O’er in Éire

Tomorrow’s forecast calls for thoughtful words strung together in literary fashion.

But for the time being, you’ll have to chew on a few photos and captions from Ireland. In no particular order, here’s today’s serving:

Arriving at Kilcolgan Castle–



Brynnzilla aboard “Captain,” towed by Karen’s husband, Tony–



Hungry sheep in the craggy Kerry hills–



Brynn with Karen’s daughter, Linda, and faithful Grizzly-Moss–




Wicked Atlantic storms turned pasture to lough–



Just plain Irish–





Fleeing February



There’s no eloquent way to say it:

This winter has sucked.

We’ve slogged through record-breaking, frigid temperatures; snow; sleet; freezing rain… and the many fabulous byproducts of these conditions — flooding, power outages, frozen pipes, frozen water troughs, frozen tractor parts, frozen gator engine, frozen truck battery….

…. and the worst mud I’ve ever seen in these-here parts.

There’s no solution except to flee the scene. Which I plan to execute in a matter of hours.

Unfortunately, my escape plan involves a locale that’s equally rain-sodden and buried in muck:


Irish winters are categorically gloomy and wet but this particular year, the UK (and its Irish neighbor) are experiencing the worst winter in 250 years. Rain, gale winds, massive flooding and freezing temps.

Frankly, I don’t care. It may be mucky, but it’s someone else’s muck.

And this trip is a bit of a homecoming.


Home sweet home

Several years ago, I spent three winters in the west of Ireland — all told, about six months — with my friend, Karen. We fox hunted, thrust ourselves in village life, tore around the countryside, hosted crazy parties, cracked up cars and racked up all sorts of trouble. In 15 years we’ve grown up, and mellowed with responsibility. But we’re looking forward to a reunion. And I can’t wait to see the village, to park by a peat fire, to fill the coal bins, and smell the damp of the weir.

Me and Whiskey.2

Hunting “Whiskey,” back in the day


Karen has warned me that things have changed. The village shops have been replaced by big-box supermarkets. The “crack” [ie, conversations in the pubs] (editor’s correction: spelled “craic”) is drowned out by TVs and cellphones. And the two-laned Limerick road, once cluttered with cows and farmers on bicycles, has been replaced by a high-speed motorway.

But I have to believe that Kilcolgan and the other villages that fringe the West still cling to some remoteness….

…I assume this, based on the items I’ve been requested to bring. They include: Heinz relish, Advil, B&N baked beans, Victoria Secret’s underwear, riding boots and Thomas’ English Muffins. (Haven’t these people heard of Amazon?).

No matter. Years ago, these folks helped me steal — and export — a wrought-iron road sign. It was quite the heist.

A can of beans is a small price to pay.

the sign


Reports from Ireland posted when possible….

Post script: As I posted this, my flight was canceled — I assume, due to the many snags related to the recent winter snowstorm. New reservation, in the works…



Nicknames with stick



We once called Hadley, “the Barbarian.”

Fortunately, kindness trumped her darker side and she shed that moniker. (And Hadley never embraced that nickname.)

Her sibling, however, is a different animal. The following is a verbal exchange between a relative and Brynn:


“What’s your name?”


“Brynn what? What’s your last name?”


“What…? No, your whole name, sweetie.”

I am Brynn.

“That’s your first name. What’s your last?”

I just TOLE you my last name. It’s ‘Zilla!’ … I AM BRYNNZILLA!


She is.

Don’t look into her eyes. She’ll take you down.