Thankfully, for the most part, the weather cooperated with us: the winding bus ride, which almost followed the bends of the Shannon, was pleasant enough, with views of surrounding hills and a few entertaining towns passed through—among them the charming Birr—each complete with their own ancient spire, which fell into an equally ancient church, itself surrounding by interesting looking restaurants and pubs and shops. Toward the edge of each city, though, American-like suburban development, complete with acres of parking space, seemed to eat up a few lush fields. The final stop of the bus we took was Athlonne, itself an interesting town—unfortunately one we didn't get to see more of. Oh well, Stephen and his grandmother picked us up and drove us the last hour to their farm.
They have about 250 acres, a pretty sizable chunk of land for Ireland (given its small sizes). Primarily the land serves as grazing land for the 112 cows, who are milked twice a day. But the King farm also has a horse, a few pheasants, some ducks, a couple goats, and the ubiquitous farm dogs.
That day, we learned how to "hurl" from Stephen's sister—it's a lacrosse-like game, except a bit more challenging—and watched Stephen milk the cows before watching a Bond film and rocking out to Stephen's renditions of some Beatles songs (he's quite good).
We spent the next sleeping and eating at his grandmother's house, and then relaxing, more hurling, and a grand tour of the property. In almost every way, it was the opposite of the Dublin weekend—halcyon, not hectic; and commodious, instead of cramped. Both have their merits, though.
A side note: upon arriving, we actually saw a rainbow: but decided not to follow it to its base and attempt to find a pot of gold.
No comments:
Post a Comment