Snugs, Pubs, & Bars

You won't believe what I encountered in real life! REAL LIFE people, this is not a drill! Exit the building and take the left down to Davitt's Quay, WARNING this may be your only chance to escape! 

Okay, keep walking down the strip, yes past the bus stops and toward The Anchor. Keep going. Watch out for cars, they keep you on your toes. Yes, it's okay to stop and look at the harbor, but don't stay for too long--it might be gone! 

Finally, you've made it! You might have to turn sideways to make it through the half doors and duck out of the rain. Pull up a stool, admire the quaint atmosphere, yes it's okay to take your time here. The walls are blue, the wooden bar is standing as it did some forty years ago still polished and the same. 

And just as you've settled into the striped throw pillows, bam! Someone's come in and beelined directly to the bar. You don't think they mean business, and you're doubting their seriousness, until...wait for it...they approach the snug. That's a signal they mean business. 

Do you know where you are? Does the steaming bowl of fish chowder served up fresh in front of you bring this context to a close? 

Yes, we've made it to The Moorings. And since we've made it here, you might as well enjoy the food and ambience; it'd be a shame if you didn't. 

This was exactly the experience I had when I stopped into The Moorings for a quick bite to eat. As I ducked out of the torrential downpour and squeezed my way through the vertical half door, I was seated at a table in the front, and didn't notice the corner labeled "The Snug," until I'd stared at it for 20 minutes.

The Mooring's Snug has a sign above it in the top right corner! 

Since we'd spoken about snugs in class, I've noticed them more in the wild. Now, in almost every pub I go to, I try to figure out where the snugs are or if they have one at all. And since we're on the topics of bars, I guess I've never gone up to a snug and sat in one, mostly because I like to savor the moments. I think this would make an interesting scene in a story, and will add it to the collection of things to write. 

In the meantime, I'd like to rate all of the pubs I've been to based off of their snugs (or lack thereof): 

1. The Lady Belle: their pub has an entire separate room on the first floor for serious drinkers. 

2. The Moorings: the snug has a little sign above it (pictured below), and it's so cute! 

3. The Anchor: no snug in sight, but it does have a labyrinth of rooms!

4. Nagle's: There's a hallway sort of room in the middle of the bar that makes for a good flow in the bar, and works as a snug too

5. Downey's: their snug is right at the beginning of the bar and it's well lit, but the ambience is too good, with the fire just on the other side, to commence snug-sitter activities. 

Snugs remind me of Heaney's "Casualty," where the fisherman friend dies but Heaney remembers him in the bar. I can imagine that the snug isn't where this fisherman was sitting, though he might have been close, trying to disguise his drinking as a quick stop. All of the townspeople might know that he'd stay in the pub well until after the sun dipped below the river's edge, or that he left earlier for his work. 

Who's to say? 

"But my tentative art   

His turned back watches too:   

He was blown to bits   

Out drinking in a curfew   

Others obeyed, three nights   

After they shot dead   

The thirteen men in Derry."

There's something to be said about the people in the poem--they're told as if they're living out it--and it creates such a memorial piece. The protagonist actually reminds me of Hemingways The Old Man and The Sea, both of whom drank and were fishermen, both of whom were fishermen. Santiago, however, comes home, and the Casualty does not. The ending has the same kind of affinity for a tragic, yet moralistic, ending with a lesson. 

The Terminal

"9 hours in an airport couldn't be so bad..." I thought to myself as we boarded the late bus to Dublin at 6:30pm. And truly, it wasn't horrible, but I wouldn't do it again unless circumstances called for it. It gave me some time to catch up on some episodes, read, snack, and take naps, to exist without productivity. What I took away from this whole adventure is that people are incredibly interesting, diverse, and everyone wears life differently. A lot of people watching informed this idea. 

Because I didn't have an international phone plan, I couldn't access apps on my phone, and my headphones weren't working for must on the bus ride. 3 hours of looking out the window, reading, and people watching later, I was reminded of the road trips my family used to take to my grandparents' house. These were the best options for entertainment. It was nice to be present in these moments, even if they were boring or uncomfortable, and set this observant tone for the trip. 

After the 3-hour bus ride, we changed buses and settled in for another ride to the Dublin airport. When we made it to the airport at 10:40pm, we suited up for another 6 hours of waiting at the airport for our flight that left at 5:45am in the morning. During this time, we learned that we couldn't check in more than 3 hours early for a flight. So, we sat in the public section of the airport, saw some people get escorted out from the airport by garda, and then the night set in. I then realized this may not have been the most ideal place to spend the night, but it was too far to turn back from. 

