Ireland

She's up on the high wire...

A certain amount of reasonable fear is considered basic to our survival. Some of us, herself included, have greater fear than others see as reasonable, for example, the fear of heights.  I can even recall my first episode of  acrophobia, crossing a rope bridge at Jay Cooke State Park, in kindergarten.  Reading the following essay increased my heart rate exponentially while simultaneously eliciting my admiration for one who looked her fear in the proverbial face and conquered it.  Kudos, Hollie!

Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge

Hollie Mitchem

                Sheer terror, the kind where your legs shake and your head spins, is not an experience often felt, nor is it something most seek after. Allow yourself to take a journey, not an extensive one only a mere 2 kilometers. This venture will seem joyous and light spirited at first but those feelings of panic may soon find their way into your being.

             
   In Northern Ireland just on the tip of the coast, the distance offers a view of Scotland, though it is a mere blur in the fog, you will find such an adventure. Paying a small fee to visit and test your will against your fear is well worth it. You know what the object that lies ahead of you is, yet at this time you can neither see it nor fully prepare yourself for what will soon transpire. The path there is moderate; just a kilometer of distance blocking your senses.

                Trudging along you find yourself lost in the scenery, distracted from your destination. The trail leads along the edge of the cliff side and peering over offers many treats for the eyes. The white cliff face sparkles in the sun, the rough burlap sand soaks up the waves as they wash over it. Birds pick at seaweed what seems like miles below you. Waves of all spectrums of colors crash upon the ragged rocks; with only the distance softening the thunder of their sounds.

                This route you hike along offers a plethora of ground shifts. Step lightly to avoid the few deep mud puddles and dance around the trickles of water flowing over it. Be quick to notice the pebbles that may throw off your balance, and be cautious of the rocks that are hungry for stubbed toes. Getting closer now, breathing becomes heavier from the upward slant of the trek but also from the anticipation of what is to come. Wait, a rest is needed at the top of this incline. Breaths slow until one is caught in a low inaudible gasp.

             
   From the vantage point of this hill you see it, the destination that is already sparking fear deep within your soul. A terror you will voluntarily put yourself through and pray you live to tell the tale; but there is still more road to cover before you reach your destination. Below you the ocean continues its roar; the steep descent is aided by a stone staircase. These stones have seen the feet of many travelers, perhaps tourists such as you just looking for the thrill of panic. Be cautious on these worn stones, they trip and deceive with their rebellion against uniformity. Nor too far to go now, you’ve certainly walked too far to turn back. Even though you press forward every fiber in your body begins to wish that it could race back up the staircase and run back down the muddy path.

                The trek is over but the journey has just begun. A journey that is personal and spiritual in almost every aspect of its existence. Your biggest fear, the greatest obstacle lies before you: Carrick-a-rede Rope Bridge. Now for most, this name will not strike terror into the hearts, perhaps the name even disappoints the dramatic build up. Be assured, however, that regardless of your fear of heights or lack thereof, a degree of pure fear will cross your hearts. Some, the greatly fearful, will struggle more, but the reality is that, regardless of your mental disposition, this experience will grab you.

                A slow descent down metal stairs is made with employees watching your every move. Perhaps you hand your camera to the person behind you so a memory of this event can be forever saved. The wait in line is the longest and most excruciating that has ever been felt. Your heart dislodges itself and moves ever so slowly up into your throat making breathing laborious and swallowing impossible. It beats so hard your mind is consumed by the booming in your ears. Finally it’s your turn to traverse this bridge. Whispers of self assurance “I can do this” are spoken in the breath you can barely muster.

