Camping in the Shadow of Brandon

September 19-21, 2008

Disclaimer: At no point during this weekend trip did I participate in alcohol consumption or smoking of any sort. I remained the “sober judgment” of the group, and am quite glad I did so.


While the American youth worries and stresses about the men and women they will become, my new Irish friends are crammed into a car that is bursting at the seams. We have surfboards on top, tents, sleeping bags, bodies and a dog shoved inside. They roll a joint and pass it around, letting the smoke slip out of cracked windows as we snake down mountain roads. It’s a beautiful day here—the best kind that exist, and it feels almost like Spring Break. (At least that is what the guys keep shouting out the window to innocent civilians as we drive by.) For some reason I laugh each time they do so. It’s smooth and easy; it feels and smells of freedom and eternal youth. It’s a different kind of living that goes on here, one that is more…alive, if that even makes any sense at all.

Our weekend begins with the opening of a gate sporting a sign that reads, “Camping prohibited by law.” Naturally this worries me, but I trust the more experienced bunch to bring me to a safe place and so I sit quietly in the back seat while we launch the car over bumps of grass and surf through sandy paths. At moments I figure the wheels of the car will be swallowed entirely by the sand, but we somehow make it through to a spot that suits for camping. Four tents and six people; two couples and I am one of the odd ones out. Still, I do not mind pitching my own shelter, and it is actually quite a relief to have my own space. The Siberian husky we brought along is clearly in her element here, and she is freed from the leash and allowed to roam around as she pleases. Only when she needs a drink of water do we see her; I imagine she is having more than her fill of chasing rabbits and dodging the rolling tide. Our campsite is within a stone’s throw of the ocean so the air smells faintly of salt and we have the constant sound of crashing waves to make beautiful background music. Before long it is nighttime and it is the best I have been able to see the stars since I arrived here in Ireland. No city lights and no fog, just the wide open sky with a campfire and six friends sitting below. Drinks and smokes are passed around, stories and laughs are shared, and of course the guitar is brought out. I sit in silence and blink back tears as the guy sitting next to me strums hard. He throws his head back and sings his soul into the night. There are moments in life when I get embarrassed by listening to a loud voice singing untamed into the surroundings, but not tonight. Tonight I cry because I am witnessing the stripped and vulnerable center of people who have reached out to me, and I am overwhelmed by the good that I meet. It is too dark to write and viciously cold in my tent, but I fall asleep to visions caught by firelight and comforting thoughts of how it felt to learn people in such an authentic atmosphere.

I wake up close to nature and decide that “using the toilet” where there is none, is not my favorite way to begin the day. (By the close of this weekend, I am over it.) Today we are climbing Mount Brandon, the second highest point in Ireland, which sits at an elevation a little over 3,100ft. To mountain climbers this height is anything but impressive, but to a girl from Iowa who is still new to mountains at all, it is an exciting challenge. Of course before we begin our climb, we bypass a sign that reads, “No dogs allowed,” and we all laugh as our husky, Aurora, hops the fence. Our laughs turn to gasps as we realize there are sheep dotting the hillside, and there seems to be no catching her now. After a long while, her owner finally drags her up to the rest of the group and we realize we’ll have to leash her somehow. She is leashed by a rope that came attached to one of the backpacks, and then attached to a climber. Huskies are famous for pulling dogsleds so tugging a human up a small mountain is effortless for her, but extremely difficult for the unlucky passenger. It’s a humorous sight to watch—a person being pulled along by a large dog with nothing he can do about it. His legs are far apart and his arms out for balance. It’s funny and yet I feel guilty laughing when he is tugged too quickly and unexpectedly by her excitement. The climb takes us longer than it should, but we have inexperienced athletes in our group and most of them need an occasional smoke. I have yet to understand how one can smoke a cigarette or joint while attempting to do something physical. All the starting and stopping disrupts the pace I would prefer, but there’s no reason to complain. I feel that I am “just along for the ride,” so I wait patiently as they feed their addictions. We eventually lose the path and it proves difficult to summit, but it is well worth the effort. We pose for pictures next to the plain wooden cross that adorns the top, and it is even more satisfying to take a break for lunch. A ham sandwich has never tasted so good! I find the climb down to be the hardest on my knees, as it is challenging to resist slipping down loose rocks, but it could mean tumbling down the whole mountain and bringing others down with me, so I take my time. Though I believe the descent is all about focus and control, we cannot ignore the approaching darkness and must do our best to beat it.

Another night of campfire songs, and we are greeted with a morning full of waves ideal for surfing. The boys strip down to their boxers and wrap a towel around their waists. It’s actually hilarious to watch them hop up and down attempting to squeeze damp, black wetsuits over their pale Irish legs. I have come to realize that it is anything but effortless to dress for surf, especially with a suit that is somewhat wet from the day before. I decide not to take part in the water sport, but lounge in the sun instead. (They said it was “Spring Break,” right?) Before I left for Ireland, I packed a swimsuit without thinking I would ever use it, but sure enough, the country surprised me with sunshine and dolphins and surf. The trip comes to a close and in order to exit the spot we stayed, we must honk our way through lounging cattle, who lay directly in our line of fire. The lazy beasts eventually move and we are back on the road again, back to everyday life in Ireland, which is still not quite the same as being home.

