It may be only a twenty minute train ride from the hustle and bustle of Fukuoka, Japan, but the Nanzoin Temple seems like a world away.  Nestled on the side of a steep mountain hillside in the tiny village of Sasaguri, moss covered trails meander over babbling brooks and waterfalls and each turn in the path surprises with a new altar or Buddhist statue.  The mountain itself is serene and majestic with tall redwoods, giant bamboo, ferns, and blossoming fruit trees.

Try to find two faces that are alike.  Go ahead, I dare you.

People rub this Buddha for good luck.  Judging by his belly, there’s a lot of lucky people out there.

For those who like nature and hiking, there is a long trail on the mountain and hikers are challenged to find each of over eighty special landmarks along the way.  For the rest of us, the shrine itself is full of winding trails with bridges and surprises and hundreds of statues that can fill a fun afternoon.

In my notes I wrote:  “Fudo Myo-o mean dude who surrenders evil spirits for people who don’t practice Buddhism.”  I was assured that he is actually a good guy.  And if you think he’s big, just wait!

Threw this picture in to give an idea of the serene beauty of this place.
Behind the top of the waterfall you can see the giant bamboo on the mountain behind.

All of the winding paths eventually lead visitors upward to the highest part of the shrine and the biggest surprise is saved for last. The Shingon Sect of Buddhists, who operate this shrine, have created the largest bronze statue in the world.  The Sleeping Buddha is also the largest lying Buddha in the world, and it is stunning.  The green behemoth is 41 meters long, 11 meters high, weighs over 300 tons, and is roughly the size of a jumbo jet.

Size does matter.  This is the world’s largest prostrate Buddha and the largest bronze statue in the world.

There are 365 urns in front of the Buddha.  Visitors travel long distances to place messages to their dearly departed loved ones in the urn marked with the day they died.

Behold, the Seven Gods of Fortune.

Now try to spot the one that also shows up on one of Japan’s finest beers.

These are the important kinds of facts you will find only here.

Sasaguri, the charming little village that is home to the temple, is populated with small craft stores and restaurants that by themselves are worthy of the trip. 

To get there:

From the Hakata Station in Fukuoka, transfer to the Fukuhoku Yutaka Line.  The line travels east beyond Fukuoka through rice fields and into the mountains to the Kido-Nanzōin-mae Station at Sasagura.  The shrine is on the side of the mountain a few hundred yards from the station. 

For now, sayonara!

The post The Many Faces of Fukuoka’s Nanzoin Temple appeared first on TourAbsurd: Traveling with a light heart!.

"We don't see things as they are,
we see them as we are."

~ Anais Nin

"Spirit says you will take peyote tonight."  This was the message from the medicine cards to a Tarahumara friend of mine many years ago.  She was an adult and I was a kid in high school.  Our unplanned afternoon conversation carried us through the evening and into the early hours of the morning, baring our souls and covering topics even the most inspired artist could not have predicted.  The meaning of the card was clear.  Although we had indulged in no mind-altering substances, we might as well have.  We had gone on a journey together.

People have always been central to my travel experiences.  I had dreamt of traveling to Egypt for ages.  When I finally experienced the pyramids, the Temple of Hatshepsut, King Tut's tomb, and Abu Simbel, it was satisfying on a soul level to have accomplished a goal.  What made it touching and memorable, though, were the individuals with whom I connected, however briefly, while there.  The same thing happened recently in Nottingham.  It's so fresh that it's still resonating when I wake up in the morning, sip tea, or sit in front of my computer.

(Click on any photo for a larger and clearer version.)

Working together with strangers comes naturally on the canals.

First of all, there were the people I originally traveled to meet: Unitarians.  My wee church here in Cork asked for a volunteer to represent us at the annual meeting.  Since travel and spirituality are two of my favorite things in the whole world, I said I'd go.  I was concerned that I'd be out of place among the crowd, as I suspected many of them would be more conservative or Christian-centric than I am.  Differences are fine, and I've never known a more respectful bunch of folks, but sometimes swimming upstream can be exhausting.  I needn't have worried. 

Every talk had elements of humor and warmth that transcended the boundaries of dogma.  When the conference concluded on Sunday afternoon, I left feeling as if I'd been given a glass of warm milk and a hug big enough to last the rest of the month.  How people managed to do that while remaining so very English in their demeanor is still something I'm trying to unravel.  Heart shines through, I guess.

