Strange Anomaly #24

It is before Halloween and they are already putting up Christmas lights?!

Return to the Sun

In late September we decided we had missed the sun for too long (though last year was said to be the worst Irish summer in 200 years, this summer may have trumped it), and with Bruno being gone we decided a trip to see him in sunny Portugal was just the right remedy. It was a collective decision with a total of nine people seeking an increase in Vitamin D and a cure to Irish pasty white, almost transparency (its the first step toward invisibility, I'm told) boarded a plane bound for Lisbon.

And now a not from the weather gods (and a statement about our weather curse). At noon Bruno called and said it was "too hot." By the time we landed we were exiting the plane under a thin skin of clouds. It was still warm, but "too hot" was no longer a worry. No rain though...yet...

Dinner in Lisbon was amazing, outdoors on the landing of a huge stair (Lisbon is very hilly). After a quick look at Bruno's new apartment we headed on to his family's beach house at praia maçã (apple beach). A simple, but wonderful beach house with one little issue: no hot water (as if we don't get enough of that at home...but that's a different story).

Sleep.

The next morning there was nothing but cloud. Pure depression. That sun we had come to worship was no where to be found. I was up early, but I was the only one.

I stewed.

By the time everyone else had gotten out of bed, however, the sun was peeking through, and by the time we hit the beach all of the clouds had been whisked away (at least away from us).

We found bliss.

Sun.

All...day...long...

Or at least the important part of the day: the daylight part. Sun, ocean, sand, sun, friends. Brilliant!

Dinner and sleep.

Rinse repeat. Morning two was cloudy as well, but by noon it had cleared away. This second round was a bit chillier, a bit windier, but still sunny. Sun, wonderful sun. It rained that night while we ate, but it wasn't much.

It was perfect. In the end we got a good patch of luck inside the bad luck of weather. The rest of Portugal got rained on the whole weekend. We can be thankful for our piece of cancer causing joy.

See all of the pictures.

Bone Wet

Heading out from Belfast (if you missed this part, please see the previous post), our course took us up along the coast for a slow, relaxed drive north and then west to our nights stay in Port Rush. The day was amazingly beautiful and we stopped here and there for pictures and to take in the wonderful ocean view. You couldn't ask for a better drive. We carried on like this, with big smiles on our naive little faces, until...dark grey blobs began to seep out of the horizon at its edges and ooze across the sky.

We headed on to our first real tourist hotspot as the grim grey slowly extracted all of the day's beautiful color. A few sprinkles fell here and there, but then subsided. The sky looked content just to stone face the sun. Perhaps that's just what we told ourselves.

Pulling into the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge parking lot, the sky looked grim. The rope bridge was a must see on this Northern Irish coastal tour, so we suited up and headed up to the entrance point. Half way the drops started falling.

"Perhaps we should head back, sit in the car, and wait this out? We're in no real hurry." I said, trying to avoid damp pants.

"Nah, this little bit of rain could go on for hours. Lets just power through!"

Mariah was insistent, and we were suited up with rain jackets. Not liking to take pictures in the rain, I was primarily trying to avoid ruining that part of my experience (photography has become on the most enjoyable piece of traveling for me), but in all likelihood this marginal kind of rain could continue indefinitely.

We continued on.

As we arrived at the ticketing booth, as small line had formed and we took our places. A few more people stacked up behind us and we progressed slowly on toward ticket freedom. Not more than five minutes into this process, but far enough that we were committed...

BUCKETS!

Buckets, and buckets, and buckets, and more buckets, and fire hose of rain descended down upon us. We scrambled to draw our bags and cameras under something waterproof. Mariah produced a half-a-person umbrella for the two of us and we huddled beneath it. The rain, seeming stored in those clouds to a bursting point, soaked us bone deep within a matter of seconds. Anything without protective cover was fully saturated. Any chink in that armor was penetrated. The "water resistant" wind breaker I was sporting was re-defined as "water resistant only until saturated with ludicrous amounts of water and then seepy wherever it has contact with something else" windbreaker.

The rain continued at full force. And we stood...in line...

Tickets purchased were immediately wet, stuffed into an already wet pocket. An extra plastic poncho was purchased for me, in hopes that the extra layer would help seal things up. It did...sort of. Everything, however, was already wet, or at some varying level of dampness. The only thing kept safe was the camera bag, shielded via life and limb.

We trudged on towards the bridge, rain beating down.

I can't really put into words how unbelievably pissed I was (the rage version, not the drinking). Shooting through my head were the first few moments of moderate rain where I had suggested we wait in the car. I had wanted to wait! And despite the completely logical decision to move on, and the incredibly unlucky timing (and lack of any proper shelter), I had been TRICKED into enduring this dousing of biblical proportions (I would envy the quantity of water in my own shower)! TRICKED!

The rain slowed...and then it stopped...mostly.

I decided that this might be my only opportunity to take any pictures before the rain beast returned, so I drug my camera out from beneath the many layers of plastic. We made it down to the bridge entrance (a good 10 minute walk from the ticket booth) where another line was forming (crossing had to be done in shifts and was slow). We waited for a bit, with rain sprinkling intermittently, a constant reminder that the beast could return.

The bridge, a rope bridge, though sturdily made and fairly modern, spanned from the mainland across a 30 foot drop over to a small island. In crossing I didn't feel one bit of un-safety, though I did make sure to keep my camera squarely in hand. Disappointing to say the least.

Once on the other side we managed our way up to the top of the small island. The only thing going through my head at this point was "It's a f***ing ROCK! we just got soaked to cross a pathetic little not-scarry rope bridge over to a rock with nothing on it!"

