Through the Porthole...

      

Steam-Boat off a Harbour's Mouth (1842) by J.M.William Turner 

                         

Pioneering has a dark underbelly. 

We sit in its hull for days and nights,

clenching rusted nails to rivet ourselves, 

in the hope we are not whipped with limbs and ropes, 

or punctured by moulded wine barrels and untamed diseases. 

The kings men above in their damp crimson coats 

pray to prevent a rape by the Great Atlantic.

Yet it has already begun, 

the ferocious shrieks deafen the creaks of the mast and hull,

and the sun herself is being gagged with a black cloak.

Yet the cries of the dead that should sink to ocean’s floor 

whisper through the leaking holes. They are clawing up the bow now,

rattling right next to us, 

waiting to take the place of men who drown in scurvy.

Meanwhile, our macerated skin is soaking itself in 

a cocktail of sea salt, excrement, weeping wounds,

and the entrails left out of the captains evening meal.  

At least the growing tempestuous mountains that

gulp at all that cross their path,

gorging themselves on these desperate skeletons

aswell as us, the fatal foreigners…

The tempest has flattened

The cloak swept away.

Our wretched silhouettes huddle together, 

Many are heaving the bile that sits under your tongue

When you fear death.

Their shoulders stop shivering as some think that 

The ocean is ours again. 

Pioneering has a dark underbelly, 

that has been satisfied with only one ship in its pit. 

We now huddle around our only source of light—the porthole,

the glass has a fractured haze 

through which we can only see a wreck 

clashing against the rocks.

The sails are a white body bag wrapped over the corpse, 

yet the masks lies intact reaching for the teal above, 

with King George’s flag flashing above the destructor.

Regardless of the reach of the empire and the shackles of the officers

there are some things beyond colonial control. 

The honey rays brush around the raven mass that blocks the sun’s orb

stroking calm the throbbing waters, and letting our vessel breath again. 

Pioneering has a dark underbelly, 

this misty ring has given us death and life, 

our only connection to the chaos and serenity of the seas.

We thirst for more—knowledge—wealth, 

yet are halted and sometimes destroyed by the sublime. 

Dabbling in the Irish Countryside...

Welcome back everyone, from wherever you're reading I hope you're doing fabulously well!! Its been almost 9 weeks of me holidaying/travelling/living in Europe and it's gone ridiculously fast. This is the furthest and the longest I've ever been from home and I'm started to get use to the lifestyle over here. Although I don't think I've ever been continuously so cold. 9 weeks of wearing at least 3 layers every day has been a bit of a change from the 1 jumper you could get away with in a Sydney winter.

Anyways let's get going! This next instalment is about my day trip with the wonderful Paddywagon's Tour to a couple of places a stone's throw away from Dublin.

We began with a bus ride beyond the industrial facade and the Georgian Metropol of Dublin, I do love it, but it's nice to get out of the city every once and a while. About an hour outside of the city and we find ourselves in the wintery arena of the Wicklow Mountains.

The Irish bus driver drops us off near the ruins of Glendalough. It is well away from the relics of modernity and nestled within the sacred mountainside. This was my first time in the Irish countryside and it was so perfect that pictures and postcards only capture a small portion of it.

We started at the lower lake. The lake itself was still. Paused in a moment so that the rows of pine trees could check their appearance underneath the silver clouds without any distraction.

We then moved on and began trekking through to the ruins. Well, it wasn't really a trek, more like a leisurely stroll upon a cobblestone path surrounded by the trickles of waterfalls, a mist that clung around the trees and maybe even between fairy forts.  

The ruins themselves were incredible. They are an early Christian monastic settlement founded by St. Kevin in the 6th century. Even with a few attacks and raids from Vikings this 'monastic city' thrived here until the Normans destroyed the monastery in 1214. The ruins though are still intact with the Cathedral and the Round Tower standing proud, continuing their gaze over the sacred site. Some of the other buildings include St Kevin's kitchen and cross, the Priest's house and the expansive graveyard that coats the site. Some of these gravestones seem to be straight out of a thriller film. On the brink of toppling over with the green mounds protruding above the graves making you walk around and perhaps not far above these people from the past.

There was a constant dribble of rain that followed us throughout the day. Yet it did not dampen our experience, if anything it added to the gothic landscape. It's a place where you wonder what might be tip-toeing in the shadows, behind the trees and hopping on the rocks alongside of you. Maybe if I were to stay there long enough, I could catch a glimpse of figures that dance in the other Celtic realms...

We then took a quick detour twirling back around the mountains, to the bridge from the film P.S. I Love You, where the Scottish Gerard Butler plays a lovable Irishman (with a terrible Irish accent) and meets a young, colourful scarf wearing American in rural Ireland. And as almost every other rom-com goes they fall in love, plus a sad turn and a relatively happy ending. For those wanting to watch a movie about Ireland, might not be the best one to go for but it's still a good story. Anyways, there was no wandering young irishman about only a gushing tranquil river and a couple of sheep (less rom-com worthy).

A note to make about the bus driver, he was great. He had a continuous stream of facts about Irish culture and history which to some may be annoying but I couldn't get enough of it. Yet between the history and myth, he managed to touch slightly on the very distinct differences between the Irish and English, jokingly of course, with some sledging towards the Australians on the trip.

Moving on, we pulled into the little town of Kilkenny. Firstly a little fact  is that "kil"is the anglicised "cill" which means church in Irish. With only two hours to explore this place, we had lunch at a pub called the Kyteler's Inn. There is an interesting story that is attached to the place. In the late 13th century the owner of the pub was a woman by the name of Dame Alice le Kyteler, for the times it was considered quite scandalous that not only a woman had owned a pub but also had 4 husbands throughout her life and acquired a notable fortune. Yet, she had many critics and enemies who conspired that she must be a witch and pushed for her to be burnt at the stake. Alice fled from Kilkenny and fell off the records from then on, however her husband at the time was placed on trial and ordered to attend mass three Masses a day and donate to the poor. Her maid did not escape the same light treatment, Petronella (yes, that's her maid's name, that sort of sounds like a petrol company) was tortured, whipped and burnt at the stake.

After lunch we strolled around the cobblestone streets, walking past locals who were marching towards the local hurling grounds. On that day there was apparently a big game on. Hurling is MASSIVE in Ireland, perhaps bigger than football (rugby league) in rural NSW. It seemed that almost every boy between the age of 12-20 was carrying around a hurling stick. I still don't quite understand the game, even after a number of people, both Irish and foreigner, have tried to explain it. I'll get back to you when I've actually watched a game.

To fill in the last hour we had a tour around Kilkenny Castle. A fortification has been there since the 12th c. and was later transformed into the residence of the Butler family in which it stayed for 600 years until the 1960s when the Marquess of Ormond, handed the castle to Kilkenny. It is a spectacular castle filled to the brim with all the excess of an upper class residence. This includes, many many mirrors, fireplaces, gold laced cushions, tapestries, crystal glasses and massive portraits of old men who never seem to be enjoying life and only seem to open their mouths for food and colourless conversation. Nevertheless, it is a grand display of aristocracy and wealth.

The gardens of the castle have the layout of a Celtic cross, a symbol that legend says was brought to Ireland by Saint Patrick, at the same time he was sweeping all of the snakes outside of Ireland and spreading Christianity. 

Well, that'll be all for this week! Hopefully you've enjoyed this brief attempt to capture the beauty of Ireland, and keep an eye out for more attempts soon. There might also be a special appearance the Scandinavian beauty that is Copenhagen.