                You think it will be the first step that gives you the most difficulty but this is a grand mistake. About halfway, equal distance in each direction torturously separating you from the safety of firm ground; this is where your feet freeze. The worst mistake of all is made at this moment; your eyes leave the ground in front of you and wander down, ever so far down. The wind steals your breath and the only sound louder than the waves below is the thunderous racing of your heart. Fear envelops you. “The wind will sweep me off the bridge sending me plunging into the shallow water below,” “my foot will slip leaving me helpless as I tumble over,” “the ropes will break.” Yet despite being frozen in time your feet recover memory of movement and no sooner than that recollection you are on the other side. Only when on secure ground do you realize that mere seconds have passed, seconds that ticked by at the rate of glaziers crossing the land.

                Lying on the other side of Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge is an island. The stunning views offered from the island are unable to be captured, by cameras, words, or any other form. Looking over your shoulder you can see the magnificent white cliffs upon which you walked. Below you the surf laps at the rocks, bi-polar in nature, first calm then raging. Climbing to the top of the island offers a view of splendor in every direction. Out in the water the mists conceal islands and in the very far distance Scotland.

                The beautiful island is blissful and light-hearted, yet all the while you are enjoying the green grass and small flowers there is the looming dread in the back of your mind. You are on an island that is high out of the water; the only way back is the way which you came. It is hard to let the bliss envelope you when this sense of impending doom is sitting right there on your shoulder. Alas, slowly all the sights are taken in and time comes to cross once again.

                Deep breaths are taken in preparation as you make your way back to this terrifying requirement. Slowly it comes in to view and mental encouragement begins. You must just walk, one foot in front of the other and not stop, not think, not focus. Your feet slowly carry once again over this obstacle, the entire time the wind mocks you, plays with you, and terrifies you. This journey is much quicker than the last, no mid-cross break down. Once on the other side, however, you glance at which you have just passed, looking down you can barely stand up your legs are shaking so hard. 

                Despite your dysfunctional legs, that have now very much become Jell-O, the employees tell you that you must continue up the stairs to the trail as others wish to partake in the experience you have just made it through. The journey back is reflective, this was a victory. You have overcome a battle with your mind and are a more enlightened person for it. Walking back the wind whispers congratulations in your ear. The day is done, but your journey has just begun.

Surfing Eirann

We're home, safe and sound, and working on acclimating to life in the USA after our 14 weeks in Ireland.  While it's good to be home, please be patient with us:  we left part of our heart in Ireland, along with those who went before us.

One particular thing that continues to resound for me is the exceptional way the students were so fully engaged, reminding me that their learning included the classroom experiencially, wherever that may be: on a bus presenting and hearing reports and poetry; in a room with chairs, flip charts and a PowerPoint; "doing lunch" with a historical figure or on a surfboard. Yes, I said surfboard. See for yourself...read Mark's take on catching a wave! 

Oh, by the way...the picture below is them, not a clip and paste from a surfing magazine. They are totally "gnarly, dude"!

Beannacht~

Madonna LeBlanc

CSS Ireland 2010 faculty

Mark Johannessen

Surfing Eirann

    I have climbed mountains, visited castles, fished the Atlantic Ocean, met important political figures, and stood in a jail cell, but none of these compare to what I experienced on a sunny weekend in Louisburgh.  I usually expect to experience many interesting things on our travels as a class, but the time spent at the cottages can be very monotonous at times to say the least.  The weather is improving now however, and I have found my calling on the shores of beautiful Carownisky Beach: surfing!            

    It was a beautiful Friday at the St. Scholastica Study Center in Louisburgh and the warmth of the sun made the inhabitants crave the outdoors after being shut in by the rain for the past week.  A few of us decided to make the most of our day and do something we hadn’t done yet.  My brother was visiting me from home and he wanted to go out with a bang.  The decision was to brave the waters of the icy North Atlantic and try our hand at surfing.  There was not a single experienced surfer in the group but all were eager to attempt the sport.  I had contacted the local surf shop on Wednesday but there was no time for a lesson that day so Friday at 2:30 pm was our next option.  The time finally arrived and we split into two groups for transportation purposes.  Dave brought the first group to the beach while I waited with Lynn, Amber, and Luke at the cottages.  Luke and I decided rashers were a necessity so we quickly fried a greasy bacon steak and choked it down as we saw Dave’s car pull back into the driveway.             

