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Selected Poems – Oscar Wilde

Quick summary

Contains a chronology of Wilde`s life and times as well as poems. A few of the poems have been taken from manuscript sources- many unpublished during his lifetime.

Three-line review

I figured if I were in Ireland, I should read some of the local talent. And so I went for Wilde, mostly based on his wildly funny and thoughtful quotes. I didn’t think this was the greatest selection of his work — and I’d still rather study poetry in a classroom setting — but I regret nothing, dammit.

***/*****

The Perks of Being a Wallflower – Stephen Chbosky

Quick summary

Charlie is a freshman.

And while he’s not the biggest geek in the school, he is by no means popular. Shy, introspective, intelligent beyond his years yet socially awkward, he is a wallflower, caught between trying to live his life and trying to run from it.

Three-line review

I can’t believe I’m only just reading this book, but I adored it. I adore the simple writing and then narrative. I adore Charlie and his friends. Found myself in tears several times throughout the book, and thanked the heavens I’m no longer in high school. Make your children read this book.

****/*****

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society – Mary Ann Shaffer, Annie Barrows

Quick summary

January 1946: London is emerging from the shadow of the Second World War, and writer Juliet Ashton is looking for her next book subject. Who could imagine that she would find it in a letter from a man she’s never met, a native of the island of Guernsey, who has come across her name written inside a book by Charles Lamb….

As Juliet and her new correspondent exchange letters, Juliet is drawn into the world of this man and his friends—and what a wonderfully eccentric world it is. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society—born as a spur-of-the-moment alibi when its members were discovered breaking curfew by the Germans occupying their island—boasts a charming, funny, deeply human cast of characters, from pig farmers to phrenologists, literature lovers all.

Three-line review

I felt some of this was outrageously cheesy and predictable, but the entire story has a dreamy quality you can’t help but lose yourself in. (Then again I have no sense of direction, so I get lost in everything.) The letter format didn’t work all that well for me, but I loved the characters.

****/*****

The Picture of Dorian Gray – Oscar Wilde

Quick summary

After having his portrait painted, Dorian Gray is captivated by his own beauty. Tempted by his world-weary friend, decadent friend Lord Henry Wotton, he wished to stay young forever and pledges his very soul to keep his good looks. As Dorian’s slide into crime and cruelty progresses, he stays magically youthful, while his beautiful portrait changes, revealing the hideous corruption of moral decay.

Three-line review

This book was hella intense, mildly creepy, and completely disturbing. But I was surprised by how much I loved it. Wilde’s only novel, and he did a damned good job of it. The kind of social commentary that would have been awesome to discuss in some English lit classes.

****/*****

As soon as you drive into the tiny town of Lismore, you’re forced to acknowledge Lismore Castle. The building looms over a river and dominates the landscape so entirely that you’re apt to drive off the road. You jump out of your car and stand along the bridge avoiding traffic and honking drivers, and you snap photos until you’ve grown weary of acknowledging the fact you’ll never live inside such a stately home.

And then you’re invited to spend the night in the Burlington Wing.

This baby was built in 1185 by King John, and was then owned by Sir Walter Raleigh and Richard Boyle, First Earl of Cork, and then passed along to the Fourth Duke of Devonshire in 1753. It’s now owned by the latest Duke of Devonshire, but you can rent it out for a handsome sum. That’s why I was bowled over when I was invited to spend a night there, along with Scott. We hadn’t even realized how big of a privilege it was to do so until we kept being met with wide eyes and suspicious glares every time we mentioned it to the locals. After all, you have to rent out the castle in its entirety rather than a single room.

We drove up to the massive gates and willed them to open. We thought maybe there’d be a knight waiting from a tower with special instructions to let us in. But they didn’t budge. We were told the Butler would meet us, and yet we had no idea where the entrance was. So finally we spotted a utility truck and chased it around the back of the castle, where a worker got out and told us where to skedaddle. We made it, alas.

The kind Butler gave us a tour of the Wing. I think what I loved the most was the casualness of the whole thing – he stood there describing the 18th century tapestries depicting scenes from Don Quixote and then showed us to various rooms where the likes of JFK and Fred Astaire stayed, and I just kinda mutely nodded and shook my head when appropriate. In one room, I flipped open the cover of a book atop a nightstand and saw it was signed by Adele Astaire.