Details matter.

My next stop was the Sawley Marina, where I was staying on a canalboat for the night, before setting out the next day to take in the waterways and countryside.  Vicki and Max took very good care of me, as did the rest of the staff.  A cynical, or perhaps realistic, part of me realizes that their behavior might have been affected by the fact that I was there to promote the business.  I don't think that accounts for everything.  They just seemed like genuinely decent people.  I wish I could have stayed longer, not just for more boat time, but to continue our lovely conversations and share the amazing corner of the world that narrowboat life occupies.  I will write more about this, but for now let me just say, I will travel this way again.  That's not a flippant statement; it's a serious call that needs to be answered.

Once I moved to the city proper, many activities were planned in quick succession.  I visited Sherwood Forest with guide Chris Slade, arranged, as most activities on this trip were, by the helpful folks at Experience Nottinghamshire.  I also took in the Galleries of Justice and the City of Caves, stayed at the Lace Market Hotel, ventured out to the Attenborough Nature Reserve, and indulged in some local dining experiences.  (There will be more on all of these at some point.)  The people were, unsurprisingly, the part that left the biggest positive impression on me.  Nearly everyone I met was polite and helpful, leaving me with a feeling that not only my custom, but my person, mattered to them.  But by far my favorite part of the city-based portion of my adventure was the day I spent with Robin Hood.

Robin Hood next to Robin Hood.

Robin Hood is also known as Ezekial Bone, who runs "bespoke heritage tours" of Nottingham.  He has another name, his real name, but even though he's well known in the area, I feel like I'd be betraying a trust by posting it here.  He gave me his blessing to do so if I saw fit, and it's easy enough to find online, but the characters are part of the magic and I want to preserve that.

Now before you go thinking that I've fallen victim to stagecraft and sleight of hand, let me back up a bit.  Before setting off on a new adventure, I do my best to reach out on social media to the organizations and people I'll be working with when boots are on the ground.  Naturally I was excited about the trip and all the wonderful activities that were planned.  I tweeted about going on the Robin Hood tour, and had some nice exchanges with Jamie, the owner of the canalboat operation, too.  I retweeted and was retweeted by the tourism board.  Had some chats with other people in the Nottingham area, as well.  And then there was Mr. Bone. 

True to character, he addressed me as "traveller" and mentioned that we'd soon be quaffing ales together.  I laughed and tweeted something about Terry Pratchett's definition of quaffing ("Quaffing is like drinking, but you spill more.").  Much to my surprise, the response, though playful, was a jab at Sir Terry.  I was flummoxed as to how anyone could think of Terry Pratchett as something other than a complete and utter genius.  More tweets ensued.

He responded with contrition and the matter was laid to rest for the day.  I think he genuinely felt bad, which was a shame, because it was all in good fun.  But I wondered how he'd be in person.  Was I going to be annoyed by larger-than-life buffoonery and grandstanding or would he be one of the actors who has the ability to "turn it off", as it were?  I've already told you that this tour was one of the best parts of my trip, so, no, I was not annoyed.  But the answer to the second question – could he turn it off? – is a bit more complex.

The man behind Ezekial Bone has been doing historical re-enactment and theater for most of his adult life.  He's worked with tourism boards, historical trusts, and community organizations.  He's also spent 15 years researching the tales of Robin Hood and takes pride in providing accurate information as well as entertainment.  How much you get of either depends on what you're looking for.  School children who are lucky enough to get a visit from Robin Hood in their classroom tend to get more of the latter.  Family groups of mixed interest levels will get a performance tailored to attention span and responsiveness.  And for those of us who enjoy entertainment but have a strong preference for authenticity and human connection, well, that's there, too.

Friar Tuck and Little John share a contemplative moment outside Nottingham Castle.

Without getting too parenthetical, I want to explain why I even had a concern about becoming annoyed.  Many, many years ago I worked in theater.  I performed at both the Northern and Southern Renaissance Pleasure Faires in California doing improv comedy, as well as musical theater at other venues, once getting as fancy as the Santa Barbara Civic Light Opera.  As much as I utterly adored being onstage – especially singing – I left. 