    When we arrived at the beach, the excitement and anticipation was overpowering.  Surfing had always seemed an unattainable skill living in Duluth, Minnesota but now it was about to happen.  There was a silver van parked on the edge of the rock line where the high tide would be full of surfing equipment.  We headed towards the van and Emmet got out of a nearby car to meet us.  Emmet is a stereotypical “surfer dude”.  He has long blonde hair and seems like the type to wear shorts and flip flops twelve months out of the year.  He looks like a Californian but speaks with an Irish accent.  Emmet equips us with out battle gear against the icy water, in other words hands us a wetsuit and some boots.  We then pick out our boards and wander down to the beach where the rest of the group is just finishing their lesson.  When the four surfboards are firmly planted in the sand, another man wanders towards us and greets us warmly.  Elvis is a very friendly man and with sideburns and wavy hair, is properly named.  Elvis begins to explain the technicalities of surfing and time drags slowly as the ocean beckons.  The white waves crash consistently into the shore and intimidate and intrigue all at once.  It is finally time.  Luke and I look at each other with a resolve and an unspoken agreement that we will conquer the Atlantic today no matter how much seawater ends up in our bellies.            

    Wading out against the current proves somewhat difficult.  The waves crash systematically into our chests as if telling us to turn back while we still can.  We calmly guide our boards up and over the waves as instructed and continue on.  The water is waist deep now so the waiting game begins.  Staring out into the vast stretches of blue mixed with white-tipped waves is almost hypnotic.  Not much time had passed before I spotted an especially large wave coming toward the shore.  Spinning the board around and hopping on belly first, I began to paddle.  The adrenaline builds as the unseen wave approaches.  Just when the thought crosses my mind that the wave will never arrive, I am launched into motion.  The board rises out of the water sharply before taking a dramatic dive back under the crest of the wave.  It seems as though it will plunge itself and its passenger deep under the water.  Just as almost all hope was abandoned the tip raised back out of the water and I was lifted to the top of the wave.  The nervousness and terror almost instantly changed to pure joy and freedom.  The thrilling sensation of hurtling towards the shore on top of a wave is unparalleled.  The Atlantic transformed into an angry creature threatening anyone in its path and rather than succumbing to it, I tamed it and bent it to my will.  I reached the shore safely and slid off sideways, smiling from ear to ear.  Luke was nearby on the beach and the look on his face hinted that he had shared a similar experience.  We plunged back into the water with much more gusto than before, intent on standing up this time.  Within no time the thrill was intensified as I raised my body up and out of the water entirely and stood firmly on my board.  As I came to a stop near the shore I threw my arms triumphantly in the air and let out a yell.  Elvis stood in front of me and told me that I was a natural and my form was “wicked awesome!”            

    Over the next two and a half hours we continued to tame the ocean swells.  There was one moment when Luke, Paul, and I all rode the same wave in unison all the way back to shore.  Learning to surf has always been a goal of mine, and to be able to achieve that goal with my brother in Ireland of all places was an experience of a lifetime.  I have done many memorable things during my time in this country, but one of the most memorable and thrilling experiences came on the shores of the North Atlantic Ocean: the day that I learned to surf with my brother.   

Hawk Walk: The Experience of a Lifetime

A sampling of student experiences while in Ireland this semester - enjoy!

 

Hawk Walk: The Experience of a Lifetime

Lindsay Pacey

            There are certain activities in life that you know is a memorable experience before, during, and after the experience. Being able to spend time in a five star hotel was definitely one of those, especially when this five star hotel was also a castle. While the service was extraordinary and we explored lots of the castle’s grounds, one particular activity defined my experience at Ashford Castle: the hawk walk.

