Shanti

So I moved to Dunny Cove, a place so obscure that most people in the nearby big city of Clonakilty (pop. 2000) scratch their heads and ask for coordinates.  Then, if they’re driving here, they get lost anyway and call on their mobile phones for directions.  I like this.  Dunny Cove is a tiny sandy beach surrounded by high cliffs and menacing rocks.  There are three houses in the cul de sac; I live in half of the first one, a duplex high on the verge overlooking the cove and icy winter Atlantic.  Pods of whales and dolphins glide pass my doorsteps, silent as shadows in a churchyard.  Basking Sharks loll just off shore. There is magic in Dunny Cove.

My neighbor, in the other half of the duplex is Shanti, a medium sized black and white dog of indeterminate, but undoubtedly splendid, ancestry.  Shanti is sui generis, his own pup in every way from his big soulful eyes to his unique “Queen Anne” shaped forelegs.  Of course, Shanti has a human caregiver, Cathy, my winsome neighbor, but the thing is that Shanti is a guy dog and “mature” like me.  He seems genuinely happy to have the friendship of another old dog. (Of course, it may just be he enjoys the treats I slip him.)  And, Shanti is an ancient soul, peaceful as his name and exemplary in his love of all creation.  So we walk together, greeting neighbors, canine, bovine, equine, and human with friendly smiles, sniffs, and kisses.  Shanti refreshes himself from rain puddles and a little roadside seep spring he’s shown me.  Shanti says the spring is holy and has its own resident naiad, a water deity named Trixi.  Trixi is a doggie deity.

Shanti makes a paradise of each moment, looking up from time to time to share the joy with me.  “Isn’t puddle splashing lovely?  Did you notice the earthy fragrance of that horse; the bright yellow of the Gorse?” So Shanti coaxes me into his magical world of spirits, scents, and sensations; a place otherwise lost to my numb human observation.

Shanti and I like to walk to Beala Cusheen a neighboring cove where he searches out Pepper Dulse (Osmunia pinnatifida), a kelp, which he eats with gusto.   Pepper Dulse, is very high in minerals and has culinary uses as a spice, but in moderation.  Fresh from the shore it tastes salty and spicy.  Shanti has a jones for Pepper Dulse, but eats it only after first vigorously shaking the sand and little sea creatures from it. Shanti is a nearly a Jain so assiduously does he avoid killing. This too endears Shanti.

Speaking of seaweed, I’ve just purchased Prannie Rhatigan’s Irish Seaweed Kitchen, a wonderfully illustrated cookbook singing the praises of Ireland’s abundant shoreline.  All Irish seaweeds are quite edible and may be used in salads and soups, as spices and more.  An Irish seaweed you might find in your neighborhood health food store is Carrageen from which one may easily make Carrageen Jelly, a wonderful dessert served with lemon and honey.  My friend Cally introduced me to Carrageen Jelly just a few weeks ago.  It’s like ice cream from the sea and is good for you!  How often in a lifetime does that happen? Once I purchase my Vita Mix blender I’ll have seaweed in my daily smoothie and soups. 

So it goes.  Life is abundant in West Cork on the edge of the Irish speaking sea.  May every earthly blessing find its way to your doorstep in this the season of moon and stars.

Thanksgiving Remembered

The origins of Thanksgiving are various and disputed by people who enjoy disputation.  It is probably older than its traditional inception date of 1621 by the Pilgrims in Massachusetts Bay Colony.  Scholars think the Pilgrims brought this festival from the Netherlands where, by the way, Thanksgiving is also still celebrated.  Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving a month earlier than other North Americans, but that’s because winter comes earlier among the ice farmers; you’ve got to cook the turkey before it freezes to death in the yard.   But, no mind, Thanksgiving is a harvest festival which is now completely secular and ecumenical.  The Pilgrims invited the indigenous Native Americans to feast with them in a gesture which, had it been followed, might have changed the face of American history for the better.

