I would be remiss if I didn't write about my experience of Ireland's pseudo-national-holiday, St. Patrick's Day. Famous for ridding Ireland of snakes, St. Patrick, I learned, was probably actually from Wales. I can't hold this against him, since I am very fond of Cymru, but I have still not been able to figure out exactly why St. Patrick has made his name as the patron saint of kelley green and public drunkenness. Given the level of celebration associated with this holiday, I can only assume that Irish people REALLY hate snakes. Having experienced this holiday last on a college campus, I was surprised by the similarities between that... academic... celebration and the one that took over Dublin yesterday.
The first similarity was the sudden proliferation of Americans- I heard more American accents than Irish ones (althought many of the Americans were trying (in vain) to imitate Irish accents). I was warned by all my Irish friends to WHATEVER YOU DO avoid the center of town AT ANY COST. Of course, I flouted what turned out to be their very sound advice, eager to experience a real, Irish Paddy's Day, and perhaps to get my face on the Today Show, which was filming at Dublin Castle. By the time I got into town, however, the filming was over, and the drunks were ubiquitous. Deciding to make the best of my arduous journey, I made my way through the sea of green to Leo Burdock's, my favorite chipper. (In my near-year here, I have found that there is little that can't be salvaged by eating a battered sausage...) Of course, the queue was enormous, so I found myself (and my token Irish guide, Dara) waiting outside the tiny chipper with about 30 other hungry revelers.
I was happy enough to get my battered sausage, because while we were waiting a fight broke out between some teenage scumbags, who, fueled by alcohol, seemed to be having a game of 'throw glass bottles at one another as hard as possible'. A few were bleeding by the time they broke a window and the Gardai came to arrest them, at which point we left the Christchurch area and headed back towards the quieter suburbs. All businesses were closed, as Paddy's Day is a bank holiday here in Ireland (more on the amazing number of days I get off from work for religious holidays when we get closer to Easter), so the streets were full of celebrators, most of whom seemed to be staying in town after the parade in the morning.
Once getting home, I spent the rest of the evening tasting various Irish beverages (I still prefer Bulmer's cider to Guinness), but as the lads (who have requested a blog shout out, and may yet get their own post) were out, I called it an early night. I did, however, sleep in my bright green shamrock shirt, in homage to the snake-free island.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Pancake Tuesday
The day before Ash Wednesday is known throughout the world by many names (Fat Tuesday, Shrove Tuesday, Tuesday...), but in Ireland, it is known as 'Pancake Tuesday.' This title seems to originate from the need to rid the house of flour before Lent (a practice with which I have been unfamiliar until now), and the best way to do that seems to be by converting the flour into pancakes.
As the token Yank, I was placed in charge of the pancake making this year, since apparently Americans have an innate pancake-making skill. I haven't made pancakes in years, and the ones I used to make on the griddle back home were small and somewhat thick. In Ireland, however, pancakes are the size of the pan, and quite thin. Nonetheless, I resolved to flip them to the best of my ability, regardless of the damage to the ceiling of the kitchen.
Thus, last night, I whipped up some pancake batter, and with mild trepidation, poured it into the pan. After seeing the telltale bubbles, I boldly seized the handle of the pan and flipped. The pancake barely flopped at the edges. With less temerity, I flipped again, and this time the pancake hopped up in the pan, but unfortunately landed on the same side. Knowing that this next toss would make or break my unearned pancake reputation, I flipped a third time, and the pancake soared into the air...
... and landed perfectly in the pan, right side up. Well pleased with myself, I slid the cooked pancake onto a plate, and proceeded to successfully cook the rest of the batter. We ate them with lemon juice and brown sugar (an interesting but not bad combo) and with maple syrup (much more up my alley). I had a bunch of these lovingly-made delicacies, and then began to understand how Pancake Tuesday could actually just be a synonym for Fat Tuesday...