I was exceptionally excited to be staying at Ashford Castle with my parents for two nights. The castle was originally founded in 1228 by the Anglo-Norman de Burgos family after defeating the O’Connors of the Connaught region. Over the past seven hundred eighty two years the grounds have accrued several thousands of acres filled with lots of trails and activities. These activities multiplied after Noel Huggard bought the castle in 1915 and opened the doors to Ashford as a first class hotel in 1939. Today Ashford Castle is a fancy, high class, five star hotel that have high profile celebrities and public figures spend time, along with anyone who can afford the extravagant stay.

            Upon arrival to the hotel and learning about Ashford’s three hundred thousand acres of land and endless possibilities of activities to do, I decided to scrap our plans of visiting Kylemore Abbey the next day, give my father’s poor nerves a break, and stay at Ashford for the day. After we were shown the various sitting rooms, restaurants, and the wall of famous people who have stayed at the castle, we were shown to the elevator to get to our room. While we took the elevator up, two older women in their sixties were chatting about how brilliant their hawk walk was. With my interest piqued, I inquired further of what exactly a hawk walk entailed. These ladies did their best to explain to a novice like me about the falconry glove, their walk around the grounds and the way the guide would put meat on this glove and the hawk would instinctually swoop in. They said it was an amazing experience, a once in a lifetime opportunity, one that they said they would never forget. Well, I was sold and immediately looked this hawk walk up in the dossier in our hotel room for prices and how to schedule such a thing.

            The next morning we had a spectacular breakfast in the castle’s formal dining room. There I had the most scrumptious melt in your mouth honey ham, a significant helping of fresh pineapple and freshly squeezed orange juice. Just as I was finishing the smoothie of the day, the captain of the Corrib Queen, a small touring boat, came to recommend an hour boat tour of Lough Corrib, the Republic of Ireland’s largest lake. After making an appointment for my hawk walk, we took the captain up on his offer and had a marvelous tour of the lough. I stayed at the top of the boat and met some lovely people. There was a family from the United Kingdom, a family from California, and a brother and sister from Winters, Canada. As my mom came up top when we were returning to Ashford, the siblings took pictures for my mom and I and vice versa with Ashford Castle casually exalting its grandeur presence. We parted ways off of the Corrib Queen and took a short walk around the estate. When we got back to the castle, Karen and Tom, the siblings from Canada, were trying to schedule a hawk walk appointment as well. Knowing that the larger the group, the cheaper the price, my frugality outweighed my self-consciousness. I quickly chimed in that I had an appointment at two if they would like to join me. “We’ll go then as well if it’s open and be Ireland buddies!” Tom said enthusiastically.

            As 1:45 neared, the excitement continued to mount for this hawk walk with my newly founded Canadian friends. I properly layered on this cold, blustery, cloudy day and triple checked that my camera was packed before my mother who doubled as a photographer and I made the journey to Ireland’s one and only school of falconry. Just like inside the castle, the grounds walking to the falconry school were pristine with excellent upkeep. When we approached the school, the large wooden door was shut, but unlocked. We pushed the door open and our experience continued to grow in excitement.

            In the large communal birdcage, probably forty-five feet in length, were nine Harris Hawks and three falcons. They were all tied down to some extent to their perch; this being due to some hawks having animosities within their family.  Missy informed us that the falcons are usually working at the landfill on Monday’s, so we were quite lucky to see them at all. She explained that falcons take a lot longer to gain trust than Harris Hawks and hunt solo, whereas the Harris Hawks are one of the only species of hawk that hunt as a family. We took two birds for the three of us, Killary and Millie. 

            Off to the side of the large communal cage were several individual cages holding a molting falcon, a thirty year old falcon, which we were informed by Missy is a grumpy old man and the oldest bird on site, and Dingle. Dingle is a very large European Eagle Owl that reminded me of an extremely large Furby. Unfortunately, we could not fly Dingle unless we did a ninety minute extended hawk walk, which sadly my budget could not afford.