Some of it was situational (college), but some of it was because theater in California is a competitive, insecure way to go.  I didn't like seeking approval from the masses and only feeling successful if I delivered a punchline well.  These days I find it difficult to be around that kind of neediness from the audience side.  And now, with travel, making genuine connections matters much more.

On the flip side, I have recently begun to question my sense of self-consciousness and shame.  I have found myself on more than one occasion longing for the freedom of expression that came so naturally to me back in my theater days.  Not only was I not self-conscious, I was gloriously free from caring what anyone outside of an audience thought of me.  …So it was all me and my mental detritus (thank you, Anais Nin) that led me to look a bit askance at this character who had no trouble whatsoever proclaiming that he wasn't merely playing Robin Hood, he WAS Robin Hood.

The Major Oak, alleged home to Robin Hood and his Merry Men.  No gurlls aloud!

Our appointment was for 10:30 outside a pub in the center (or "centre", more appropriately).  It was closer to my hotel than I realized, so I waited outside enjoying the fresh air.  Within a few moments Mr. Bone, as Robin Hood, appeared.  He looked at me, I looked at him.  It was obvious to me that he was the one I was meeting; not so obvious the other way around.  Except for the fact that I was staring right at him and holding a camera.

"You're early," he said with a grin.

"So are you," I replied cheekily.

I suspect he'd been counting on a few moments of solitude before having to face his public.  He rallied and accompanied me inside, telling me he had to fix his hair.  I nodded, deadpan.  He returned a few minutes later and began chatting.  He may have caught me looking at his coiffure. 

"I didn't really have to fix my hair, you know." 

I laughed.  Yes, but I was willing to play along.  And despite my concerns, I liked this man.

Err…  how do you erase rock?

We walked around the Lace Market area, stopping outside the Galleries of Justice, in use as a courthouse until 1985.  Interesting tales of the area include a profile of a bloodthirsty public that enjoyed hangings, over-capacity crowds at such events that resulted in trampling deaths, and houses rented out to wealthy gentlemen specifically because of the view afforded of the executions.  Said displays were meant to be deterrents to potential criminals, but instead acted primarily as entertainment.  This eventually led to a relocation of the gallows to the more private area of the men's exercise yard in the prison portion of the building.  There was also a spelling error, still visible today, of the world "gaol" carved into the stone.

There were moments of Robin Hood's (for although he was Ezekial Bone and the man behind Ezekial Bone, he was also Robin Hood) presentation that were clearly standard bits, written and presented for maximum entertainment value.  Broad grins, expansive gestures, and fill-in-the-blank sentences inviting audience participation served dramatic purpose, and I could not help but smile in appreciation.  And, as a coal fire heats a cauldron, a passion for history and truth bubbled through.

Old Angel Inn YOUR FACE!

He was clearly a well known character (the man, not just the historical figure) around town, with many a greeting exchanged as we walked about.  If anyone should slip up and call him by his civilian name, he reminded them that he was, in fact, Robin Hood.  Ahem.

As we passed the Old Angel Inn, once the last stop of the condemned for a final quaff before meeting the hangman, we encountered the manager, Sean.  The inn is now a well-regarded venue for live rock music.  (Sean, as the guitarist for The Varukers, a punk band formed in 1979, is a bit of a local legend.)  He invited us to stop by later in the evening for the show.  Members of White Zombie were reported to be in attendance, and I did consider it, but dinner plans took priority.

Several things were going on as we walked.  I observed my guide and enjoyed the information presented – some of it Robin-Hood-o-centric, some of it general Nottingham-ish knowledge – and also observed how I felt walking around with a fellow in costume.  I watched members of the public respond to his presence in differing ways and thought to myself that, despite being used to it, catching the attention of people not on the tour would probably have made me cringe in self-consciousness.  It's one thing to have a large group of people following you around, but quite another to have a single audience member.  And yet another part of me wanted to look some of those people in the eye and say, "That's right, bitches!  I'm with Robin Hood.  Suck it!"  (Hahaha!  I just cracked myself up there.)

Nottingham Castle: abandon £5.50, all ye who enter here.

I have a hard time separating my analytical mind from every day goings on.  On top of that, philosophy and spirituality, as well as a particular fondness for iconoclasm and inappropriate humor, are nearly always present.  So while we walked and talked, my new age-y-ish views leaked out from time to time, even in response to lighthearted questions designed to engage a cheerful tourist.  *shrug*  That's how I roll. 

