A lot has happened in this last week abroad, especially in the official Mercyhurst realm of things. For example, the group was invited by Tom, Carmel, and the mayor of Dungarvan to enjoy a civic welcome ceremony, where we were cordially welcomed into the town and received scrolls to prove we've been here. I really enjoyed the ceremony, as it gave some closure and set the tone for this last week. We also attended a closing dinner at Merry's Pub--which I wish I would have tried sooner because the food is so delicious--a Waterford Food Festival dinner at Interlude restaurant, and a final pub trivia at Minne's. This week has been filled with good foods and bittersweet goodbyes.
I know I've had 7 weeks to do this, but I finally sent out the postcards, letters, and pieces of mail I've been trying to write. I think I'd finally settled into the feeling of this place, started to feel a part of it, and therefore felt that I could write about it. But the time crunch could've also affected this sudden accomplishment. Though the letters will arrive after I return, I'm grateful I could send them. Postage stamps are so interesting here: they come in all prints and designs, and randomly so you can enjoy them all without having to buy or request different books of them.
My favorite part of this week--and possibly this whole trip--was a solo bike ride I took to Clonea Strand, a beach 6km into the Waterford Greenway. I spontaneously took this trip after Martha, a Waterford Food Festival worker, told me that the weather was perfect, and that it was absolutely the day to go. So after the lunch at Interlude, I changed and stopped over at a bike shop near the Greenway. 15 euro later, I was on my way. The bike ride was a good 30 minutes long, but the weather was sunny, the birds singing, and people were out and about.
I'd added jumping into the sea, in some capacity (including surfing and cold plunging), to my bucket list for this trip earlier on. I'd really wanted to go, and even though everyone else had been busy in preparation for the wedding hours before and couldn't go, I was proud that I could take this venture even on my own. In fact, being alone gave me the permission to go slowly, take my time at the beach, and enjoy every moment and reflection.
The beach was a bit off the Greenway, probably 1km, so I biked and walked the narrow paths until I saw there was a long line that'd been parked on the side of a curving country road. I knew I was close as I could hear delighted exclamations, gulls, and crashing of waves. I took my bike onto the beach and found a place to set up camp near the back by rocks. I parked next to a group of highschoolers still on holiday from Easter, or prepping for exams, playing hurling, and another beach-goer with a thick book.
The walk into the ocean was freezing cold! Immediately, I was cold, and a little confused to see seaweed suspended at different levels in the water. But people were at the beach and swimming, so I trusted that it was safe to go in. By the time I'd submerged myself, I thought of Edna Pontillier from the The Awakening, where the sea called her, and where she ultimately walked into and died. As this was the only experience I've really had with the sea, it was an image of freedom and morbidity. I was afraid of running into sharks and jellyfish, but none were to be seen. The salty taste, but not smell, of the water surprised me, too, as I'm accustomed the smell and taste of freshwater Lake Erie.
I spent the next hour in limbo of getting in and out of the sea, and following the wind as it pulled me. It was the freest I've felt in the entire trip because I was off making my own adventures. This is alike Seamus Heaney's "Girls Bathing, Galway 1955":
The swell foams where they float and crawl,
A catherine-wheel of arm and hand.
Each head bobs curtly as a football.
The yelps are faint here on the strand.
No milk-limbed Venus ever rose
Miraculous on this western shore;
A pirate queen in battle clothes
Is our sterner myth. The breakers pour
Themselves into themselves, the years
Shuttle through space invisibly.
Where crests unfurl like creamy beer
The queen's clothes melt into the sea
And generations sighing in
The salt suds where the wave has crashed
Labour in fear of flesh and sin
For the thime has been accomplished
As through the swallows in swimsuits,
Brown-legged, smooth-shouldered and bare-backed
They wade ashore with skips and shouts.
So Venus comes, matter-of-fact.
This poem compares a beach day to a painting akin to Bottecelli's The Birth of Venus, yet enacts it in real life and through a historical lens. The history becomes alive through the people of the day. In this day, I got to create a little bit of history of my own, in pursuing this adventure.
This is my last blog for class! It's been a pleasure getting to share some of my thoughts and adventures with you!
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