The tradition is one of open commensality. Much like the early Christians, Americans celebrate by breaking bread with newcomers, strangers, and people of diverse heritage.  In my own family, my Aunt Isabel’s Jewish hairdresser and bookie, “Aunt Agnes,” was always present on Thanksgiving.  My grandmother’s lesbian cousin, Dr. Esther, was also with us on many Thanksgivings.   I recall her as a tall kindly lady in trousers who was said to be the first woman physician licensed in the State of Nebraska.  Dr. Esther cured my warts without pain or surgery, prescribing mineral oil and mysterious pills which I now believe to have been a placebo.  Thanksgiving was always a time of open doors, open hearts, and full stomachs.

In my memory, my tiny Grandmother Moran presided over the kitchen with her daughters busily fussing over food preparation and presentation.  Everyone drank eggnog which, when spiked with rum and/or brandy becomes a “Tom & Jerry.” Grandma Moran didn’t tolerate liquor in her house so my uncles all brought flasks to spike their drinks on the back porch.  Granddad Moran did not use alcohol, but seemed to turn a blind eye on the back porch.  Boys will be boys.

Thanksgiving, like Passover among Reform Jews, is a time when you may seek out single people, lonely people, and invite them into your family.  Some, like my Aunt Agnes, become family thereafter.  It is also a time when family feuds are set aside, sometimes settled; peace is made.  We celebrated Thanksgiving with my mother’s whitebread Protestant family and were the only Catholics in the crowd.  Catholics weren’t quite proper in America of the 1950s, before John F. Kennedy was elected President.  My grandfather said grace before we began eating and my Uncle Joe winked at me across the table while others bowed their heads in prayer. 

For the meal itself, Grandfather Moran carved the turkey and we passed the food around the table family style. The turkey’s derriere was always called “The Pope’s Nose,” but not spitefully.  Even my Catholic father chuckled at the old jibe.  Granddad always proclaimed that “south end” of the turkey the best part and kept it for himself.   I hated canned cranberries which looked like they’d taste wonderful, but didn’t.  Everyone poured oceans of gravy over their turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes.  Good manners required that you comment favorably on the “flaky” crust of my grandmother’s pies over which one layered vanilla ice cream and whipped cream.  High cholesterol hadn’t been invented yet, so folks could yet eat sinfully without apology or self-recrimination.  Obesity was called “fat” and that’s what any number of my family members were.  Heart attack was considered a natural cause of death, the express train to the bosom of Abraham.

After the meal was finished, I always slid down in my chair and crawled under the table to freedom through a forest of legs.  Uncles adjourned to the living room where they dozed and watched tiny footballers gambol on the black and white television.  Mom and the aunts cleared up, did the dishes, laughed, and gossiped.  In later years, Uncle Joe and I escaped to the Elks Club for snooker or, if apprehended, to the front lawn for a game of catch with baseball and glove.  Aunt Isabel’s Pekinese, “Tippy,” surfeited with outlaw tidbits I’d slipped her under the table, was quietly sick and snored teats up on her innocent back in a corner.

Mindful Cycling:

Riding a one-speed bike is skinny dipping a starlit cove in West Cork.  Visualize surfing an endless point break alone under the golden moon of summer.

I am again in the throes of One-Speed Fever, a passion which affects thousands of bikies daily.  Every cyclist is at heart a minimalist and burning deep in that heart is the joy of mindful riding, a meditation.  In that zone respiration is the Creator’s breath filling your lungs with life, stoking the fire of metabolism deep in your belly.  Your legs move, your muscles stretch and contract rhythmically, but you are utterly still; the world rolls beneath you. The Cosmic OM resonates throughout your body, vitalizing both bike and rider.  Visualize a cyclist within a swarming galaxy whose axis is her fontanel. If you’ve got that, you “get” one-speed.

The one-speed idea is a bicycle so spare that nothing is without immediate function.  Here you see no spring forks, iPods, or clusters of electronic doodads.  There are no fancy gear shifters, derailleurs or hydration systems. You don’t need a pulse and blood pressure gadget when you feel every heartbeat throughout your body.  One-speed cyclists fret over whether to retain the rear brake, hardly necessary and always mushier than the crisp snap of the front canti.   Ms. Raleigh has Paul cantilever brakes, front and rear; her front canti is a touring model which would stop a rockslide.  You must learn not to apply it too forcefully.  Although the rear brake is elegant and functional, it comes with its own clutter.  I sometimes forget my helmet. So it goes. 

