, as they are pretending to dig and build a nest for their newborn in what would have been a grassy field. They make a lot of gruntled noise and restlessly move about the pen, kneeling and lying down with difficulty, as they try to feel more comfortable. Their water pouch comes out first, sometimes just dangling there all filmy and bloody, and that's the indication of imminent birth. The ewe we were watching, actually gave birth, just in seconds, as we turned our attention to another ewe in another pen who had just lost its water pouch. The new baby lamb lay on the ground cold and wet as three ewes licked off the sticky liquid coating covering it. 

The mother, still standing strong, still had another baby to give birth to. She just gave birth and was still standing! Their strength absolutely amazed me. Watching the ewes lick off this thick film was quite hard to stomach, pun intended. I think it was to warm them by removing the surrounding wet membrane. I'm not sure if this is true about the other ewes, but I think sometimes they get confused if it is their child or not, because they are all in the impending process of labour. It is imperative for the farmer to be watching and present at all times in case a lamb is born and the film is covering it's mouth and nose, causing it to suffocate. The ewes don't seem to start licking at the head first so they only have a couple minutes to break free of it. The diet of the ewes is what make the film sometimes thicker than normal. For one lamb, Frazer had to wipe the film off it's face and then pick it up by it's rear legs and swing it a couple times to make sure that the air could reach it's lungs. As much as you don't want a dead lamb, the lamb is a commodity to the farmer and a dead one won't make him any money.

on it's way out...

Frazer had to rescue this wee one. 

Sometimes the ewes will gently stomp at the baby lying there to make sure that it is alive. After a few minutes, Frazer picked up the lamb and coaxed the mother out of the pen to follow into a single pen where the baby could be properly licked clean, warmed in hay, and get acquainted with its new life....watch below!!

The ewes have to bond with their lamb and have their own pen to identify with each other before they move out to the field - depending on strength and weather. Sometimes, young ewes giving birth for the first time don't accept their babies, or not noticing what happened think they just pooped, so they are in a pen with their head sticking out, boarded in, so that the lamb can still be fed without the mother wanting to crush it. Other times, it is possible for a lamb to die during birth, so if another ewe has twins or triplets, a lamb can be given to the other mother. This is called grafting. The lamb must be properly washed and rubbed with the birth sack of the new mother so that she believes that it is her own. Way back when, I don't know when, but sometimes the dead lamb would be skinned and that fur would be attached to the adopted baby. Within five minutes, the lamb had wobbly stood up on its own legs and naturally knew where to find the nipples to be fed. Amazing. Some lambs need to be fed with a bottle by the farmer - which I did!! and the little cutie sucked toothlessly on my finger. Adorable.

I can't help but laugh out-loud when I watch this. The loud baa-ing, the sheep farts, and the little newborn trying to stand up, so fragile and awkward, but so determined.

Wrinkly little newborn. They have pretty long tails at first, but the farmer places a tight rubber ring on their tail and as they grow, the band doesn't allow the tail to get bigger, and eventually falls off so they just have a fluffy little nub of a tail. This is called docking and apparently it is harmless to them. It doesn't sound very natural, but the long tails that are often covered in a thick coat of wool get pretty dirty, which can be unsanitary and unhygienic for the sheep.

The dent on her left back side is where the lamb used to be. The bulge is also a pretty good indicator to the farmer how many lambs the ewe is pregnant with. 

This St Paddy's day baby was bigger than the twin lambs in the neighbouring pen because its mother had previously given birth. The neighbor ewe was only a year old and this was her first birth so the babies were much smaller. 

Born on St Paddy's Day! A real Irish lamb! He's my #13 :)

 They eventually move out to the field and are all numbered, grouped in families, according to when they were born.

My #13 all grown up!!