I took pictures as therapy...

As we felt the experience coming to an end, it was ended for us by the steady increase in spatters against the already dark stone. The rain frothed up again, no where near to its previous level, but more than enough to end my picture-taking fun. We crossed back over and headed for the car. More of the day was left than I would have liked, given the squishy sensation in my shoes, but we headed on to our next stop.

The Giant's Causeway was...more rocks. Much more interesting though, being the columnar basalt brand of rocks. The rock formations yield a step like formations that go along with a load of legends linked to the place's title that you are welcome to check out on your own. Something about giants...

It was grey and miserable, but not nearly as raining. A few shots were taken, a few incidents of almost slipping and cracking my head open, and then we headed on.

Bushmills Distillery was next on the list. Unfortunately we arrived just after the last tour at 4:00pm (nothing in any Ireland seems to stay open late...except pubs...). Fortunately we weren't far from Port Rush and our hotel for the night, so we could come back. The rest of the evening was spent drying out...

The next morning was beautiful again, a disgusting sneer on the weather beast's face. We took a tour of Dunluce Castle ruin just near Port Rush on the edge of the coast and the views were incredible. It was a great tour with some very interesting history. We moved on to tour Bushmills Distillery and Mariah had opportunity to drink a few shots of whiskey at 10:00am. An experience that shouldn't be traded by anyone.

As we drove away and it slowly approached afternoon, the sun shifted to clouds once more and left no shinny sparkle to keep our interest. We were headed back to Dublin, and besides a drive through a few not-so-noteworthy towns and villages, we took the now long road back to Dublin with limited interest.

The moral of the story...rain sucks...

See all of the pictures.

The Black Taxi

Back in August we took a road trip up North. No, no. No arctic excursions. This was just a short trip up to the disjointed Northern chunk of Ireland. Two-plus hours in the car on the M1("M" is for motor-way, for those of you not hip to the jive) and we were in Belfast. Belfast, as a city, is just not really that interesting. Beyond a few notable bits of architecture, it feels largely like a big, grey, drab city that could likely be found most anywhere in the UK.

You might note that I said "UK" there and not Ireland. This is because Northern Ireland is actually part of the UK, a fact made painfully obvious by the taxis. Northern Ireland remained part of the UK as part of the agreement that established the Republic of Ireland in 1922. This was a highly disputed decision, with animosity on both sides, and ultimately lead to what the Irish refer to as "The Troubles" (the extended conflict between the IRA and the British government, along with an bonus religious conflict between the Catholics and Protestants.

Because of this, Belfast is riddled with big, black British-styled taxis, along with a load of fairly sensitive political history and turmoil. Generally speaking, people all over Ireland are not particularly comfortable talking about this dark period in history (hence the rather soft-cornered title they have adopted). Fortunately tourism trumps all social sensitivity and we were able to take what they call a "Black Taxi Tour" focused fully on The Troubles and their local impact on the people of Belfast.

In the case of a Black Taxi Tour, you essentially get to ride around in a taxi while the driver runs down all of the political history. Our taxi driver was brilliant! Although his presentation might be a little less refined than your average scripted tour, it was thorough and very informative. More conversational in its candor. We traveled to a handful of locations within the city where significant events occurred, including segregated Protestant and Catholic neighborhoods fenced off from each other where animosity and rivalry still exists, despite the IRA disarmament.

The most significant pieces of this puzzle were the murals found in the Protestant neighborhoods, painted on the sides of houses depicting anything from nationalist events in history to commemorations for someone who had lost their life in the conflict. The cab driver relayed to us, as we sat at the edge of a green looking out at all of the different murals, that the cabs had a sort of treaty with the neighborhoods allowing them to bring their tours through no matter their personal affiliations. For someone coming through these neighborhoods with the wrong ties, in the wrong place, at the wrong time, however, they could find themselves in a lot of trouble.

Suffice it to say, if you are ever in Belfast, we highly recommend a Black Taxi Tour.

See all of the pictures.

Visage of Venice

I had been meaning to write something about Venice and...well...a lot of things...but it seems Mariah has beat me to the punch. As it turns out, my punch is that of an eighty year old man crippled with arthritis, a broken shoulder, diphtheria, and a nauseating aversion to self motivation. Hers is more like Bruce Lee...

Venice is truly unique. It has it's faults - saturation of tourists (though not nearly as bad as Florence), high prices, and rude-ish restaurant patrons (though that whole service-with-a-smile thing, otherwise known as "quality customer service," often seems unique to the US) - but as I walked along the canals of Venice, every direction I looked there was a picture waiting to be captured. As you may know, traveling really isn't my thing, but it's definitely Mariah's thing (she has travel where I have iPhone), so photography has been one way of coping for me.

Venice was a gold mine in that regard.

The colors were so rich and vivid. I'm sure it helped a great deal that we had some beautiful weather while we were there (some of our only good weather while in Italy) that made those colors reach right out of the walls. The stucco, it's aged variations and the moisture saturated edges, give the buildings a muted and varied texture that brings life to the place.

The canals reflect light in unexpected ways and allow for another level of texture with every view. The "streets" are varied by bridges cutting across at seemingly random intervals, each of unique construction. The scale is low enough to allow the sun into most everywhere, though shoulder wide alleys branch off here and there linking to other streets like veins.

It's so easy to get lost, but hard to be lost for too long. The city just isn't that big, and as long as you don't have somewhere to be, your better to let it happen and enjoy discovering each random piece. Discovery is the best part, especially with a camera.

So, in Venice...get lost.

If you haven't already, see all of the pictures.