Attempting a "John Synge"

John Synge is the author of The Aran Islands, a book he completed in Paris after spending three summers on Inis Meain, living among the locals. As a part of an Irish literatures course, I was given the opportunity to do exactly as he did, only many years later.


The Aran Islands at night are mere shadows in the soft wind. It is difficult to distinguish between the land and the sea when it is so dark. A flash of blue and one to echo in white declare that out there, life is still happening, even after so many have taken to their beds. Scattered orange lights dot the largest of the three islands and I can feel the breeze traveling from her direction. So still. So somber and quiet. The ideal place for meditation and peaceful thinking. Life is simple here—with the dim stars above and a maze of walls built only of stone. No garda and only one tiny pub, which has no official closing time, but shuts down after the last drunk has gone home. Understood rules and but a handful of motorized vehicles. My heart can fall asleep here, take a short nap while I recline outside a comfortable home. I’ve never been this close to the sea before, with a clear view from the dining room window and the sound of colliding waves when I hold my breath. The ocean makes different sounds that are somehow always happening. It is a living force, constantly changing and communicating. Some days she weeps and mourns alongside my quiet emotions, and on other occasions, she is there to send a smile in return. Either way, she is a woman beckoning me to pause. I feel significantly awake, as nights such as these add weight to life itself; they fuel the core of my humanity.

A light breakfast is the way to get your day going here—tea or coffee and plenty of toast with marmalade. We eat around a family table and make plans to explore the island. Oh how I adore the freedom to think and reflect! They say that it is dangerous to leave a man alone with his thoughts, but at various points in life I find it utterly essential to my sanity. Today I want to look back on my journey thus far. How is it that I actually made it to this place? How is it possible that I feel so much more alive here? I see now why so much work back home was hindering my creative expression. The routine killed me. I must remember to rest and set aside time for more writing when I return, for here it is so much easier to write, glorify my surroundings, and worship what I see. The only thing I am truly missing out on is authentic human connection with others. I am more reserved and afraid to ask questions to learn about their lives. I am bored of Americans. I so desperately want to find a lone, elderly man who has no one else to talk to, or maybe a young girl who does not know how to feel. I suppose I crave the sadness and loneliness in others, and use it to fill a void inside. Why do I desire to be their only positive connection? I am beginning to discover just how selfish I have always been.

My feet dangle off high cliffs of gray rock, with the ocean surging below. Each wave from the blue expansion sprays over smooth, weathered stones, swirling froth forwards and then backwards. There is an uneven pattern to the crashes, a fluid rhythm with different sized waves. Teetering and swaying, the dance of the ocean is mesmerizing.

Each rock I step on is surrounded by a tiny pool of still rainwater. I am making my way over a landscape of small islands. Somewhere behind me I hear a trickle of water that is traveling back to the sea. I am hearing a piece of the great circle—the cycle nature uses to take care of itself. It was created to be like this: the sea to reflect the color of the sky, and shadows resting under each friendly cloud.
I live in Iowa and have not once felt this close to the earth before. Ivy and blackberries crawl and conceal stonewalls. From the highest point, one can see marked and unmarked territory—a brown cow behind one gate, sheep behind another, and a lonely donkey behind yet another. Currently I sit a top the walls of a fort preserved from the pagan days, somewhere between the fourth and fifth centuries. Have I ever touched something so ancient before? It is entirely authentic, built with hands from an age I can hardly imagine. This fort is a simple construction of rough rock and lookout points set upon a high hill. I can see the Cliffs of Moher from here; they cast a shadow behind the thin sheet of ocean fog just across the way. Hammering and one dog barking, the far away voices of children, occasional buzz of a fly, and always the sound of the rolling waves. I wonder if I am sitting in the very same place Synge did. At the very center of the island you are still not far away from the sea. Everything about here breathes poetry, and I am tempted to try my hand at it. Another day.

Bookish

A book may hold portraits of an artist’s work, and a book in its simplest form is the artwork of any given author, but the material of a book may also be used to create new art that expresses diverse ideas and is open for interpretation. The Glucksman Gallery on campus celebrates this with a display entitled, “Bookish: When Books Become Art,” and as I listened to the curator explain the different pieces, a completely new world unfolded before me. I was able to justify my innate attraction to books and open my mind to a more creative way of examining them. I was able to sit on a bench for a short period of time and reflect on what I saw. This is what came out:

Something completely unique. Brilliant actually, and quite able to help me justify my love for books. What do they stand for? How do they survive? An old man films his thick country boots kicking a book full of outdated political ideas across the square and the pages flutter about the sidewalk. The binding cannot keep the pages together; what is he saying about the stronghold of this theory? A curious artist plucks love notes and illegible post-it’s from the pages of borrowed material. Tags from brand new shirts, receipts, and ticket stubs litter the library, but are hidden within the two covers of so many books. Sit down in your area library and flip through the pages, see what sort of archeological discoveries are dug up. What can one book carry to the next reader? A book is a vessel of knowledge and ideas. It carries germs and footnotes, garbage and timeless treasures. It is a symbol—colorful artwork, and a bird fluttering over any certain landscape. The book is a constant that is always changing—dirty laundry and a list of quotations. It is a canvas meant to make a beautiful backdrop or stamp a lasting image behind one’s eyelids. Books are a common display so often overlooked by the everyday admirer. Any given one can show an artists work, but why do they insist on producing in a page-to-page format?
A book may also manifest into a piece of art by itself, making all sorts of statements about humanity and materialism. They can build walls and stop floods, even create a compass for which one can use to discover the world. The young red book is quite able to socialize with the old wrinkled one she is positioned so pleasantly against on your bookshelf. In fact all the books chat among themselves and with the model airplane on display. Lines of importance and famous quotations are collaged together and seem quite ridiculous without the encompassing context. Pages of encyclopedias are transposed on top of one another and what we see is merely a smudge—a blur of information that must be separate, yet bound in order to make any sense at all. Never in my life did I see a display so focused on the ironies of books and the thoughts that created them. I feel my passion is more rounded after seeing this display, and I understand why I think books are so beautiful now.

An Uncomfortable Adventure

Today was an adventure—a stretch actually. It required saying, “yes” to wet feet and jagged rocks, and saying, “no” to my usual amount of comfort and casual safety. The island we made our way towards is legitimate in definition, yet when the tide sinks to a low enough level it extends approximately one hour’s time freedom to approach by foot rather than swim. Overlooking reservations, I accepted the rugged man’s hand and traced his steps carefully to begin our journey over a seemingly endless field of slick stones covered in sea kelp and premature mussels. He paused often to point out a living sea anemone and some sort of barnacle-looking creature, but in the presence of his knowledge and handsome confidence, I found myself completely outside of my element.

The distinct fish scent and sea salt air begins to wrap itself around my faded t-shirt and aggressively breeze through my hair. I take note of my rather old runners, knowing they will soon be even dirtier, and I am finding the discomfort to be rather taxing. It will all be worth it once we get there. The landscape we cross is an underwater world exposed for a brief period of time to the cool Irish atmosphere. I try hard not to think about the hundreds of mini mussels I have crushed beneath my shoes in our short trip to the other side, and my guide reminds me to focus on the island as our destination. He is also sure to caution me about taking abrupt, confident steps. I must remember that seaweed is slippery, although falling seems inevitable.

I haven’t been the “out-of-doors-type” girl for quite some time now. As a kid, I would run wildly through cornfields and build forts from any raw material at hand. My childhood consisted largely of pretend Native American names and mud pies, a head full of neglected hair and feet calloused enough to race across gravel roads. But then I discovered books, found I had a studious calling within, and forgot to spend all of my time outside. Skills that could have been acquired over all those lost years may have come in handy today, for I was struggling to keep up. An inexperienced and bashful girl, I did not want my expert guide to watch as I struggled to maintain solid footing. I am almost out of breath, but I recognize we are quite close to our green-colored oasis. Just don’t think about the fact that we have to make our way back still…

We manage to make it, though not at all easily.

I’m not quite sure I understood what “trudging” truly meant until I found myself wading awkwardly through thick, springy grass. The grass acted as a sponge to each weighted step, swallowing our jeans to the knees and slowing our reflexes. But this part of the journey should be taken at a lesser pace anyway. I turn to see the coastline, count the colorful houses that dot the shore, and acknowledge what we accomplished. The rock bridge we crossed appears as a solid dark mass, and from our new height, it is impossible to distinguish the individual toilsome stones and sand formations we scaled on our way here. Seagulls swoop a little too close for comfort and a friendly fishing boat passes before us. A part of me wants to lie down in the tall grass and disappear entirely from the tour guide’s sight—I could rest here for hours just smelling the waves and listening to the grey colored clouds pass over my head.

But the tide is rising and we must race against the water to make it to shore. The steps backwards are more difficult and I am forced to plunge my foot into swirling puddles that are filling much to quickly. I can feel the froth in between my toes and I worry that living things might have taken residence against my feet. Another thirty minutes and we may have been stranded for a long while. My guide assures me that I did well, though every time he does, my self-esteem shrinks a tiny bit more. He also continues to tell me that he finds it strange I have only been to the ocean on three other occasions prior to this. It’s extremely difficult for me to help him understand that I am from Iowa; our state’s name and location apparently means very little to this particular Irishman.

I couldn’t tell you the name of the island or the name of the coastal town we visited earlier. I can show you little artifacts I collected along the way—a couple of stones and numerous seashells. My shoes are filled with sand and smell like water, but I figure this only adds to their story. I am unable to recall most of the places we saw today and I doubt I could recite all of the history, but I can tell you what I discovered. Today I learned how to be quiet in a small harbor town that is still mourning the sinking of the Titanic. I learned that holding back in the face of opportunity is rarely worth it at all, and taking a chance is a reward in and of itself. With soaked socks and sore legs, I walk away with the solid accomplishment of making it across, and of course, a series of snapshots for memory’s sake.