At 2:30am, we went through security and check in. Once through the gate, we walked to another terminal and camped out at a cozy cafe area. People were sprawled out on benches, and it was then that the exhaustion set in, especially after weathering a whole day's worth of activity yesterday. When our flight's gate posted, we headed over. I think I slept 2 hours and a little bit on the short flight to Glasgow, Scotland. We were both exhausted by the time we'd landed and left the airport. 

The curveball to our accommodations was that we couldn't check in until 3pm. So, shouldering the weight of our backpacks, we found another cafe to crash in for a few hours and do some homework. It's surprising to look back and remember all of these details, factoring in the sleep deprivation. At 10am, we walked to a mall, looked around, got lunch, and the mall had a movie theatre with reclining seats, so we saw the Minecraft Movie (not my favorite movie ever, I'd rate it a 3.5/10). The movie was a welcome rest from walking around with a 30lb backpack all day. It helped me to realize how grateful I am to have shelter and predictability in my days. 

We spent the rest of the time in the mall, browsing stores and people watching, until our accommodations opened, and I took a well-deserved rest before dinner. It was a wild journey, and I'd like to report that the storyline from The Terminal could not actually happen today. All of this travelling, moving, and exhaustion reminded me of the ordinariness that Heaney praises in his poem,

"Night Drive"

The smells of ordinariness 

Were now on the night drive through France; 

Rain and hay and woods on the air

Made warm draughts in the open car. 

Signposts whitened relentlessly. 

Montreuil, Abbéville, Beauvais

Were promised, promised, came and went

Each place granting its name's fulfillment. 

A combine groaning its way late

Bled seeds across it work-light. 

A forest fire smouldered out. 

One by one small cafés shut. 

I thought of you continuously

A thousand miles south where Italy

Laid its loin to France on the darkened sphere. 

Your ordinariness was renewed there. 

Especially in the 3rd stanza, this poem reminds me of the comforts and predictability and ordinariness of living in one place and in everyday life. I think this poem expresses the same thrill of what's new compared with a longing for routine. 

Anyway, Glasgow and Edinburgh were amazing! I got to see so many museums, galleries, streets, and felt at once a part of the place. 

Sunset Hike

Last week, a sudden opportunity to hike a mountain and catch the sunset arose. Dr. Snyder had a rental car, and Erin, Lexi, and I joined to see what we could see. We left around 7:30pm and followed the road to the mountain with the signal tower that can be seen from the Park Hotel. 

The car ride reminded me of the countless trips I’d taken with siblings and friends to see the Lake Erie or Edinboro sunsets. The wind rushing in struck a reckless tune of freedom and spontaneity. I didn’t realize I craved those lost moments until this ride, when something much vaster than myself called from the earth and sky. 

When we made it to a parking space at the base of the mountain, and when we began hiking, we had to cross metal pool ladder contraptions that kept grazing sheep from getting out of fenced in plots. This was a fun experience, and I was immediately thrown by my expectations for a hike, which helped me to be present and expect surprise. The hike led us up sloping and hilly terrain that was angled at a 45 degree incline at some points. As we climbed and stopped for breaks every so often, the sky's blue dimmed to a deeper magenta. 

Three-quarters of the way to the top, there was a lookout point and half of the group stayed back to watch the sunset from there. After hiking so far, and wondering if I was going to die or if I was just really out of shape, I knew I had to make it to the top of the mountain. I'd convinced myself there were sheep just on the other side, and had to know what it looked like from the precipice. 

So, I kept walking. Even with the wheezy inhales, red-faced and all. This hike was not for the faint of heart, since we were trying to race the sunset before it dipped beneath the horizon. The further up the hill, the smaller the paths became, until they were small enough only for sheep and I had to walk between low shrubs following an invisible tightrope. I definitely had to tap into the mountain sheep mindset for a few hundred meters. 

Near the top, I stood near the other side of the mountain, taking in the landscape of Dungarvan, its neighboring ports below, and the mountaintops surrounding us. I was captivated in the bliss of silence and awe of the landscape that, when I felt a pair of eyes on me, I literally jumped. Looking down, about 50 meters away from me, a ram met my vision eye-to-eye. I heard "There's a sheep!" come out of my mouth before I'd thought to speak. We tried to get a little bit closer but spooked him and his friends away. 

