The countryside here in County Cork is also beautiful, and green even now in February. This particular day was far sunnier than any other I've seen in Ireland so far:
Mostly, the family raises beef cattle, but they also have a few goats, chickens, bees, and five tiny pet lambs.
While I've been here, I spent one day in Cork City, and another in Killarney. In Killarney, I rented a bike to ride through a national park (Europe's oldest oak forest!) and the old man who rented me the bike demanded to take a picture of me:
I told him my mother would be thrilled. The bike ride was beautiful, through a forest, around a lake, by a waterfall or two, an abandoned 17th century abbey, and a manor house turned museum.
For your amusement (I hope), I have penned a few poems about my wwoofing experience. These may or may not be the first in a series, but I hope you enjoy them!
Lament whilst in Ireland
O, potato:
What a friend you have been
all these many years.
Popping by every so often
to feed and comfort;
mashed, baked, roasted, fried,
I was always happy to see you.
Then, potato:
You took our relationship
to the next level.
You started to visit every day,
sometimes twice or thrice:
boiled, reboiled, boiled again,
I think we should take a break.
Meditation on Moving Shit Around
Day by day, I don my gloves
and arm myself accordingly:
fork, spade, and barrow.
Chicken shit, I scrape from floors
bent double, holding my breath,
matted shavings onto the pile.
Goat poop, plopped in pellets,
I sweep up with the straw,
and haul to the heated heap.
Dog doo, I just try to avoid,
side-stepping in my wellies,
barrowing by on one wheel.
Ferret feces, I met but once,
which was one time too many:
fumes to fell an elephant.
But well-rotted manure: black gold!
Forkful at a time, into the garden;
full circle, moving shit around.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Location:Kilmichael, Cork, Ireland