As the token Yank, I was placed in charge of the pancake making this year, since apparently Americans have an innate pancake-making skill. I haven't made pancakes in years, and the ones I used to make on the griddle back home were small and somewhat thick. In Ireland, however, pancakes are the size of the pan, and quite thin. Nonetheless, I resolved to flip them to the best of my ability, regardless of the damage to the ceiling of the kitchen.
Thus, last night, I whipped up some pancake batter, and with mild trepidation, poured it into the pan. After seeing the telltale bubbles, I boldly seized the handle of the pan and flipped. The pancake barely flopped at the edges. With less temerity, I flipped again, and this time the pancake hopped up in the pan, but unfortunately landed on the same side. Knowing that this next toss would make or break my unearned pancake reputation, I flipped a third time, and the pancake soared into the air...
... and landed perfectly in the pan, right side up. Well pleased with myself, I slid the cooked pancake onto a plate, and proceeded to successfully cook the rest of the batter. We ate them with lemon juice and brown sugar (an interesting but not bad combo) and with maple syrup (much more up my alley). I had a bunch of these lovingly-made delicacies, and then began to understand how Pancake Tuesday could actually just be a synonym for Fat Tuesday...
Sunday, February 15, 2009
St. Valentine
Valentine's Day, though it is a disingenuous, manufactured, Hallmark Holiday, can still be fun to celebrate when there is a more unusual way to mark it than chocolate and roses. This year, I found that I could celebrate Valentine's Day in Dublin in a way that you can't celebrate it anywhere else: with a trip to see St. Valentine himself.
The story goes that Father John Spratt, a Carmelite friar, journeyed from Dublin to Rome in 1835, and so impressed the Pope, Gregory XVI, that il Papa decided to present him with the remains of St. Valentine to take back to his home church. The truth of this trip is attested in the letter, displayed in a bronze tablet in the church, written by Gregory. Since December of 1835, then, the Whitefriar Street Church has had a shrine to the martyred patron saint of lovers, and a box of his remains and a vial of his blood.
This Saturday Valentine's Day, we arrived on Aungier St before mass was finished, so the church was quite crowded. When the service ended, we joined the line (I'm sorry, the queue) forming on the aisle nearest the saint's shrine. Here is a picture of the shrine:
It was pretty special, actually, to see all the people asking the saint for luck and love on the most romantic day of the year. There was a book underneath the statue of the saint in which the visitors wrote prayers or intercessions or requests. I read a few of them when it was my turn, and people were expressing their love for each other, for their families, even for the city of Dublin itself. There were thanks and requests, and when people were done writing, they turned around and lit a candle in front of the shrine. You can see a few of them in the picture, but it doesn't really give an impression of the light and shimering heat of the hundreds of candles.
After this visit to the shrine, the queue snaked around to the front of the church, where the box containing the saint's remains sat on a table. As people walked past it, they touched it, a motion very familiar to me, after leading people into St. Peter's every day last summer. It was a really unique and special way to mark Valentine's Day, and Hallmark had nothing to do with it...
The story goes that Father John Spratt, a Carmelite friar, journeyed from Dublin to Rome in 1835, and so impressed the Pope, Gregory XVI, that il Papa decided to present him with the remains of St. Valentine to take back to his home church. The truth of this trip is attested in the letter, displayed in a bronze tablet in the church, written by Gregory. Since December of 1835, then, the Whitefriar Street Church has had a shrine to the martyred patron saint of lovers, and a box of his remains and a vial of his blood.
This Saturday Valentine's Day, we arrived on Aungier St before mass was finished, so the church was quite crowded. When the service ended, we joined the line (I'm sorry, the queue) forming on the aisle nearest the saint's shrine. Here is a picture of the shrine:
It was pretty special, actually, to see all the people asking the saint for luck and love on the most romantic day of the year. There was a book underneath the statue of the saint in which the visitors wrote prayers or intercessions or requests. I read a few of them when it was my turn, and people were expressing their love for each other, for their families, even for the city of Dublin itself. There were thanks and requests, and when people were done writing, they turned around and lit a candle in front of the shrine. You can see a few of them in the picture, but it doesn't really give an impression of the light and shimering heat of the hundreds of candles.