            Missy explained as she fastened our black leather gloves on our hands that the two things Harris Hawks use for hunting to stick with us are trust and food, which I realized is why meat went on our gloves when we wanted to call Killary and Millie back. Missy went over falconry etiquette before we disembarked on our walk. When holding a hawk, your upper arm is at your side, with your wrist turned slightly outward. Your hand is in a fist with your thumb resting on top of your index finger; this is where the hawk’s talons sit. When you do not have the hawk, your left arm—the falconry arm—must remain at your side so as to avoid distrust of the hawk. With that information in mind, with the jesses—the strings on the legs of the hawk—firmly grasped between my middle and index finger to avoid Killary leaving, we started our walk with our hawks. 

            Once we were far enough away from the falconry complex, Missy showed us how to send our hawks off. Before sending your hawk off, you put your hand off to the side and spread your fingers, decide where you hope to send your hawk to, and then move your arm in a straight motion moving forward but not up or down. More often than not, Killary did not go where I had attempted to send him to, but that was no matter. When your hawk came back, your arm was stuck straight out at a ninety degree angle to where the bird is flying from, with your hand in the classic fist position. It was a bit overwhelming and scary at first with the pointy talons coming up quickly, but wonderful at the same time.

            The walk went quickly, and the ability to control an animal like that was exhilarating. We learned lots of tidbits about the hawks and Missy, who upon discovering we were from Minnesota got extremely excited. She is going to Minnesota this summer to intern at a raptor rehabilitation center. Being that there were three of us and only two hawks, it was a bit of a free for all to get to Missy for the meat in order for the hawk to majestically swoop onto your glove. It reminded me of Shan Yu, the evil Hun leader from Disney’s Mulan, being able to control Killary to some extent like he was able to control his falcon.

After making the turn around the castle, we quick stopped to take pictures with our hawks and Ashford Castle in the background. Missy sadly informed us we were nearing the end of our walk. Killary and Millie went far in front of us, and we did one last call. Watching Killary swoop down where the steps were without having to flap his wings was a very beautiful and majestic thing to watch. Even though it was only an hour long walk, I grew quite attached to Killary and it was difficult to put him back in his cage. Although I will probably never see Karen, Tom, Missy, or Killary again, the hawk walk at Ireland’s school of falconry at Ashford Castle is without a doubt an experience I will never forget. 

Kings and Queens for a day...

When's the last time a town threw you a party? Louisburgh did that for CSS: a banquet fit for royalty, The Holiday Cottages Board hosted a welcome buffet Tuesday, February 16^th at the West View Hotel. Their hospitality and generosity was overwhelming. The students looked smashing as they wore their Sunday best for this special event.  We gathered in the lounge for a social until we were ushered into banquet room.

Dinner was a three course buffet, starting with a salad selection that we mistook for the buffet itself by its sheer volume. Two salads that were new to me included cold mashed potato salad with scallions and something called eggs mayonnaise which included hard boiled eggs swimming in a mayonnaise dressing, both delicious. There were fillets of cold salmon and platters of cold sliced meats, coleslaw, pasta and rice salads and a tomato/lettuce salad. If we had been in our right minds, we would have stopped with the salad course but who could say no to the two steaming entrée choices: chicken curry with rice or stroganoff with mash (aka mashed potatoes). Walking back to the table with my selection, I thought how I could feed my entire family with what was on my plate. Full to the proverbial brim, the call for the dessert buffet included a new-to-me delicacy: banofi, which is bananas and toffee in scrumptious layers.  I imagined someone was simply clever but saw the same offering on another restaurant menu since then. It was divine and one could hear bribes being offered for the recipe.

Once all were properly filled to gastric capacity, the president of the Holiday Cottages Board, local chemist (pharmacist) John Stauton, presented CSS with an aerial picture of the Louisburgh before the cottages were conceived, His words of welcome included correlating the CSS cohort arrival as sunshine in the dark that is winter. In kind, Joelle McGovern, administrative assistant to Dean Steve Lyons, presented the board with a handsome framed picture of Tower Hall. In the day and age of disposables, our 30 year relationship with Louisburgh is exceptional and remarkable.