When he left, he told us there was wine and booze stocked in the pantry, and that we basically had free-range of the place. It also turned out to be the windiest, rainiest day of my entire trip to Ireland. The river (moat?) was flooded, and a gale kept tearing through the fireplace. At one point when I was writing a letter at the desk and Scott had mysteriously disappeared, I kept hearing whisperings around me and thought he was playing a trick on me. He found me 10 minutes later gripping the table in terror while calling out to him as he spoke to his mother on the phone.

I think my favourite moment was the next morning when I appeared at the breakfast table, head pounding with wine, to find food already laid out. Scott followed shortly. “There’s a man named Leonard polishing silverware in the pantry,” he said. And that was that.

Markree Castle

After my most favourite night out in all of Irish history (involving me), Julia and I hightailed it back to Markree Castle, set on a 500-acre estate in Sligo. Its been owned by the Cooper family for nearly 400 years and has been converted into a luxury hotel. I was lucky enough to be staying in Johnny Cash’s room – he made a TV recording of “Woodcarver” in the castle in 1990.

I didn’t really feel his presence, but the Guinness might have had something to do with that because I didn’t feel much of anything.

We decided to crash the wedding that was taking place on the grounds, just for giggles, but found the American couple more than accommodating. They thrust cupcakes at us and invited us to chat and bought us shots and kept giving us the “rock on” hand-sign of approval. Everything was fine and dandy until one of the ladies looked at me with eyes wide and implored, “Did you know there was a famine here?” I decided it was bedtime.

Every now and then the gods transpire to create one of those days that will go down in personal travel history.

Before coming to Sligo, I had made contact with David O’Hara, operator of SUP for all (stand-up paddling). He’s genuinely one of the most enthusiastic, passionate people I’ve ever met, and he invited Julia and I out for a day on the water.

We showed up at the River Bonet with our new friends – David, Art, and Sonya. We were then introduced to Paul and Shambles, experienced SUPers who would serve as guides.

We suited up – me in an alpaca hat and a dry-suit – and began our peaceful paddle down the river. Conditions were perfect: warm, zero wind, and all the craic we could muster from our new friends. We were grinning and chatting and having the grandest of grand times.

When we hit Lough Gill, the wind started to pick up. A motorboat zoomed by, and I was told to aim my board into the waves. My stance was shaky, but I powered through, and was triumphant about the whole thing.

I might have gotten cocky, because then, while chatting with Paul, I got a little distracted. We were supposed to land on the Isle of Innisfree (made famous by the Yeats poem), but I was starting to drift a little far to the right. Paul was guiding me from one side and David was trying to coax me from another side, but my foggy hungover brain couldn’t absorb anything. I started drifting out to god knows where.

At that point, the wind was hitting me hard and I was paddling my little heart out to get to the island. Paul came with me, and we finally managed to land on the other side, but not without me JUST nearly falling in. On the other side of the island, disaster struck: Julia toppled over on top of her board and got her legs wet, and when Sonya turned to observe the situation, she fell the whole way in.

We sat on the Isle in the grass, laughing our asses off about the whole scene and the chaos that ensued. Honestly, if we had simply pulled up with a soft landing on the Isle of Innisfree, I don’t think the experience would have been so delightful (Sonya may have differing opinions). I don’t think I laughed so hard in my life.

That was basically the signal for us to hit the pub. We dried Sonya off (“Sonya, would you say you’re about 30% wet?” “I’d say I’m 80% wet.”) and headed to The Thatch Pub.

I thought we were just going to have a few pints, it being Wednesday afternoon and all. But then two musicians showed up – Cathy Jordan and Seanan Brennan. They started busting out the tunes, and before I knew it, I was experiencing the kind of Irish trad session I had dreamed about…totally impromptu, totally unexpected, unbelievably beautiful. These two are so talented that I was literally in tears during a few songs. (Cathy Jordan just released a new CD, by the way, All the Way Home. It’s a gorgeous listen.)