After this visit to the shrine, the queue snaked around to the front of the church, where the box containing the saint's remains sat on a table. As people walked past it, they touched it, a motion very familiar to me, after leading people into St. Peter's every day last summer. It was a really unique and special way to mark Valentine's Day, and Hallmark had nothing to do with it...
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Up Ireland!
Last night was a World Cup qualifier match between Ireland and Georgia. (For those of you who might prefer the other kind of football, I should mention this was a soccer match.) Even though the next World Cup isn't until 2010, the teams are deciding now who will be attending the final in South Africa. A bit hasty, I think, but I love a good sports game, so I can't really complain.
In my new house, I live VERY near Croke Park, affectionately known as 'Croker,' the stadium where basically all Irish sports are being played at the moment. Usually, soccer matches are played at Landsdown Road (no, Boston fans, not THAT Landsdown Road), but since that stadium is under construction, soccer has joined rugby, gaelic football (don't ask), and hurling (really don't ask) at Croke Park. Thus, I can be assured that about once a week, the Gardai will shut down my street, which will then be inundated with green-clad men, women, and children, all yelling and pretty much all intoxicated. The atmosphere on these days is unbeatable, and I have been known to just walk the length of my street, trying to be a part of it. I can't afford a ticket (nor do I know the rules to most of these sports), but that doesn't stop me from putting on my green and white striped shirt and walking with the crowd.
Yesterday, I decided to walk not only up my street, but also to continue on all the way to the pub, so that I could actually watch the match. Joining the green mob in the pub, I watched the playing of the Irish national anthem, which no one really knows, and sat down with my pint of cider to watch. Within the first minute, Georgia scored, and things looked really poor for Ireland. After another pint and some helpful instruction from a hardcore fan of the Irish team, I felt comfortable enough to offer my own high-decibel advice to the television screen. Ireland finally came back towards the end of the second half, scoring two goals in five minutes, and effectively preventing me from having to deal with upset drunks outside my house all night. When the team wins, the Irish fans go out for another drink, but when they lose, they tend to hang around the stadium for a while first.
I walked back home, through the throng of singing Irish fans, seriously enjoying the post-win buzz. They turned off the stadium lights fairly late, but they'll be on again next weekend, when Ireland plays Italy in Six Nations Rugby. And then I'll get to do it all again.
In my new house, I live VERY near Croke Park, affectionately known as 'Croker,' the stadium where basically all Irish sports are being played at the moment. Usually, soccer matches are played at Landsdown Road (no, Boston fans, not THAT Landsdown Road), but since that stadium is under construction, soccer has joined rugby, gaelic football (don't ask), and hurling (really don't ask) at Croke Park. Thus, I can be assured that about once a week, the Gardai will shut down my street, which will then be inundated with green-clad men, women, and children, all yelling and pretty much all intoxicated. The atmosphere on these days is unbeatable, and I have been known to just walk the length of my street, trying to be a part of it. I can't afford a ticket (nor do I know the rules to most of these sports), but that doesn't stop me from putting on my green and white striped shirt and walking with the crowd.
Yesterday, I decided to walk not only up my street, but also to continue on all the way to the pub, so that I could actually watch the match. Joining the green mob in the pub, I watched the playing of the Irish national anthem, which no one really knows, and sat down with my pint of cider to watch. Within the first minute, Georgia scored, and things looked really poor for Ireland. After another pint and some helpful instruction from a hardcore fan of the Irish team, I felt comfortable enough to offer my own high-decibel advice to the television screen. Ireland finally came back towards the end of the second half, scoring two goals in five minutes, and effectively preventing me from having to deal with upset drunks outside my house all night. When the team wins, the Irish fans go out for another drink, but when they lose, they tend to hang around the stadium for a while first.