There was a stir at the door when he welcomed a group of dancers and a live Irish band that promptly made music for them to dance. At first, they performed their lively jigs, reminiscent of the square dancing in the U.S. and before long; the dancers were pulling innocent guests from the audience. The unknowing students made no fuss and worked hard to learn the steps their partner was attempting to teach. At that moment, my maternal instincts overwhelmed me and I was proud as punch of “our” kids. Not only did they cooperate with their dancing instructors, they stayed with them for a considerable amount of time. They smiled, they laughed, they persevered and were fully engaged. Later, the microphone was passed about as the audience, hosting and visiting, sang with the band. It was heaven to behold!  

For this one night, from the moment we arrived until the evening ended, we were treated like royalty and our students did us proud! God love Louisburgh and so do we!

 

CSS Karma and Castlebar: Something's Happening Here

.Back in 2005, when a certain professor who will remain nameless put unleaded into the diesel gas tank of our rental car—on what was going to be a quick shopping trip to Castlebar on Good Friday—we coined a new verb:  to Castlebar, meaning to wander aimlessly for many hours waiting for something (in this case, for our car to be towed to a garage where the gas tank was removed, steam cleaned, and reattached) to happen.  Although we were novices at Castlebarring, we quickly got the hang of it, examining every item on offer at Tesco and Dunne Stores, stopping off for a couple of coffees, scrutinizing the postcards and  shamrock tea towels in every single souvenir shop, trying on the rugby shirts newly reduced due to Ireland’s loss to Wales in the Six Nations, reading the graffiti on the side streets, getting a sandwich at O’Brien’s, getting a haircut, and sampling some fish & chips. That took care of the morning.  Entertainment was a tad harder to come by in the afternoon when every shop and cafe closed down, but the fortuitous find of an old tennis ball in the gutter  saw us through to what seemed like midnight but was really only about 6:00.   I was pretty sure we’d covered every inch of Castlebar on the Good Friday that just wouldn’t end.

But I was wrong.  Today Steve and I discovered a second meaning of “to Castlebar”:  to drive  aimlessly in hope of chancing upon a building with no number on a street with no name in an industrial estate with no identifying features.   We were looking for Westnet, our internet provider.  Since we no longer have a College checking account and Westnet doesn’t take credit cards, we set off armed with cash and what the Westnet folks—I don’t think they hate us—apparently considered “directions”:  get on the  R311  (doable) and then turn right on the old Westport road.  Since there is no sign identifying what used to be the Westport road—shoot, there’s barely a sign identifying the current Westport road—we made several uneducated guesses, turning right at random, then backtracking, only to be confronted with yet another one-way street going the opposite direction from the one we’d hoped to try.  

We had high hopes for one right turn, but it proved to lead straight into a carpark with no way in (gates activated by ID cards) and no way out except making a 3-point turn in a space barely bigger than the van and dotted by traffic cones—it was your worst nightmare version of a driver’s test.  A couple traffic cones were not standing quite as proudly when we effected our escape, turned left, and once again began turning arbitrarily as the spirit moved us.  We found the church.  We found the hospital.  We found two schools.  We found two bicycle shops, or perhaps the same bicycle shop twice.  We found the Linenhall. We made a left turn, then a couple more turns, and suddenly once again were in front of the Linenhall.  After finding ourselves passing the Linenhall for the fourth time, and narrowly avoiding driving straight into the same gated carpark we’d broken out of earlier, we concluded that our strategy (driving randomly until we stumbled upon Westnet) was perhaps a tad short of brilliant.  So we made another phone call to Westnet.  “We are at Tesco. Please give us directions from here.”