When the presentations about the former size of Sherwood Forest, the hundreds of years of legends that have been rolled up into the contemporary view of Robin Hood, and the economic impact of Nottingham being the world center of lace making during the Victorian era concluded, we stopped at Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem.  It has a fantastic ambiance, with the size and random shapes of the rooms adding to the feel.  It's carved into the base of the sandstone escarpment upon which sits the site of Nottingham Castle, now home to a ducal mansion built in the 1600's.  Although it's fun to call it the oldest inn in England, it likely started out as a storage place for beer rather than a proper pub.  Still, there's a bit of fun in stating I Was There.

Usually the Robin Hood tours conclude here, most likely with a hail and well met to the barkeep, followed by a pint, and ending with a cheerful wave as the outlaw of Sherwood Forest disappears into the mists.  Due to circumstances being a bit different this day, I had some extra time with the mythical personage.  We both ordered beverages suitable for quaffing and had a few nibbles to feed the conversation.  I had an appointment at the Galleries of Justice (for a tour, not for committing a crime; not yet, that is), but until my departure time we chatted about all manner of things, personal and professional.  I had a dinner and restaurant review scheduled that night and invited Mr. Bone to join me.  He frowned and pondered a bit, having to cancel previously made plans to accommodate, but said yes.

Not quite as musical as 24601.

After my tours of both the Galleries of Justice – where you are automatically guilty of a crime – and the City of Caves, I indulged in a nice, hot bath.  I don't have a tub in my apartment in Ireland, so when I'm traveling I do try to take advantage.  When Mr. Bone met me in the lobby of the hotel and asked how my afternoon had been, I joyously proclaimed, "I took a bath!" 

"Uhh…  right.  I'd really like to know what you thought of the two tours."

Oh, right.  Business talk.  Right.  To be fair, for me, the hotel and its facilities fell within the boundary of business talk.  Didn't occur to me until later that discussing my bathing activities might come across as a bit off sides.  Oh, well, what can you do?

Looks nice enough.  I stress "looks"…  Sigh.

The restaurant was quite near to the hotel and had just launched their new spring menu that day.  I so wanted it to be fabulous, I really did.  Alas, it was not to be.  Out of the 6 dishes presented, only one actually tasted as good as it looked.  The others were, mostly, scenic but with taste ranging from mediocre to bloody awful.  It pains me that I am meant to write a review of the place.  Saying nice and genuine things is always my preference.  But if I must decide between the two, genuine will prevail.

Still, that being said, the company and the conversation made up for quite a lot.  Topics covered ranged from the joys and agonies of working as an entrepreneur to philosophy (naturally) to relationships to theater.  And because I am both analytical and advice-prone, my opinions featured greatly.

I learned the term "Dutch uncle" from some of my fellow travel bloggers.  Wikipedia defines it thusly: "Dutch uncle is a term for a person who issues frank, harsh, and severe comments and criticism to educate, encourage, or admonish someone. Thus, a 'Dutch uncle' is a person who is rather the reverse of what is normally thought of as avuncular or uncle-like (which would be indulgent and permissive)."  I know that in my pursuit of truth and encouragement, I can be a bit of a pain in the ass and may fit the aforementioned description.  There were a few times when I had to check in with Mr. Bone to make sure I was not treading on sacred ground.  In one instance I was, and we gently glided around the topic.  Other subjects, though decidedly revealing, were fair game.

The only item besides my Pinot Grigio that lived up to appearance and expectation.

Several times throughout the conversation Mr. Bone indicated that he thought this meeting of ours was serendipitous and was happening at an interesting personal crossroads.  Some of my hypotheses and suggestions were things he'd heard from other friends, others appeared to be new ideas.  I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but I had a similar feeling about meeting him at a rather singular time in my life.  I had recently been spending a lot of time thinking about what led me from being a cheerful, carefree thespian to such  a harsh self-critic.  I admire people who live their passion and frequently encourage the pursuit of such in friends and strangers alike.  I truly believe that if you commit yourself to a goal – and really feel it, body and soul – the universe will rearrange itself to make your dreams happen.