And as things seem to go in Ireland, everybody is a musician (I realized this after my roommate Richy showed up at a pub in Galway with a flute tucked into his sock, “just in case”). Shambles broke out the banjo and David’s wife busted out a guitar and then even the bartender joined in for a song.

I practically forced Cathy and Seanan to stay longer; I was awash in musical bliss and travel happiness. We danced and sang and I nearly fainted when I requested Sonny’s Dream and the whole pub erupted into song.

Seriously, those are the moments I live for.

When the whole thing was over, Julia, Art and I hightailed it back to Markree Castle where we were spending the night. (I had the Johnny Cash room. No biggie.) And of course when you show up at a castle and the bar is open for an American wedding, what else would you do besides crash it? So we did. And there were cupcakes, and shots of Jagerbombs, and blushing brides and handsome groomsmen.

I was so overwhelmed the next day, I couldn’t even write an appropriate Facebook status. So I drew a diagram instead.

Thanks to everyone who had a hand in creating my favourite travel memory of all time. World, it’s gonna take some magic to top that one.

Most people head to the west coast or Dublin when they visit Ireland (and with good reason), but since I was here researching my ancestry, I was fortunate to get a little off the beaten path.

I spent about a week in Waterford bumming around. If you haven’t been, here were some of my highlights.

Waterford City

Much quieter than any other city I’ve visited in Ireland, but with a rainbow of buildings dotting the waterfront, making it ideal for some epic photos. I didn’t get any, because it rained most of the time. But you get the point.

It’s also Ireland’s oldest city, so history buffs will get their fix at the Waterford Museum of Treasures.

While you’re there: eat at Three Ships Inn. Go to the House of Waterford Crystal, where you’ll see actual crystal production. Waterford City had a mild nightlife in comparison to even the smaller towns I stayed in, but there are still several pubs scattered all over the place with friendly bartenders behind the counter. Try Katty Barry’s, for example.

Dungarvan

Probably my favourite town in Waterford. There’s a fair number of young people here, and it has a busy vibe. I spent most of my weekend at The Local pub, where there’s usually a good trad session every Saturday night. The owner of the pub is a famous bodhran player by the name of Donnchadh Gough, and you’ll find the folks here extremely friendly. I met an Irish speaking family from Ring here, among other fabulous hosts.

Eat at Nude Food, a place recommended to me by a radio host who raved about it. There are vegetarian options, and the cook is a lovely lady who bustles around the open kitchen as if she were cooking for you from her home. Tip: try some blaa bread, a soft sort of roll which is native to Waterford.

Lismore

A clean, neat little town located not far from Dungarvan. Since all I seemed to do on this trip is eat and drink, grab a Panini at The Summerhouse Café. If you want to impress your travel partner by buying them a sexy three-course meal, opt for the Lismore House Hotel.

If you have a couple thousand to drop (right?), try a stay at Lismore Castle. It was originally built in 1185 by King John, and is owned by the Duke of Devonshire today. Scott and I actually had no idea what kind of a privilege it was to stay in the Burlington Wing until we realized that hardly anybody else in town had ever done so, and you know, by the fact that its former guests include the likes of Fred Astaire and JFK.

I’m probably going to write a full post on this baby, because it was easily one of the coolest (and most haunted) experiences of my life.

Ardmore

Check out the Ardmore Round Tower, where monks would have hid from the Vikings during the raids. Vikings were kind of assholes, guys.

There’s also a great coastal walk that starts around the Cliff House Hotel (just ask someone for directions, it’s a small place).

Cruise the Copper Coast

I’ve already posted a photo essay on this route between Tramore and Dungarvan on Route 675. The coast was some of the prettiest I’ve seen in Ireland, and it was basically deserted. We stopped at the coppery (duh) Kilfarrasy Beach, and had the whole area to ourselves.

Same story with Annestown Beach, although that one was more pebbly rather than soft and sandy. Also, Ireland, WTF is up with your palm trees?

If you’ve been following my Ireland journey you’ll know that some things didn’t go as planned. The breakdown: I met some of the most incredible people in County Waterford, but as explained in my article for Matador Network, it looks like I’ll never REALLY know where my family came from. I’m Canadian as Canadian can be.