Maybe they do hate us after all.  This time we were instructed to go straight through the roundabout (Which one?  They’re everywhere!) toward Johnny O’Malley’s house.   Several other  unfindable landmarks were mentioned, along with the singularly unhelpful advice, "go to the N5 toward Dublin but don't take the N5." As always in Ireland, the directions ended with a note on how to tell if we'd gone too far.  Since in this case our "you missed it" landmark was “the service station" we were not edified.  But I had one thing to hang onto:  turn left at the animal hospital.  Steve and I were confident in our ability to recognize an animal hospital (we reasoned, quite rightly as it turned out, that it would have a sign), and our confidence proved justified.  We found it.  The problem was that turning left led not to anything resembling an industrial estate, let alone Westnet,  but rather to Casey’s car rental.

Well, we did have a little bit of business to do at Casey’s, a large auto dealership and the agency from which we rented our van, so we pulled on in, reasoning that we could get directions at the same time.  Yer man hadn’t heard of Westnet—it appears that nobody in Castlebar has—but he was willing to give us directions to the industrial estate:  Take a left out of the car park, a left at the T-junction, and then go straight out of the roundabout and you’ll see the industrial estate on the left?  Our informant seemed to recognize the questioning note in his own voice;  he headed off to consult and returned with revised directions:  no more T-junction or roundabout,  just two left turns to find an industrial estate that encompassed both sides of the road and stretched for quite some ways.  Westnet was most likely in there somewhere.

The left turn out of Casey’s was blocked off by construction, but there was no way we were going to hunt for an alternative when our destination was within range and getting there would necessitate only a short spell on the wrong side of the road.  Two left turns later, we discovered a second animal hospital—who knew?—and turned left into what was indisputably an industrial estate, but our high fives were premature.  There was no mention of Westnet on listing of the businesses in the industrial estate (a rather grand term for this curious combination of odd retail shops and warehouses), but we were nevertheless hopeful as we circled the premises several times, searching, hoping, praying for a sign.  None came. When I ducked into a fishing and sporting goods shop to ask for directions, the door was opened by a pleasant young man whose eagerness suggested he hadn’t seen a customer in weeks.  “I’m looking for Westnet,” I announced,  pointing to our invoice.  “You and everybody else,” he laughed.  “I’ve never seen it myself, but it might be in that building up there with all the glass and the white pillars.”

The ground floor of that building was glassed in like an auto showroom; it was obviously empty and looked both unfinished and abandoned—a victim of the economic downturn?—as did the building next door:  echoing emptiness on the ground floor, nothing on the exterior except a fire alarm, nothing to suggest the presence of life.  “It can’t be here,” we thought, reverting to our strategy of aimless circling, though this time on the much smaller scale of the industrial park.  Having scrutinized every building in the area, we gave up and made our final phone call to Westnet.  This time Steve stayed on the phone for blow-by-blow directions.  “We’re in front of the Spur Printing.  Left here?  Ok.  Now we’re by the baby products shop.  Yes, I see the bank building. . . ”

And so we wound our way back to the very building the fishing goods salesman had indicated—still no sign of occupancy except for a red car now parked in front.  A young woman opened the door, led us up a flight of stairs, and showed us into a room with a few computers, a lot of cardboard boxes, and a white board bearing the names Tomasz and Eamon written in different colored markers.  We handed over the cash (which went into a small black box), got our change and a receipt, and made our exit.  Transaction time:  about four minutes.  Castlebarring time:  about an hour and a half.

Getting back was easy.  We were about two minutes from downtown via a straight and simple route.  It was so simple, in fact, that it gave us time to ponder whether we had really found Westnet—despite being told there was a Westnet sign in the window, we found none, none, none on that suspiciously empty structure—or whether we’d just been scammed by a couple people squatting in an unfinished building.  At that moment we really didn’t care; we just wanted out of Castlebar.  Time will tell, we figure.  If our wireless is cut off for nonpayment, we just gave €290 to a couple of wankers.  If you’re reading this, we still have the internet and I guess it was all worthwhile.