I have many stereotypes in my mind of what Americans and Brits are like.  I do enjoy breaking them down and finding examples that disprove or at least inform my assessments in a more educated way.  One image of Americans that frequently comes to mind is that of a large, friendly dog, something like a Golden Retriever.  If you are willing to play ball with us, we'll happily call you friend and invite you to our family reunions.  This is doubly true of Californians.  Some of this is likely based on the particular blend of hot/cold climate culture characteristics found in our make up.  For west coasters like myself, there's also an element of the brash and pragmatic pioneer. 

British folks, especially the English, are often portrayed as uptight and repressed, only able to open up and express emotions after several pints.  I know this is not strictly true, as a number of my friends are English and are some of the most honest, warm, and caring people I know.  And all this quite without pints.  (My dad, though now a US citizen, was born in England; despite still using terms like "petrol", he also hardly fits the profile.)  And yet there are still cultural barriers that an outsider may never fully grok.

Sandstone foundations of Nottingham.  …See what I did there?

All of this is to explain that, despite a night of sharing, I'm not sure Mr. Bone and I are friends.  I feel, as with my Tarahumara friend many years ago, spirit did figuratively take peyote that night.  I am confident that had I had more time in Nottingham, we would have had several more hours of things to say.  Was it simply a Lost in Translation moment?  Possibly.  Being stereotypically American in this case, I'd happily call him friend, but he's "a private person" (his words) and seemed happy to leave our night of philosophy and soul delving as a discrete event.  There is a small chance that he'll be island hopping and will land briefly in Ireland this year.  I hope he will swing through Cork so we can quaff tea and feast on scones.

In any case, it left a deep impression on me and will now forever be associated with my first visit to Nottingham.  There are many, many amazing and beautiful things to do and see in Nottinghamshire, but as always, it's people that make a place come alive.  If you do have the pleasure of meeting Ezekial Bone, whether as Robin Hood or one of his other characters, I am sure you will enjoy the tour.  I suspect it will be one of your fondest memories of the place.

All tours and activities were arranged by Experience Nottinghamshire, but opinions are very much my own.
If you'd like to partake of a regularly scheduled Nottingham tour or request a custom arrangement with Ezekial Bone,
you can contact him through his website: http://www.ezekialbone.com/

The post My Dinner with Robin (Hood) appeared first on TourAbsurd: Traveling with a light heart!.

Star fort or fire-breathing Lego turtle?

Not everyone who lives in the city remembers where Elizabeth Fort is.  Even for folks in the neighborhood, it's hard to get a sense of the scale and shape of the thing when simply meandering past.  This helpful panel inside the fort lays it out quite clearly: it's Gamera.

Step on up!

My pal, Emily, and I have been to the accessible parts of the fort several times.  Heck, she only lives a few blocks away!  But neither of us had been up on the walls.  There were clearly stairs and walkways with access, but the entries were always locked.

Very little of what is said here should be taken as canonical.  …bah dah BING!

No, this isn't a breaking and entering story, though I admit the idea is tempting.  We would be foolish to turn a crime into a blog post, but it wouldn't be the first time.  Alas, nothing so sordid!  We just happened into the tourism information office on the right day.  There we met Sean, who was wrapping up an internship and who also had the keys to the fort.

Horseless carriages.

It's currently housing a garda (police) station, but that is meant to relocate.  I think it was supposed to have already moved, but hey, that's the pace of island life.  It will happen when it happens.

Taking aim at St. Anne's.

In anticipation of the premises being vacated, the Office of Public Works and the Cork City Council installed helpful panels, handrails, and wooden walkways.  The hope is that Elizabeth Fort will be a tourism magnet.

Can you match up the nobby bits?

While it's fun to have this overlook of my beloved city, and to finally get a sense of how well positioned the fort really is, not every view is breathtaking.

Fuzzy on the details.

You already know that I occasionally get distracted by wee, growing things on the walls.  Sometimes this is unfortunate and means I miss out on a stunning overlook.  At other times, as when gazing over the back side of a brewery that's being dismantled (as was the case from one side of the fort), it's a good thing.  Really, the moss is much more scenic.

Heading for the pointy bits.

Views of St. Finbarre's Cathedral, however, never fail to impress.  And they kept getting better.

Now you can talk about cold balls with no embarrassment.

But first a quick pit stop to learn that the subject of the famous Beastie Boys song was much more than a cocktail.  In typically Irish fashion, there is a quote at the end that'll make you laugh and possibly blush: 'It was this that supposedly led to the phrase "cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey".'