With a one-speed comes an entirely different cycling reality; a deeper serenity and harmony.  You do walk up many hills and invariably coast downhill, but when was the last time you had such unalloyed joy as coasting down a long hill?  Gravity, usually your master, becomes your friend.  Walking your bike uphill you meet the world at the only pace known to your ancient ancestors. When was the last time you really looked at a horse? A cow? A caterpillar? Walking up Ardfield Hill was how I met May, my Airedale friend who sometimes gives me kisses.  There is nothing more innocent and sincere than May’s kiss.  She’s your pal.

If I’ve infected you, you may come to thank me.  Now we’re dreaming of taking a one-speed tour of coastal Ireland next spring, Ms. Raleigh and me.  Ms. Raleigh likes the idea of becoming a bikini bike again.   Me too!

(If you want to peek at an elegant one-speed, check out Rivendell Bicycle Works “Quickbeam” at http://www.rivbike.com/.  It’s not Ms. Raleigh, but he is an elegant machine; her American cousin.)

Peace.

Beauty Immortal & Mysterious:

Ms. Raleigh started life in the 1970s as a 10-speed club bike composed from the world’s finest tubing, double butted Reynolds 501. “Steel Is Real” is her mantra and Ms. Raleigh is always right. The only way to obtain this kind of frame now is to find one of the rare craftsmen who still builds bicycles by hand.  Rivendell Bicycles in California, http://www.rivbike.com/, sells elegant butted steel frames along with other fine equipment. Take a look; it’s a cyclist’s gazetteer.  As we’ve matured together, Ms. Raleigh and I have become minimalist. (Her only accesories are a shell bead necklace I made for her and a Krishna bell which once announced the whereabouts of my toddlers’ shoes.  My only adornment is Ms. Raleigh.)  By the time we moved to Paris, she had shed all her gear shifting paraphernalia and become a 1-speed, sporting Phil Wood hubs and crank bearing, Paul cantilever brakes, and an old Brooks Professional saddle.  Her crank set is Campagnolo.  She draws appreciative looks from bicycle cognoscenti and envy from her younger, more common cousins. Ms. Raleigh is like Sophia Loren, immortally beautiful and mysterious.

When we rambled into West Cork, some gear selection became necessary.  Ms. Raleigh doesn’t mind a walk, but we both usually prefer a rolling pace.  After meditating, we opted for a 5-speed freewheel, but employ just the lower three gears.  We’re in no hurry; no longer relish careening madly downhill at the mercy of potholes and gravel traps.   This configuration is accommodated by a Campy Nuovo Record derailleur and a rare Campy single downtube shifter.  Notwithstanding gear selection, coastal West Cork presents hills which must be walked.  This is unobjectionable since walking attenuates the pleasures of the moment: scenic vistas, wildlife, and the sweet company of doggies.  Don’t we all really live in the moment anyway?  Dogs are Zen masters of this art.

One of our favorite coastal rides takes us up a long steep grade into Ardfield, the village a couple of klicks above the beach at Red Strand.  So I was walking with Ms. Raleigh up this hill when we first made May’s acquaintance. May is an Airedale who is herself an elegant, long legged beauty.  (Leapin’ Lizards! May looks like the striking great-granddaughter of Little Orphan Annie’s scruffy pal Sandy.) I sealed friendship with May by sharing my sandwich.

Muffin, May’s sidekick, is a silky haired black Scotty. In fine weather May and Muffin spend the day greeting wayfarers on the hill. I met Muffin last week when May introduced me.  Having no sandwich, I found some dog biscuits in Ms. Raleigh’s “candy bar” bike bag.  Muffin was very hungry, but May, true to her good breeding, only ate gently from my hand.   Her curly coat is thick and wonderful; it feels like the fleece of a lamb.  The next time I see this pair I’ll ask for their photograph to post and share.  “Arf,” sez May to all her fans in Blogland.  May scorns paparazzi, but will pose briefly if compensated appropriately.