I did all the research. Met all the right people. Was interviewed by radio stations and newspapers and tried to host my own Gathering in Dungarvan…but didn’t really find anything at all. The help of Waterford Gathering was monumental, and I appreciate every minute of it.

Instead, I got to know an area of Ireland that I would likely have never explored if I hadn’t been sent on this journey. And as you know, it’s all about the journey.

I cruised the Copper Coast on a brilliant sunny day. Had my share of pints at The Local, where I sat in on my first real trad session led by the most talented of musicians (including the pub’s owner, a famous bodhran player named Donnchadh Gough)…although it seems like everyone in Ireland is the most talented musician. Seriously, does anyone here NOT play an instrument? I stayed in the 700-year-old Lismore Castle, and had the entire Burlington Wing to myself. I collected a mass of stories that will take me at least a full year to tell here on this blog.

The journey was an emotional one. I felt like I had failed my first real journalistic mission, and I was humiliated about it. I was hurt. I mean, this was literally my DREAM writing trip. I knew there were people counting on me to deliver a story and I just couldn’t figure out what that story was. And then one day after crying about it in the car, Scott went to take photos of a castle and I sat down and wrote everything out on the back of a Dublin guide. I suppose the best stories are rarely ever the most successful ones.

The rest of my Ireland story is a much happier one. I’m currently in Sligo – I’ve been here for a week and amassed a group of friends that I’m devastated to leave behind – and heading up to Belfast tomorrow. But it’s been one hell of a ride, Ireland, and I doubt I’m done with you just yet.

Life. Interesting, innit?

I refuse to buy an e-reader; I don't care how illogical this is.

Okay, not total failure. I’m a drama queen.

I vowed that even with a hectic month of travel, I would stay truthful to my mission of 52 books.

And then the shitstorm known as Ireland happened (and is still happening) and fell right off that wagon and onto my face.

I DID read three books. And I vow to read FIVE books this month, to catch up on everything…even if one of those books is a 100-page book of Oscar Wilde poetry. Hey, that counts.

Here’s what I did read.

The World According to Garp – John Irving

Quick summary

This is the life and times of T. S. Garp, the bastard son of Jenny Fields–a feminist leader ahead of her times. This is the life and death of a famous mother and her almost-famous son; theirs is a world of sexual extremes–even of sexual assassinations. It is a novel rich with “lunacy and sorrow”; yet the dark, violent events of the story do not undermine a comedy both ribald and robust.

Three-line review

Well slap my ass and call me Charlie, this was unexpected! My first ever John Irving book, and it won’t be my last. I love the dark humour throughout, and Garp might be one of my all-time fave characters. I gave it 4 stars instead of 5 because I hate books within books.

****/*****

A Brief History of Ireland – Richard Killeen

Quick summary

An insanely thorough, in-depth account of Irish history, from prehistoric times right up until now.

Three-line review

I literally threw up my hands at page 250 and yelled, “THAT’S IT, I’M OUT!” The offending word was “indeed,” which I had counted 20 times by page 10. Is it possible to write a good history book without being fucking academic? If so, let me know.

**/*****

Bossypants – Tina Fey

Quick summary

Before Liz Lemon, before “Weekend Update,” before “Sarah Palin,” Tina Fey was just a young girl with a dream: a recurring stress dream that she was being chased through a local airport by her middle-school gym teacher. She also had a dream that one day she would be a comedian on TV.

She has seen both these dreams come true.

At last, Tina Fey’s story can be told.

Three-line review

Nothing groundbreaking in literature about this book, but Tina Fey is HYSTERICAL and reading this autobiography was a breeze. I laughed out loud often and obnoxiously. Fey is one smart cookie, and I wish she’d let me be her best friend.

****/*****

I probably would never have explored this area if it weren’t for my research that led me to Waterford. The Copper Coast is an area of the county that stretches from Tramore to Dungarvan along route 675.