I walked back home, through the throng of singing Irish fans, seriously enjoying the post-win buzz. They turned off the stadium lights fairly late, but they'll be on again next weekend, when Ireland plays Italy in Six Nations Rugby. And then I'll get to do it all again.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
WHITE OUT!!!!!
Today, all of Ireland is at a standstill because it is in the midst of THE STORM OF THE CENTURY, described to us news-watchers in that tone of voice that implies capital letters. Reporters on Sky news are standing in front of their green screens in their warm offices dressed in parkas and fur mittens, relaying the dire weather conditions while the wind machine blows fiercely at them, too scared to venture out into the snow.
To give you an impression of the sheer volume of snow that has caused schools to be canceled and buses to stop running, I present you with this picture:
Yes, dear friends, it's true: the snow has actually stuck to the ground. Those cars you see in the background have been there since this morning, unable to move because their tires aren't suited for this kind of precipitation. The poor drivers are probably freezing slowly as their cars run out of gas. I would bring them out hot food and blankets, but we are basically snowed in. In fact, the doors have probably frozen shut in the 32-degree weather. I only hope that I have enough non-perishable food to last me until someone can come remove the centimeter of snow from the front step. Maybe I will try to make water by melting some of the snow. I wonder if there is enough out there for a cup of tea...
To give you an impression of the sheer volume of snow that has caused schools to be canceled and buses to stop running, I present you with this picture:
Yes, dear friends, it's true: the snow has actually stuck to the ground. Those cars you see in the background have been there since this morning, unable to move because their tires aren't suited for this kind of precipitation. The poor drivers are probably freezing slowly as their cars run out of gas. I would bring them out hot food and blankets, but we are basically snowed in. In fact, the doors have probably frozen shut in the 32-degree weather. I only hope that I have enough non-perishable food to last me until someone can come remove the centimeter of snow from the front step. Maybe I will try to make water by melting some of the snow. I wonder if there is enough out there for a cup of tea...
Friday, January 30, 2009
My Bike
Today, I bought a bicycle. While you might say to yourself, 'But wait, isn't it wintertime?', let me assure you that Ireland's climate (which is maritime, technically) is not all that cold. Except in August, of course, when it is freezing. While there is a great deal of rain in general, there is almost no snow, and no ice, so riding a bike simply requires a bit of fortitude and a good rain coat. In fact, the largest threat to cyclists is traffic. I have been on buses that 'accidentally' sideswiped a biker, or seen cars pull out in front of a speeding bike.
Darkness is worse (and Ireland is very dark right now), because the drivers get a bit more reckless, and the bikers are still forced to ride in the streets. To avoid serious harm, most cyclists wear neon yellow reflective vests. I find that these serve mainly as bright targets, at which cars aim with general abandon. Nonetheless, I am very excited to have a bike, and very hopeful that I won't get hit by anything worse than the rain.
Darkness is worse (and Ireland is very dark right now), because the drivers get a bit more reckless, and the bikers are still forced to ride in the streets. To avoid serious harm, most cyclists wear neon yellow reflective vests. I find that these serve mainly as bright targets, at which cars aim with general abandon. Nonetheless, I am very excited to have a bike, and very hopeful that I won't get hit by anything worse than the rain.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Locked Up
Continuing my tour of Irish monuments, I went to Kilmainham Gaol this week to explore the Dickensian, Victorian, Revolutionary part of Irish history. Also, the Tudors is filmed there...
The gaol (DON'T call it a 'jail,' apparently...) is unsurprisingly cold and damp. I won't give too much of the history here, mostly because our tour guide didn't do a great job of explaining it. Most of the people on the tour were foreigners like myself, who don't know that much about Irish history, but this guide seemed to assume we all knew the details. Even so, it was interesting to see this building which played host to some of the most famous people in Irish history, including the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising.
