So Where are the Photos

you ask, the photos from Ireland.

Well, as it turns out, I took over 500 of them, and my husband took about 100. So, OMG! I can't sort through them all and pick a few for the blog. My advice? Go to Ireland. It's gorgeous, we had pretty perfect weather, and the people are really, really nice. As proof, there was Lawrence. Our keys were locked in the trunk of our rental in the parking lot at Carrick-a-Rede, a rope bridge to a former salmon-fishing island in Northern Ireland. I'm not saying who locked the keys in the trunk (but it wasn't yours truly) but there we were, with a rental car that we couldn't get into. 

The bridge is about 100 feet above the open mouth of an ancient volcano. And it is out in the middle of next to nowhere. It took hours to get someone out to unlock the car, and Lawrence, one of the guides for the National Trust, stayed with us until we could leave. The bridge had closed, the tea shop had closed, and we were stuck outside in the cold and wind. We sheltered sort of out of the wind against a wall of the tea shop, and Lawrence, who had moved to Ireland from Transylvania, entertained us with stories from the history of that part of Northern Ireland. He was amazingly well informed, and really, really generous to stay with us. As it started to get dark, the locksmith arrived, opened the car door, and we all left. Phew. Our only other option at that point was to take a rock and break a window.

Here I am walking on the bridge. The winds, I was told by a guide, were blowing at about 35 mph, and we were told to HOLD ON TO BOTH ROPES!!! STOP TRYING TO TAKE PHOTOGRAPHS!

Pffttt.  We took a photo anyway.

I had intended to take this finished wrap? half blanket? (Soumak) with me, but I just couldn't finish it in time. I finished it the other day, and never again will I have to work with page after page of the spreadsheet knitting it required. The spreadsheet was a life-saver and I thank whoever created it, but I won't be needing it again.  

I will never make another one.  It's huge!

I bought this sweater in Kilkenny. It is hand-knit and as I thought about buying it instead of making one myself, I came to the realization that I don't want to make one myself. A genuine hand-knit Aran sweater, not made by me? Perfect. It takes me months and months to make a cabled sweater.  

And in spite of seeing signs for Leprechaun crossings, I never saw a Leprechaun.  

I'm starting to think they might not be real. 

I Have Been Vindicated!!!!!

We are back from a wonderful vacation in Ireland, which I will get to once I'm no longer jet-lagged.  Bleah...

However, for the benefit of all those people who struggle to get some exercise by walking/running on a treadmill, I now have proof that it is just and right to hate the *&a(^mp;* things. 

They were invented for punishment, y'all!

Want proof? Here it is:

Kilmainham is Gaelic for Dublin Prison, approximately

This is from the Dublin Prison, a horrid place and it's hard to believe that humans treat each other in such a way as to put others in such a horrid place. But there you are.

The treadmill was used for hard labor aka punishment in prisons. Fortunately the things kept breaking, but of course the powers-that-be came up with replacement punishment.


So, I hate, hate, hate using a treadmill and therefore, I don't; it is punishment disguised as exercise.

Hah!  



Bonus:

This is what written Irish looks like:  

Probably too small to read easily, but in the Republic of Ireland, all of the signs are in Gaelic (Irish) first and English second.  

Translating signs into English is quite often not that helpful. If I can't pronounce the Irish, I probably can't pronounce the English:

Go ahead. You try. And let me know what these words sound like, OK?

They Are Real?

Dublin. Day one.