I woke up at 7 AM with Scott banging on my hotel room door, saying we had to hit the road early to take advantage of the sunshine. I was cranky about it at first, but then we showed up at Kilfarrasy Beach and had the entire place to ourselves. Coppery sand, zero wind, and no interruptions except the crashing of waves. You’re pretty, Ireland.

If you look close enough, you can see Scott taking photos among the rocks.

The abandoned Tankardstown Copper Mine, complete with roaming cattle.

Having a rental car in Ireland seriously made a 100% difference…I’ve never experienced freedom like that before. We zipped and zoomed around backroads and through the countryside, and eventually we came upon the ruins of Dunhill Castle. Again, not a soul in sight…so we climbed the steep steps to the top of the hill and wandered around relics from the early 1200s. Just like that. No admission fees, no line-ups. Just a big ass castle sitting in the countryside.

The la Poers (Power) were an incredibly unpopular family who lived here. They repeatedly attacked Waterford City in the 14th century and were responsible for a whole slew of violence in the area. Note to self: never piss off any of my friends with the last name “Power.”

One of the tourism folks led us to Ardmore, where we found St. Declan’s Well. This isn’t really along the Copper Coast, but it was part of our daily trip, so the hell with it. Declan established this hermitage site close to an old monastery, and it dates back to the 5th century. It’s still used as a site of worship today, and it’s said that the well cures your ailments (including mangled limbs and the like). I dipped my face into the cold water, but I did not emerge looking like Megan Fox, so I’m not much of a believer.

This Round Tower of St. Declan’s Church in Ardmore (again, not exactly the coast) was a sort of reprieve for monks when the vikings attacked the area. The monks would take their treasures and hide at the top of the tower, where apparently they remained untouched by the vikings. Scott and I questioned the intelligence of such actions because 1) Why the hell didn’t the vikings just tip that thing over? and 2) weren’t the monks just kinda pigeon-holing themselves? Whatever. The vikings might have been brutal, but perhaps they weren’t all that bright.

Gotta love a good creepy cemetery shot. In Ardmore, same place as the Round Tower.

Not much beats a walk along the Atlantic. I think about this time I really started feeling at home.

Copper Coast whaddup! Ever been?

More on all that later. For now – because I’ll probably pass out in about five minutes – I’m sharing a few highlights from St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin.

First up: there was snow. Lots of it. The entire media group was outright depressed over the weather, and hearing a policeman say, “this hasn’t happened in 17 years!” didn’t make things any better. But we also didn’t know that we were going to be actually PARTICIPATING in the parade…on an open-top bus.

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Yes, I rode on a bus through thousands upon thousands of people all celebrating St. Patrick…a massive sea of green and orange. I waved my hand and pretended I was an Irish princess. Sometimes people blew me kisses. Occasionally, the bus would stop and someone would find a lull in the cheering to shout, “Who ARE you guys?!” Two young lads try to throw bottles of orange juice at us. (You can see a video here.)

At the end of the route, we boarded a stationary bus to watch the rest of the parade. It was…probably the most bizarre parade I’ve ever witnessed. I’m not sure if I just wasn’t getting ANY of the Irish pop culture references, but the whole thing was like Mardi Gras on steroids. There were giant monkeys dancing around, huge pieces of clothing, monsters strutting around in monster fashion, and the occasional pirate sailing by on his ship.

Epic.

When it was all over, we had our first pint of Guinness and some food before heading out to take photos of the crowds in Temple Bar. The place was a goddamned mess. We literally could not even fight our way through the crowds, so we stood back and took photos. Fortunately everyone was drunk enough to willingly pose for us. At some point an old man walked by with a wicked lean on, barely able to stand upright. Other people were humping in the streets. Girls were making out in alleyways and dudes were pissing in doorframes.

It. Was. NUTS.

Fortunately we had scored media passes to the celebrations at the Guinness Storehouse, where things were…kinda tamer. There was a silent disco, some live music, and a station for pouring your own pint. BUT you can’t really turn down a Guinness in the Gravity Bar on St. Patrick’s Day, so we stole a table from some youngsters and got busy. Things kinda escalated at that point.

My last clear memory is sucking down wine at a fancy restaurant away from the sheer debauchery going on in the streets of Dublin. Eventually myself and a few others from the media crew found ourselves in a hotel bar that was CRAMMED with party-goers. I think I crawled into bed at 4 AM.