In addition to seeing their cells, we also saw the change in the style of incarceration in the architecture. Kilmainham was a 'reform' prison, a marked improvement over the conditions and facilities so familiar to Dickens. In fact, part of the new wing was almost beautiful. So long as you had a coat and were free to leave... Some pictures:
The gaol (DON'T call it a 'jail,' apparently...) is unsurprisingly cold and damp. I won't give too much of the history here, mostly because our tour guide didn't do a great job of explaining it. Most of the people on the tour were foreigners like myself, who don't know that much about Irish history, but this guide seemed to assume we all knew the details. Even so, it was interesting to see this building which played host to some of the most famous people in Irish history, including the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising.
In addition to seeing their cells, we also saw the change in the style of incarceration in the architecture. Kilmainham was a 'reform' prison, a marked improvement over the conditions and facilities so familiar to Dickens. In fact, part of the new wing was almost beautiful. So long as you had a coat and were free to leave... Some pictures:
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The Céilí
Yesterday, just for kicks, I decided to go Irish dancing with a few friends. We had no prior experience with such things, but we did have a few pints, so off we trekked to the Céilí. Céilí is an Irish word (pronounced 'KAY-lee') meaning 'dance party.' This particular one was being held specifically for people like myself, who had never had the fortune to learn how to Irish dance as a child. Thus, when we arrived, we found the place filled with other wary, variably intoxicated, and shuffling Yanks, Canucks, and Aussies. Our mutual presence assuaged most of the lasting fears about looking like a fool in front of a huge window facing the street.
The two man traditional Irish band lulled us into further security with their familiar tunes (including the quintessential hit 'Irish Rover'), and then introduced our dancing mistress, a tall blonde in a tiny purple dress. Actually, the dress was a traditional Irish dancing dress, and I am pretty sure I'd like to have one. But back to our story: Sue, as she is called, danced solo for a few reels, and then beckoned us wary watchers onto the floor. She was an excellent teacher, and thankfully didn't try to teach us anything too complex. After arranging us into a circle, she informed us that she was going to teach us a 'circle dance.' So far, so good.
The circle dance involved a lot of holding hands and yelling, which was soon found to be 'great craic', and not at all embarrassing. The pints of cider or beer we had to drink because the dance was tiring also helped with this impression. After the circle dance, we learned a line dance, which was much harder than the circle dance, and this time the cider was not helping. It still involved holding hands, however, so we clutched each other for safety. After a herculean effort on Sue's part, we dancers finally managed to get through the dance without falling all over each other (harder than it sounds, trust me), and soon enough, were happily skipping away to the music.
We all took a bit of a break to listen to the band after this, and to let the dance steps (and another pint) soak in. After singing along (and whooping and clapping at all the right spots during 'Galway Girl') we got back on the floor to perform our impressive dances. We did the circle dance and then the line dance, and then the circle dance again. We were meant to do the line dance again, but no one could make it to their spots, and we all ended up trying to go under each other's arms. This resulted in some accidental clothes-lining of a few of the shorter dancers. Laughing and leaving for another pub, we decided that we'd definitely go to another céilí, if we'd only be invited...
The two man traditional Irish band lulled us into further security with their familiar tunes (including the quintessential hit 'Irish Rover'), and then introduced our dancing mistress, a tall blonde in a tiny purple dress. Actually, the dress was a traditional Irish dancing dress, and I am pretty sure I'd like to have one. But back to our story: Sue, as she is called, danced solo for a few reels, and then beckoned us wary watchers onto the floor. She was an excellent teacher, and thankfully didn't try to teach us anything too complex. After arranging us into a circle, she informed us that she was going to teach us a 'circle dance.' So far, so good.
The circle dance involved a lot of holding hands and yelling, which was soon found to be 'great craic', and not at all embarrassing. The pints of cider or beer we had to drink because the dance was tiring also helped with this impression. After the circle dance, we learned a line dance, which was much harder than the circle dance, and this time the cider was not helping. It still involved holding hands, however, so we clutched each other for safety. After a herculean effort on Sue's part, we dancers finally managed to get through the dance without falling all over each other (harder than it sounds, trust me), and soon enough, were happily skipping away to the music.
