More than a pretty face

by tim

Two days have passed since I last checked in here.  Sundays in Ireland are revered as they were during the days of Catholisism.  Sure, there are still devote Catholics in Kealkill but many families moved away from the religion after the sex abuse cases.  Sundays are still revered as sabbath like days dedicated to strengthening family bonds, resting the hard working body, and focusing on personal growth.  The day was hardly spitting at me (I have only seen the sun for a collective 3 minutes since I landed) so I decided to go for a long walk.  John drove me down past the Kealkill castle and dropped me off at the “Timber Bridge” (which is now made of stone).  From there I walked the road to Julie’s home village in the Borlin Valley, took a couple of right turns, and hiked up the backside of the mountain I can see from my bedroom.  I was lucky to get a break from the rain, but the fog was relentless, so there are no really great photos from the hike.  Megan came to pick me up back at the Timber bridge.  We swung into Burke’s Grocery for some veg: cabbage, carrots, broccoli, and garlic.  Did you think I would make it out of Ireland without making some Timchi Kimchi.  Now brewing in the corner of the O’Connor’s kitchen is a strong fermenting garlic stench that you can almost get from the kitchen table.  John was checking all the appliances for gas leaks this morning mistaking my kimchi’s aura for a potential hazard.  If the hazard be good health and glowing skin, Timchi kimchi big hazard.  We sat down, told of the day’s occurrence, and ate a delicious pork roast with root vegetables and stuffing.  The stuffing looked good but we all know I don’t eat the grains, so it went cold on my plate and unfortunately to the dumpster.

We woke and Julie made bacon, sausage, tomato, and mushroom omelets for John and I.  This was good.  Little did I know I would need this fuel for the hard days work I was faced with.  John has a pile of cut but un-chopped wood sitting in the shed; I am the axeman.  I chopped wood for about six hours total yesterday, and my upper back is telling the tale.  I liked to imagine I was Con O’Connor, swearing my head off while taking to my task, “feck ’em in there, feckin’ axe stok halfway up th pine’s arse, witout a map.”  Apparently Con (my grandfather) was a sort of a legendary fighter and known to throw some curses around.  Luckily I was equipped with a modern axe, although the forged iron watched over me while I labored away.


Two blisters and a sore back, but I’m still feeling really energized from all my new dietary evolutions.  I am a fat burning man, sugar can close the door on the way out and I’ll save the grain for the family horse.