Dublin, you win this time.

For five weeks.

Have I discovered my family origins? Sorta. By this point, my researcher Walter and I have spent an insane number of hours going through the Provincial Archives, the Maritime History Archives, wedding records, and “word of mouth.” We’ve called churches, talked to other researchers, and harassed clergy members to give up their information.

Walsh is the commonest Irish surname in Newfoundland. The records I need from the area I grew up in are missing. The birth record for Wilfred did not match the information I found, but there were two Wilfreds in the family and things might’ve been confused. What I DO know is that Wilfred is an extremely rare Irish name, and no other record was found in Burin.

I find the whole notion somewhat sad. With no records, there’s no proof these people existed. Their memories have been extinguished long ago. I might never know exactly who they are, or where I came from.

BUT my researcher and I did draw several conclusions. What we did next was go through EVERY SINGLE Walsh marriage record in Newfoundland around the time that the Walshs lived in Burin. We found that different Walsh families settled in different areas, and the majority of those in Burin were from County Waterford. This makes sense, since Newfoundland’s largest Irish Irish population came from Co. Waterford. (And, just a tip: Ancestry.ca is absolutely useless and researchers rarely use it.)

We then found a gravestone in Burin with three Walsh names: Michael, John, and Richard. While we can’t pin those names to my family with certainty, they’re all names that are dominant in my family tree. They were from Aglish, Waterford, while other Walshs/residents in the area were from Lismore…both towns that are within a few miles radius from one another.

My researcher notes: “The evidence indicates a very small area in Waterford as their place of origin. A connection with Walshs in Ireland will prove invaluable in confirming this.”

I can’t say anything with certainty, but at least I know there’s a connection between my family and this one. The Newfoundland connection in Waterford is strong. St. John’s is twinned with Waterford City. Even better, I was Googling similarities between the area and Newfoundland, and found this article…which made use of my video with Mark Critch. I was pretty stunned to see it.

So here’s the BIG FRIGGEN DEAL news: Today I take off for Ireland on behalf of Matador Network and Ireland Tourism. (That means I’m in Dublin for St. Paddy’s Day…but that’s a whole different story.) I’m travelling with the incredible filmmaker/photographer Scott Sporleder, and we’re headed to Waterford County and Lismore to try to find…well, something. Something that belongs to me. We’re not sure how to do it, to be honest. We’ll probably just show up at a pub and I’ll find a whole new family. But Scott will be shadowing me, camera in hand.

And I will not be doing this again.

Then, I’m staying on in Ireland for an extra FIVE WHOLE WEEKS. Let that sink in for a bit, because it’s been a bucket list item for me for years. When I travel, I travel with a purpose. And this is the biggest endeavor I’ve EVER taken on.

I have no real itinerary, but this is my “homecoming.” I find it fascinating that I grew up influenced so strongly by a culture from a country I hardly know. I want to explore the Newfoundland/Ireland relationship. And maybe find an Irish husband.

My plans are pretty loose. I’ll be sitting pretty in Galway for awhile, doing a homestay or a farmstay in Sligo, jaunting around Connemara, Limerick, the Ring of Kerry, Dingle…and then hopefully I’ll have time to head up to the North.

And drinking bucket loads of Guinness.

If you’re in Ireland, say “hi”!

Even more awesome is the fact that almost every native Haligonian I’ve met does not seem to realize how funny these names are, nor do they think them unusual in the slightest. Actually, even the Newfoundland transplants who have lived in Halifax for years don’t even seem to find these places weird anymore. Maybe they never did.

I’ll let you decide.

The Economy Shoe Shop

On my first trip to the city back in ’09, Cailin suggested I go to the Economy Shoe Shop for nachos. It took me awhile to figure out that I wouldn’t actually be going to a discount shoe store, but a popular bar and restaurant.

The Smiling Goat

An itty-bitty organic espresso bar. My first time here, I asked the bartender to create something magical for me, and he did. I don’t know what it was. Just magic.