At the top of the mountain, there was a cross memorial upon a loose rock hill. The sun was an artist, fanning its golden liquid over the strata of the sky. It was so peaceful, and we even met another hiker who told us to stay at the top until the sun left, otherwise we'd miss the sunset, and who sang a lullaby line ("The sun has gone / and so must I") from The Sound of Music when darkness settled over the approaching night. 

On the car ride back, the open windows howled with chilled night air, I thought about how much this experience reminded me of the ones where I got to make music and hang out with loved ones around the sunset. I'll definitely create more time for those adventures when I return home. 

Now, I know we're supposed to connect this to Irish literature, but this moment reminds me so much of the power of context, so I want to quote T.S. Eliot's poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Taken out of context, this stanza speaks to everyday moments and anxieties, but reframes them to mean the exact present: 

"And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea."

In these hundreds of moments surrounding our memories, there's a hope that there will be time to make new choices. Even if I don't have the people I used to go sunset chasing with, there's still time for "meet the faces that you meet," and time "for a hundred visions and revisions." What matters to me is that I can live these moments in suspension of the anxieties and expectations, embracing the new, old, and everything in between. 

That's all folks! 

Bog Walking! Magic Fairy Roads! Ireland Galore!

On Thursday, I set out with Dr. Kirchner, Thor, and Joan (Caramel's wonderful daughter) on a day trip around the Dungarvan and Stradbally areas. It was amazing too see wonders off the beaten path, where we came to some surprising spots. Joan said she'd grown up giving tours around the county, and it was so wonderful to see that she was enjoying herself as well. I'll detail each stop below, with pictures if applicable. 

Stop #1: Stradbally Beach 

We began the trip with a short drive to Stradbally, where we saw beautiful thatched houses that looked as if they were straight out of The Hobbit. Interestingly, this neighborhood of houses had been newly built with traditional roofs. Then, we drove to Stradbally Beach (and stopped at two separate coves) to take a pause on the sand. Thor had fun throwing rocks into the water and tide pools, and we all absorbed nature together. Joan said she'd gone swimming in these coves, and the water was still freezing. Sea-swimming is something I've added to the To-Do-Before-We-Leave list.

Stop #2: Titanic Viewpoint

Then, we stopped somewhere along the Waterford Coast, where Joan pointed out a cliff, and we walked out to it. She noted that, had we been in this very spot the day the Titanic set sail, we would've seen it leaving Ireland. One of her favorite people on the ship was Delia McDermott, a young woman whose mother told her she couldn't go to America without a hat. She was in third class, and managed to get on a life raft when the chaos of the boat sinking happened. When she realized she'd left her hat behind, she ran back to her room to get it, and still made it on a life raft and survived the sinking of the ship. Presumably, she continued her journey to America. 

Stop #3: Islandikane, Fennor North Church and Bog Walk

Out of the middle of somewhere, a small church appeared with a graveyard attached. In this graveyard, an artist had hewn a statue of mighty angles out of tall poplar tree. It set the perfect tone for a final resting place, as it was both striking and ethereal. Around the side, there was a protected bogland walk. Imagine Asbury Woods' boardwalks, and add some more hedges and the possibility of seeing deer, frogs, and lizards. It was very cool to learn about how the bog hadn't yet dried out because it'd been preserved. 

Stop #4: Magic Fairy Bridge and Irish Peatland Conservation Site

On our way to the Peatland mountains, we drove past a hawthorne tree. Joan had told us in the beginning that this was a magic fairy site, and though I doubted her at first, the experience was otherworldly and beyond my understanding. We were headed downhill passing the tree, and the car slowed to a stop. Joan put the car in neutral and lifted her hands from the wheel, and suddenly, we were zooming backward up the hill at about 15mph. It was crazy, because there was so much force to it! Joan demonstrated this one more time next to the tree, saying that we'd stopped because this was where the fairies wanted to leave us. Then, we stopped for a to-go lunch, got out at the top of a mountain overlook, and saw some sheep!

Stop #5: Mercyhurst in Dungarvan Sign

Last, we stopped at the Mercyhurst College sign coming into Dungarvan to take some pictures. It was a full-circle moment. 

I am truly grateful for Joan and Dr. Kirchner's kindness in getting me out of Dungarvan for the day, and thoroughly enjoyed the adventure! 