West Cork is infused with beauty; West Cork, where angels yet sing and Airedales kiss your cheek.

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NEWS ALERT:  Thursday, November 11^th at 11:11 am EST is New Reality Transmission liftoff, the alternative to Armageddon.  Join us.  http://www.newrealitytransmission.com/

The Met in Cork City & Singing at Pascal O’Brien’s:

Ireland is a place of music and wonder.

I went to the Metropolitan Opera in Cork City a couple of weeks ago, having become a shameless Opera junkie courtesy of The Met’s HD satellite broadcasts.  If you haven’t seen The Met in HD you should give it a try. It may change your attitude toward grand opera. There is a magical, infectious energy to live performance which the high technology of the Met manages to capture and broadcast worldwide by satellite.  If you’re new to opera, see a Mozart or anything Italian, buy some popcorn, and take Kleenex.  They’re mostly heartbreakers.  We saw Das Rheingold starring Bryn Terfel, the Welsh baritone, as Wotan, the henpecked King of the Gods.  My friend Lisa, also Welsh, joined me and we had a smashing good time,  Lisa harmonizing with the Rheine maidens in the opening scenes.  There’s something a little unglued about opera at a movie theater; Lisa plugged right into the spirit of the event with all the legendary enthusiasm of the Welsh Gael.  Opera isn’t church.  It’s living theater!

Later that night we wound up at Pascal O’Brien’s pub in Rosscarbery.  There was live traditional music, Guinness on tap, and great conversation.  Irish Trad incorporates American music which, like me, has come home from the sea; everyone can sing along one way or another. I did.  My friends, Copper Frank and bachelor Paddy O’ (aged > 80) were also there so we had good crack between sets.   Paddy’s motto is “Viagra and Brandy,” God love him.  He kept busy chatting up the ladies at the next table.  I worry that Paddy will blow a gasket, but he soldiers on, mad as a fish for the touch of a woman.

As the weather has cycled through fall toward winter I find myself more occupied with indoor life, cleaning and tuning Ms. Raleigh, cooking, and practicing Yoga.  I’ve been reading Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda, founder of The Self-Realization Fellowship which popularized Yoga in California in the 1920s.  They used to have a mushroom burger stand on old Highway 1 at their ashram in Encinitas.  I never had the courage to stop and try one; was afraid that the strange people in robes and sandals would embarrass me by proselytizing over the counter.  If only I’d been so lucky so long ago! 

I volunteer two days a week at The Children’s Project, a charity store in Clonakilty which features well cataloged used books and an ocean of recycled toys.  Parents and grandparents bring their young charges into a wonderland of unpackaged toys which they may touch and take home for a few pennies.  A surprising number of people patronize the bookstore and return the books for resale later.  Since we’re all volunteers, after the rent everything goes to children’s charities.  I sometimes play my pennywhistle for the little ones who, bless them, are an appreciative audience for my puny, stumbling efforts.

Life is grand in West Cork.

Surfers At Long Strand

Autumn has come to West Cork and stillness creeps over the land.  Dogs stay closer to their doorsteps and farm animals seek shelter on the lee side of hills.  Outings for Ms. Raleigh and me have become less frequent too.  We don’t mind getting caught in the rain, but won’t sally forth into a drizzle.  The sun shone yesterday morning, so we leapt at the chance to take a wander.   The best ride for sheer beauty is along the coast in the direction of Clonakilty.  There are some challenging hills, but the reward is high views of long pristine beaches.

Although the land is settling, the seas have become frisky presenting high dramatic surf conditions; cresting waves crowned with spume come in to pound the rocks.  So it was that we were out and saw a clutch of surfers at Long Strand taking advantage of big surf conditions.  These waves were large and fast moving requiring the surfer to move out smartly or be left behind. 