On my most recent visit, I was working away at my laptop and then I decided to log into FourSquare…only to discover my friend Andy was working just two seats away from me. The world is small. And so is this cafe.

Your Father’s Moustache

I had breakfast at Your Father’s Moustache once. It’s kinda like a “your mom” joke. Or not.

The Foggy Goggle

Actually sits right beside The Economy Shoe Shop. You’ve got a whole wardrobe on one street.

The Bicycle Thief

A ritzy restaurant featuring North American food with Italian soul. I can’t afford to eat there.

The Fickle Frog

This is one of my favourite spots in Halifax, on Spring Garden Road. When I was in the city last March during their absurd heat wave, we sat on the front deck in t-shirts and ordered Caesars. I came back time and time again for cheap drink specials, and some of the best garlic fingers I’ve ever had.

Nothing like deck beers on March 21st!

Wooden Monkey

A restaurant specializing in organic, vegetarian, and vegan foods. It certainly does not serve monkeys.

The Toothy Moose

I kinda hate this dance club, and yet I find myself back here time and time again. The last time, someone got stabbed in the neck with a beer bottle.

Durty Nelly’s

An Irish pub named for a 15th century Bunratty Castle. Should’ve known the Irish were behind this.

Pogue Fado

Another Irish pub, but this one’s name is just really fun to pronounce. THE POGUE!

Believe me, I’m as shocked as you are about still keeping up with this challenge. There should be worldwide festivals happening any moment now to celebrate this level of commitment.

Here’s what February involved.

Into the Wild – Jon Krakauer

Quick summary

In April 1992 a young man from a well-to-do family hitchhiked to Alaska and walked alone into the wilderness north of Mt. McKinley. His name was Christopher Johnson McCandless. He had given $25,000 in savings to charity, abandoned his car and most of his possessions, burned all the cash in his wallet, and invented a new life for himself. Four months later, his decomposed body was found by a moose hunter…

Three-line review

My favourite read this year, to date. I admit I have some resentment towards McCandless for putting his family through such hell, but this is a damned good book. The fact Krakauer managed to piece together such a story based on little information is unreal.

Quote

“So many people live within happy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future.”

(I later Googled the image of McCandless holding his “good-bye” note to the world. His eyes and smile were filled with genuine peace and happiness. I have nothing but admiration, even if Alaskans apparently hate his guts.)

*****/****

Buy Into the Wild, feed me.

The Round House – Louise Erdrich

Quick summary

One Sunday in the spring of 1988, a woman living on a reservation in North Dakota is attacked. The details of the crime are slow to surface as Geraldine Coutts is traumatized and reluctant to relive or reveal what happened, either to the police or to her husband, Bazil, and thirteen-year-old son, Joe. In one day, Joe’s life is irrevocably transformed. He tries to heal his mother, but she will not leave her bed and slips into an abyss of solitude. Increasingly alone, Joe finds himself thrust prematurely into an adult world for which he is ill prepared.

Three-line book review

The first book I’ve read by Erdrich, and definitely not my last. Somehow Erdrich makes it possible to relate to a 13-year-old boy. I don’t know what that says about me. Either way, Erdrich’s style is something I really dig.

Quote

“We passed over in a sweep of sorrow that would persist into our small forever. We just kept going.”

*****/*****

Buy The Round House, feed me.

The Cat’s Table – Michael Ondaatje

Quick summary

In the early 1950s, an eleven-year-old boy boards a huge liner bound for England – a ‘castle that was to cross the sea’. At mealtimes, he is placed at the lowly ‘Cat’s Table’ with an eccentric group of grown-ups and two other boys, Cassius and Ramadhin. As the ship makes its way across the Indian Ocean, through the Suez Canal, into the Mediterranean, the boys become involved in the worlds and stories of the adults around them, tumbling from one adventure and delicious discovery to another, ‘bursting all over the place like freed mercury’. And at night, the boys spy on a shackled prisoner – his crime and fate a galvanizing mystery that will haunt them forever.

Three-line review

I really, really love Ondaatje and his writing, but I couldn’t love this book. I slogged through most of it like I were wading uphill through molasses. Perhaps I had just grown sick of 13-year-old boys at this point.