I don't think there is any poem to compare this to, since it's in the living that we experience the deepest literature and nuances of life. But if I had to try, it would inevitably be Samuel Beckett's "Untitled" poem:

"My way is in the sand flowing
between the shingle and the dune
the summer rain rains on my life,
on me my life harrying fleeing
to its beginning to its end

My peace is there in the receding mist
when I may cease from treading these long shifting thresholds
and live the space of a door

that opens and shuts"

 As the door open and shut on that day, I was incredibly honored to be a part of the adventure. 

Echo (...echo) (...echo)

There's a legend about the echo, about a nymph named Echo who was sentenced by Hera, Zeus' wife, to only be able to echo the last words of others. I think the legend doesn't do the echo justice, though. Because often I'm captivated by the morphing sounds of my own echo, not others' echoes (which has implications of egoism, but it's not all about me). 

It's the space and the sound waves that create an echo. As a sound is made, the sound waves bounce off hard surfaces and are reflected back to the person. I find it interesting that the sound waves bounce off in different directions, depending on the shape of the surface. It's like physics for music majors: there's always something to hear differently the second time around. 

(Please ignore all of the technical language, unless you're interested. It's honestly just an echo of the concept.)

I relate it to the way that we hear our voices and how they sound in the world: completely different, often eliciting cringes or shock when we hear recordings of ourselves. The sound of the voice vibrating in the skull changes the perception and sound of voice. As you speak, the voice resonates (or builds up sound and might) in your skull, mouth, and throat. However, this resonance isn't heard by others, since they only hear what is carried on the air dispelled. It gives such a comic backstory to saying that someone's a windbag, because that's honestly all that to talking to others is in physics. We exchange wind and sound, which becomes communication, language, music, rhythm, and many more things. 

In some ways, our voice is only an echo of our internal thoughts. And our internal/resonant voice is only an echo heard by others. Which means that we truly are living echoes of ourselves, in the present and past. Some of the best books I've read become an "echo of the nation," or even involve wind. 

Joyce quotes a little of George Byron's "On The Death Of A Young Lady," referencing the Zephyr, who is the Greek god of the wind. I find it interesting that we revel in wind so much, and the character is deciding whether his wind is worth using to write poetry: 

"Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
  Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb,
  And scatter flowers on the dust I love." 

These Dirty Details

There's something gorgeously mundane about the days spent in Dungarvan, often when I have classes. These are the days I don't plan any adventures, and yet they still find me. Like, for example, walking across a new section of town, catching a glimpse of a seal sliding smoothly from the water onto the Colligan surfboard, or trying a new café or food. 

The little details of these days, inevitably lost to memory and time, are what astound me most. They keep me hoping for a spark of adventure and joy in the next day. And most of the time, they bring me out of insular thoughts into the day to recognize the shadows of the passing globular earth. 

I've been thinking about how many cafés I've seen since being in Ireland, and specifically in Dungarvan.  They are so much a part of the culture here: café culture, I'd like to call it. It's an essential part of everyone's day, and I can imagine that there's a warming peace from a pot of tea surrounded by buzzing morning breakfasters or town meet-ups, from an outside view. Some of these café details will stick with me most, I think, after this trip since it's such a contrast from American hustle culture with 4am gym lift sessions and morning drive-thru queues. (As a side note: I just learned that the everyone but the Americans call Curbside pickup "Kurbside," and I'm obsessed). 

Upon a Google search, there are approximately 34 cafés (places to sit and drink coffee, tea, and maybe get a scone) in this small town. That's a lot, considering the limited options for cafés in Erie, and the higher amounts of ever-present coffee chains in America. It got me wondering how these businesses exist in such a high volume, unless there is a demand for it. And the culture to sit, relax, and settle into the day together helps to foster this business. Walkability also plays a lot into the accessibility and prevalence of cafés, most of them nestled next to each other in the square. 

Now that I understand this culture more, I can see how Joyce relays and remembers so much of Dublin, that even when he was away, he drew the details to astonishing likeness and accuracy. His details in both Ulysses and Dubliners capture the essence of the place with a shrewd and keen eye. I was most struck today while reading "Counterparts," especially when characters from his other novels and places like Davy Byrne's pub show up. These places are living, still today, and do so in a different way in the novel. "Counterparts" especially handles the troubling results of culture in an unbiased way. It's as though the narrator presents the facts and lets the audience make of it what they will, which makes this piece my favorite of the set we read for class. His lines get more advanced in his later books, but even in his early writing, it's clear that short and long-form stories are among his strengths. 

