|
Excerpt:
I
rounded a corner I saw an elderly man
with wild white hair mowing his tiny
front lawn--hardly more than a grass
patch--with a hand mower. I noticed two
things right off. The man, who must have
been in his late seventies, was wearing
a white shirt, suspenders, and a tie to
mow his yard. That formality over a
simple chore impressed me as part of the
man's strength of character, about which
I soon learned more.
Second, and more
important, the yard boasted the most
spectacular display of tulips I had ever
seen outside of a botanic garden, and in
a space not more than thirty square
feet. There were many colors, yellows
and reds and whites, and many
multicolored ones. The white tulips that
seem to drip with pink or red stripes I
particularly admired. And, like most
growing things in Ireland, they were
enormous, some as much as two feet tall,
well past my knee. The petals of the
overblown blooms spread larger than a
pianist's hand.
I walked up to the gate
and said loudly so the man could hear me
above the clippity noise of his
mower, "Those are
very beautiful tulips." The man stopped
and turned. He took out a handkerchief
and wiped his face as he sauntered over
to the gate. "Aye, they're not that
much. They're about done. They have to
come out next week." He had that air of
modesty I have come to appreciate and
enjoy in the Irish.
But I refused to take his
modesty seriously and praised his
flowers again. This time, he recognized
my American accent and asked, "Well,
now, are you from the States?" I said
yes, and he asked me where I was from
and, for a moment, we made small talk
about his relatives in the States and my
travels in Ireland.
***
I turned and watched as a
cat in a kitchen garden stalked a bird.
It was a huge cat and a small bird, but
the cat missed. He did not, I surmised,
get so fat on a diet he caught for
himself. Nor did I. Despite my filling
breakfast (two actually, both the one on
the plane and one Egan's provided when I
checked in), I was hungry. I had missed
my lunch in favor of some sleep. The sun
was going down, but very gradually. I
knew it wouldn't be down--and it
wouldn't be dinnertime--until at least 8
P.M. But I could go to The Maples, a
nearby small hotel with full bar and
restaurant, and have a glass of
something warm to prepare myself for
dinner.
I had very badly misjudged
the need for woolens. When I left New
York in May, it had been warm,
definitely weather for a silk or cotton
blouse under a lightweight wool suit. I
assumed a trench coat over that would
take care of Ireland in May. Although
May can be quite warm in the Emerald
Isle, this year I was wrong. I needed
some woolen turtlenecks and hadn't any
along. And even a pair of gloves would
have been welcome at night. Luckily, the
country still boasts fireplaces in
dining rooms, and The Maples had a good
one. The hostess/waitress (there was
only one, as high season had not really
begun) must have noticed my shivering,
for she cleared and set immediately a
table next to the fire.
This was the first of my huge dinners,
the beginning of the end of my figure
for at least a time. I have found it
difficult, when traveling, to be careful
of how much I eat and how often.
Frequently, it is not under one's own
control--when one is a houseguest, for
example. Ordinarily true that you can
choose what you want in a restaurant,
where you're paying for the privilege,
it is not true in Ireland. Leaving food
on the plate will bring, as often as
not, a query from the cook as to its
quality. "Did you not enjoy your meal,
then?" the waitress will ask. The
country had been poor for a long time,
and no one visited it to eat. Indeed, in
stories from relatives who traveled
there in the early 1950s, it was
apparently hard to get a steak. When you
did, it would be meager and it might be
boiled. Today, they make absolutely sure
that you've had enough, and then some.
|
|
Digg
StumbleUpon