I watched the surfers and felt a kind of homesickness, nostalgia really, for the land that used to be; old California in the 1950s and 60s.  Huntington Beach was called “Tin Can” and where the San Onofre nuclear power plant stands behind high fences was “The Bone Yard,” a surfer’s dream in Big South conditions.  Small towns dotted Highway 101, places called Palos Verdes, San Pedro, Capistrano, Doheney, Oceanside, and Encinitas. The beaches were little used, particularly in the fall, and the towns were haunted by war veterans trying to recapture the youth they’d lost in Korea’s freezing  mud. 

My favorite café of those years was the now forgotten Noah’s Ark on the bluff just north of Encinitas.  The building looked like an ark washed onto high ground. It had funky African animal cutouts peering over the gunnels.  They made a wonderful clam chowder.  Before McDonald’s, each café had its own unique menu, some of it very good, all of it cooked fresh while you chatted up the waitress. Really, that was more important than the chowder. Do you remember the Dylan line, "Girls faces formed a forward path ..."?  Why is it after all these years I can still recall her smile?

So, we watched the surfers at Long Strand and wandered back to another time and forgotten place; remembering a girl's shy smile.  One boy caught a good wave and rode it like a Hawaiian prince before he kicked out in the wash.  Gulls called and I applauded.  Then we rolled on home to Rosscarbery.

Threshing at Sam's Cross

            Sam’s Cross is between Clonakilty and Rosscarbery, inland and uphill. Surrounded by farms, the crossroad hamlet is a short walk from Michael Collins’ family home, a secular pilgrimage site.  Everyone who knows Irish history visits the family home, says a prayer for the soul of Michael Collins, and heads for “The Four Alls,” the pub at Sams Cross.  Sure if you’re going to pray for a fella in Purgatory, you should wet your throat in his memory too.

            The “Threshing” at Sam’s Cross is an annual horse fair and traditional fall festival.  The Four Alls, is still owned by relatives of The Big Fella.  For The Threshing the pub features live traditional music all day, performers of all ages doing the old songs well and adding to the canon.  The little place was crowded by with smiling faces, children underfoot, young folks puttin’ on the style, and ol’ wans savoring the moment.

            Ms. Raleigh and I came by the back road from Rosscarbery and rolled in to minor applause from friends who’d arrived before us.  “Here comes Preacher Frank on his push bike!”  It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, almost hot, and we sat outside and talked about the weather, the upcoming winter, and, of course, horses.  I met an old guy who told me he’s once turned down an offer to sell him a nearby cottage and acre of land for 90 Irish “Punt” (Pounds).  Another old guy, “Joe” came with the two old women who are his perennial companions.  He calls them his girlfriends and there was considerable speculation about that family’s domestic arrangements after Joe left. Joe isn’t clear about his age, but knows he’s well past 90, a figure confirmed by other adults there.  Joe was born not far from Sam’s Cross, worked in Birmingham for 50 years, and came home.  His doctor has forbidden “the black stuff” (Guinness Stout), and Joe complies, though God knows why.  He just comes along for the good crack and to give the ladies an outing.  When I walked up to pay my respects, Joe reached out with his right hand and said “Welcome back home.”  We shook hands and chatted about his life and mine.

            Sam’s Cross is a farming community and nobody paid any attention while a stallion mounted a mare just outside the patio.  The pre-teen boys holding both horses by halters were too busy talking about their own stuff to bother noticing the horses.   The horses, of course, could care less.  People were more interested in their conversation and the music.  Still, city boy that I am, I wanted to stand up and applaud.  Life rolls on in Sam’s Cross.

            Ms. Raleigh and I left The Four Alls reluctantly, but the sun was low on the horizon and we needed to get home in daylight.   Because of the hour, we decided to take the most direct route home and came across a group of road bowlers enjoying West Cork’s own favorite sport.  Contestants bowl between villages, each rolling a steel ball about the size of a Navel Orange.  The person who makes the tour with the fewest tosses is the winner.  There are, of course, songs celebrating the prowess of road bowlers who defended the honor of their own village pub.  The group I encountered was quite young, so the old game is in no jeopardy of slipping into memory.  Ms. Raleigh and I waited respectfully at the side of the road while they bowled through in high spirits.

            Home in Rosscarbery, I cleaned Ms. Raleigh and kipped in with book.  Life is good. Life rolls on.