Knowing that Joyce couched for money from his richer friends while living abroad in Paris, I can't help but relate some of his more personal adventures to these stories too, even if he hadn't yet gone abroad. His personality and charismatic ego absolutely stands out in his writing. Thinking of Joyce as an expat incites me to wonder if I will ever truly know the place I've lived for most of my life, Erie. 

Here's one of my favorite lines from the night: 

"He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room. How melancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that, express the melancholy of his soul in verse?"

 ("A Little Cloud", Dubliners, p. 69)

His writing is painfully beautiful and visionary, but not for its own sake. Instead, it questions the characters, where they are asked by the landscape and detail to stretch off of the pages and jump to life. Just like Dublin comes alive in his description: "Dear dirty Dublin."

Portrait of Nora Barnacle and James Joyce, by John Nolan

Oh Mr. Whiskey, Wherever You Are

 Oh Mr. Whiskey, wherever you are, 

 I'm all alone and the time is up,

 Oh Mr. Whiskey, you already know

 That I'm all yours, what you waiting for?

I like to know song lyrics by heart. With familiar tunes, the lyrics come easily, so I don't have to look them up. There are always a few songs that get stuck in my head, over and over again. This happens especially after nights going out, the fragmented lines tumble through my mind, even if I don't know the whole song. 

One of the lyrics that hilariously surprised me was what I thought was called "Mr. Whiskey." I'd never bothered to look up the song name or artist and when I started singing it with the group, they burst out laughing. When I found out the song was "Promiscuous Girl," and not about whiskey or whiskers, the whole dance floor changed. Instead of the alcohol addiction described above, the Nelly Furtado's lyrics follow:

"Promiscuous girl, wherever you are

I'm all alone and it's you that I want
Promiscuous boy, you already know
That I'm all yours, what you waiting for?
Promiscuous girl, you're teasing me
You know what I want, and I got what you need
Promiscuous boy, let's get to the point
'Cause we're on a roll, you ready?" 

I like to think the rumbling bass and strobe lights contributed to my misunderstanding, but I find that both versions fit in their contexts. While at the Middleton Distillery on the Jameson tour, this song ran through my head again, in the perfect way. The whiskey making process exposed me to the science of the process and helped me to understand how Guinness and whiskey can be national symbols of economy and pride. I most enjoyed the whiskey tasting, even though some of them were very strong. The pretzels were my favorite. 

I got to chat with our tour guide for the day while we traveled between stops, where she told me about her love of spirits and gin. It was insightful to know that she also didn't particularly enjoy whiskey either, but that she was interested in the history of the place and legacy. It was so nice to make a personal connection during the tour because it gave me a little bit more insight into individual opinions about Ireland's history and present. 

Music and songs change an experience, that's for sure. Every ship has a sea shanty, every nation an anthem, business a jingle, and distillery a chant. I think this tour helped me to see how even now, Ireland is utilizing the power of current technology to enhance the experience and processes of their businesses. The high-tech video and speakers, from both the Guinness and Jameson experiences, are proof of that. 

Just like each process can change, writers change too. Since Joyce's early short stories, and since having immersed myself in Ulysses for my senior project, I'm noticing such a switch in his writing. The complex metaphors are still there, and the narrative voice seems somehow younger, even in "The Dead." I'm looking forward to see how his narrative voice changes in Finnegan's Wake after the project. He's the type of writer that keeps you on your toes and expects as much work from you as he puts into the text, which is something I appreciate (and am frustrated by at the same time). 

I believe that his anthem would come from his book of poems Chamber Music, Poem 33: 

"Now, O now, in this brown land

    Where Love did so sweet music make
We two shall wander, hand in hand,
    Forbearing for old friendship’ sake,
Nor grieve because our love was gay
Which now is ended in this way.

A rogue in red and yellow dress
    Is knocking, knocking at the tree;
And all around our loneliness
    The wind is whistling merrily.
The leaves—they do not sigh at all
When the year takes them in the fall.

Now, O now, we hear no more
    The vilanelle and roundelay!
Yet will we kiss, sweetheart, before
    We take sad leave at close of day.
Grieve not, sweetheart, for anything—
The year, the year is gathering."

Its both romantic like Yeats, but if speaking about Ireland, becomes much more tragic. Let's hope I'm not mishearing this one, though 😉.