We all took a bit of a break to listen to the band after this, and to let the dance steps (and another pint) soak in. After singing along (and whooping and clapping at all the right spots during 'Galway Girl') we got back on the floor to perform our impressive dances. We did the circle dance and then the line dance, and then the circle dance again. We were meant to do the line dance again, but no one could make it to their spots, and we all ended up trying to go under each other's arms. This resulted in some accidental clothes-lining of a few of the shorter dancers. Laughing and leaving for another pub, we decided that we'd definitely go to another céilí, if we'd only be invited...
Friday, January 23, 2009
The Restaurant of Surprise
So, while exploring the Irish countryside, I came upon a restaurant that shocked me to my very core. Not least because I found it here in Ireland, and NOT in Italy, where this kind of thing is not all that uncommon. In any case, a picture is worth 1,000 words, so I'm letting this one do the talking:
Yes, that's right, the place is called 'Big Cicero's'. Some more images of their well-painted facade:
I wonder if they make a killer hummus...
Yes, that's right, the place is called 'Big Cicero's'. Some more images of their well-painted facade:
I wonder if they make a killer hummus...
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Here Comes the Rain (Again)
Well, after a week of weather that was almost too good to be true, Ireland seemed to remember that it has a maritime climate, and to make up for all the sun, has been dealing out torrential rain with gale force winds for the past few days. For the first 24 hours, the local Dubliners didn't even seem to notice the rain, accustomed as they are to sporadic monsoons, but after 36 hours, the only people still trekking through the rivers- I mean, streets, were the people up from the country, who are used to more regular monsoons. Still, as they say, the show must go on, and my flatmates and I still needed to venture out of the house for important items and rations such as Chinese food, hangers, and Guinness. Apparently, the Chinese takeaway near our house is totally flood proof, and the Guinness is to keep us warm if the waters should douse the fire in the living room. The hangers were just for my closet.
A few flatmates still had to go to work in the midst of this flooding, but luckily the Dublin taxi service is ready to continue working even in the middle of the lake that is my neighborhood. Here you can see a cabbie rowing a woman to work:
At least this morning it stopped raining, and people are resuming their normal daily activities. Taxis with wheels are sloshing through the puddles, and drenched pets are swimming back towards their homes. The chipper, more sucesptible to flooding than the Chinese takeaway, has reopened, but the local pub is still full of water. However, this has not discouraged a few intrepid neighbors from trying to visit anyway:
Keep those spirits up, boys...
A few flatmates still had to go to work in the midst of this flooding, but luckily the Dublin taxi service is ready to continue working even in the middle of the lake that is my neighborhood. Here you can see a cabbie rowing a woman to work:
At least this morning it stopped raining, and people are resuming their normal daily activities. Taxis with wheels are sloshing through the puddles, and drenched pets are swimming back towards their homes. The chipper, more sucesptible to flooding than the Chinese takeaway, has reopened, but the local pub is still full of water. However, this has not discouraged a few intrepid neighbors from trying to visit anyway:
Keep those spirits up, boys...
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Newgrange, or, Fun in a Field
Since sleep is an imperfect remedy for jet lag, today I decided to jolt myself into the Irish life by going to visit one of (if not THE) oldest cultural landmark in this country. That, of course, is Newgrange, or Brú na Bóinne in Irish. Actually, I think Brú na Bóinne just refers to the area in which it is located, because it is near the River Boyne in County Meath. This is about an hour's drive from Dublin. And what a gorgeous drive it was, especially since the sun was out all day.