Quote

“In spite of this, our table’s status on the Oronsay continued to be minimal, while those at the Captain’s Table were constantly toasting to one another’s significance. That was a small lesson I learned on the journey. What is interesting and important happens mostly in secret, in places where there is no power. Nothing much of lasting value ever happens at the head table, held together by familiar rhetoric. Those who already have power continue to glide along in the familiar rut they have made for themselves.”

**/*****

Buy The Cat’s Table (Vintage International), feed me.

Tuesday’s With Morrie – Mitch Albom

Quick summary

Nearly 20 years after their first lessons, now dying college professor Morrie imparts his wisdom to student Mitch during weekly Tuesday meetings. A gentle mentor imparts the lessons of a long life.

Three-line review

Screw Albom and his dangling questions and dramatic short sentences. This book doesn’t deserve three lines, but Morrie deserves three stars.

Quote

None.

***/*****

Buy Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life’s Greatest Lesson, feed me.

Next up: my first John Irving book. Seriously. What are you reading?

It’s been a bit harder than that.

Instead, I’ve found dead ends, misinformation, confusing archival evidence, and absurd dates. I’ve spent HOURS upon hours doing online research, calling parishes in Burin, reading thousands of birth and death records at the Maritime Archives and the Provincial Archives…I’ve taken up heavy drinking. (Or, I’ve resumed heavy drinking.)

I don't know these people. I just like this photo.

I started out at Ancestry.ca. I got nowhere. When I found a Newfoundland-wide genealogical website, I contacted the administrators who put me in touch with a local genealogist. One conversation with him over the phone, and I knew I could never, ever do this on my own.

Since Newfoundland was one of the earliest places in Canada to be settled by Britain, it turns out nobody really knew what they were doing, and nobody cared much for keeping accurate records. Since priests were in short supply, they would often visit the small fishing coastal outports just a few times a year, travelling between them regardless of denomination. That means that even if my great grandfather was baptized a Catholic, he could very well show up in Methodist records.

Never mind the fact that Walsh is the fourth most common name in Ireland, and apparently the second most common in Newfoundland.

Here’s my conundrum.

My family has long believed that my Great-Great Grandfather Wilfred was born in the small town of Lawn, in 1862. We know for certain he died in St. Alban’s in 1925. His father was believed to also be Wilfred Walsh from County Kerry, whose wife was Mary Sullivan from County Cork.

Unfotunately, the St. Thomas Aquinas Parish has no record of my Great-Great Grandfather Wilfred Walsh ever being born there. The only record I CAN find is a Wilfred Walsh born in 1855, to a John Walsh and Honora Buckley (from Waterford, Ireland). This seems like the most likely candidate, as My Great-Great Grandfather Wilfred’s son Joseph had a daughter Nora (Honora) and he himself named one of his sons John (my Great Grandfather).

Wilfred is an uncommon name, so it adds up. Great-Great Grandfather Wilfred’s wife was Mary Willcott, born in 1853. If my original information were accurate, Mary would have been TEN YEARS older than Wilfred, and in her 30s when she started having kids. This is absolutely unheard of for a time when women started having kids in their early 20s (or earlier).

Everything adds up. Perhaps there was a headstone error, or a birth certificate error.

And then this happened.

When we DID search for a Sullivan family in the area, we found a few living in St. Lawrence.

Crap.

Now, we are trying to prove or disprove Mary Sullivan had any relation to Wilfred. And oh my god even just typing this all out makes my head whirl. Names and dates and family lineage. It’s like a big treasure hunt, except more confusing and I’m terribly worried about stirring up trouble with the members of my family who have only ever known the original information to be accurate.

I met my genealogist last week at the Provincial Archives. We pored over old records in barely legible handwriting, while he gave me a historical background of the area and what names would have belonged where.

I’m overwhelmed by this process of finding the people to whom I belong. In their lifetime, would they have ever imagined their Great Great Great Granddaughter would be sitting in a windowed library overlooking The Narrows, eyes barely a millimetre away from pages upon pages of family history? Could they ever conceive just how important this is to me?

The good news is that the records ARE there. And soon, we’ll figure out which ones are right.