Newgrange is a passage tomb and one of the Brú na Bóinne tumuli, a structure that my Roman compatriots will recognise from our trip to Cerveteri in Italy. A tumulus is a circular tomb with a semi-conical top, and was common in the ancient world. What is special about Newgrange, aside from its size and exciting neolithic decoration, is that it is aligned with the Winter Solstice. For this reason, some call it 'the Irish Stonehenge,' but I have seen pictures of Stonehenge, and the two structures don't look very similar. However, the astronomical alignment of the two monuments are the same, and point to the advanced mathematic and architectural skills of the culture(s) which built them.
It is huge from the outside, as you can see in this picture:
But the inside is rather small. I wasn't allowed to take pictures of the inside of the tomb, but the tour group passed through an absolutely tiny passageway into the central room of the tomb, which is circular with three small side chambers, and has a conical dome, made of stones laid on top of each other with such precision that the roof has remained waterproof for the entirety of the structure's nearly 5,000 year existance. While they found human remains (badly cremated, from what the tour guide said) inside the tomb, most scholars think that it was more ceremonial than funerary, given the sheer impressiveness of the Winter Solstice sun coming in through the hole above the door and illuminating the inner chamber. This is such a beautiful sight that there is a lottery for places in the tomb to see it over the 5 days of the Solstice. Last year, there were 34,000 submissions. They can only take 100.
It was a really cool trip, as much for the drive through the country as for the visit itself. Newgrange is old in a way that a Yank like myself can only imagine. Even in the period of the Celts, this structure was ancient. It predates any of the buildings in my beloved Rome, and even the pyramids in Egypt, which impressed me so much two years ago. It may not be as impressive as any of these later monuments, but it was worth seeing, and even though it didn't quite cure my jet lag, it was a perfect welcome back to Eire.
Newgrange is a passage tomb and one of the Brú na Bóinne tumuli, a structure that my Roman compatriots will recognise from our trip to Cerveteri in Italy. A tumulus is a circular tomb with a semi-conical top, and was common in the ancient world. What is special about Newgrange, aside from its size and exciting neolithic decoration, is that it is aligned with the Winter Solstice. For this reason, some call it 'the Irish Stonehenge,' but I have seen pictures of Stonehenge, and the two structures don't look very similar. However, the astronomical alignment of the two monuments are the same, and point to the advanced mathematic and architectural skills of the culture(s) which built them.
It is huge from the outside, as you can see in this picture:
But the inside is rather small. I wasn't allowed to take pictures of the inside of the tomb, but the tour group passed through an absolutely tiny passageway into the central room of the tomb, which is circular with three small side chambers, and has a conical dome, made of stones laid on top of each other with such precision that the roof has remained waterproof for the entirety of the structure's nearly 5,000 year existance. While they found human remains (badly cremated, from what the tour guide said) inside the tomb, most scholars think that it was more ceremonial than funerary, given the sheer impressiveness of the Winter Solstice sun coming in through the hole above the door and illuminating the inner chamber. This is such a beautiful sight that there is a lottery for places in the tomb to see it over the 5 days of the Solstice. Last year, there were 34,000 submissions. They can only take 100.
It was a really cool trip, as much for the drive through the country as for the visit itself. Newgrange is old in a way that a Yank like myself can only imagine. Even in the period of the Celts, this structure was ancient. It predates any of the buildings in my beloved Rome, and even the pyramids in Egypt, which impressed me so much two years ago. It may not be as impressive as any of these later monuments, but it was worth seeing, and even though it didn't quite cure my jet lag, it was a perfect welcome back to Eire.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Welcome Back
I'm back in Ireland now, after a long and relaxing Christmas holiday. Since my flight over here was delayed for 2 hours, and was outrageously turbulent, I pretty much haven't slept in nearly 36 hours. I think I will try to stay up for a few more hours, just to get myself onto the Irish sleep schedule. It doesn't help that it is dark pretty much all the time, because my circadian rhythms can't figure out what is night and what is rainy day... Weather report says tomorrow will be sunny, though! I can't admit to trusting the Irish meteorologist when he says it isn't going to rain (also, I can't pronounce his name, which makes him a shady character in my book), but I hope he's right...
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