*tears up, grabs a tissue*

I'm not much for religious imagery, but I am mighty pleased to have taken this photo.  St. Finbarre's Cathedral never looked so pretty before.  Lovely architecture, adorable blossoming trees, that famous Irish green…  Whattaview!

Emily!  Watch out!

Obtaining such a view was not without its perils, however.  Not only are the walls unfriendly to those of us with petite builds, but rogue canons have been known to sneak up behind people and threaten to shoot them in the tuchus.  Thankfully, I had learned a bit about the Irish panto tradition last year and shouted a warning, thus preserving Emily's ability to sit comfortably for many years to come.

I just like this kind of picture.

The many and varied stairs make this a poor choice for anyone with bad knees.  Still, the steps and greenery are picturesque.  We continued our journey up to…

And me without a spatula.

…the BBQ patio!  Who knew that Elizabethans were into steaks and burgers?  Well, had to have something to go along with all that papist stomping and ale quaffing, I suppose.

Imagining the music… *oontz oontz oontz*

It really could use some benches and a few potted plants to brighten up the place.  Folding umbrellas would be nice, too.  Pretty nice dance floor, though.  You know how crazy people get with their madrigals and just need to get their groove on.

Did they have hoses back then?

Handy drainage holes make cleaning up after your Defending the City Party a snap! 

Ok, one more…

And finally, one more view of St. Finbarre's. 

To be fair, there is a lot more to Elizabeth Fort than scenic vistas and dance parties.  Sean, our guide, was busy telling a couple visiting from the UK all about the history of the place and the important role it played in Cork's history.  For instance, the people of the city once rose up against their British oppressors and destroyed the fort (ironic that an Irishman was telling this to Englishmen, no?), but were beaten back into submission and forced to rebuild it themselves.  Oh, the humiliation!

I've heard variations on the stories of local battles so many times that it's all getting a bit mush, I'm afraid.  After living in Cork for some time now, I was much more excited about simply being allowed up on the walls.  It was an item on my list of local things to accomplish.  I've already visited the Butter Museum, so that's two items.  I've braved the wrath of the notoriously cranky pub owner at the Hi-B – three items.  Naturally, I've kissed the Blarney Stone – four.  Hmm…  I suppose I really should get to annoying the neighbors across the river in Shandon and ring the bells of St. Anne.  A lovely little number by AC/DC comes to mind…

The fort is not fully open to random passersby.  You can stroll into the courtyard and see some of the old canons (keep an eye on them – they are sneaky!), but you can't get up on the walls just yet.  If you want to take in the view from on high, contact the Tourism Office on Grand Parade to see if they've got the key handy.  If they don't, they should be able to track it down, but give them notice.  This is Ireland, after all.

What madcappery have you been up to lately?

The post Fun photo essay: a visit to Elizabeth Fort appeared first on TourAbsurd: Traveling with a light heart!.

Taj Mahal photo courtesy of Shannon O'Donnell.

The first hint was elephant.  Amazingly, TourAbsurd fan Christopher A. got it right on the very first guess.  How he knew that will be a question for the ages!  Without being me and already knowing the answer, I would have been much more likely to guess Thailand, as Maria T. did, what with my advocacy for the Elephant Nature Park.

The second hint was curry.  I was being deliberately generic in some of these hints.  I know there's curry all over the world (heck, I just had some out of a can here in Ireland), but Indian food was my introduction to it.  Anything similar that originated somewhere else will have a qualifying descriptor like, "Thai curry", for example.  Amanda M. gave three guesses after this hint, the first of which was – again – India.  Well done, Amanda!

Finally, the third hint was henna.  I hear that it's also known as mehndi, but that's one of the finer points of culture I'm hoping to pick up in person.  The ever-reliable (ha!) Wikipedia paints the terms as interchangeable, but we shall see!  …and naturally the very first guess, by Catherine T., was – you guessed it – India!

So, well done Christopher, Amanda, and Catherine!  I am terrible about sending postcards, but what I will do is take a photo of me holding up your name somewhere neat and nifty while I'm there.  If you have a favorite pun or silly saying you'd like me to include, I'm ALL up for silly!

~    ~    ~

The departure isn't until later in the year.  I'm hoping to have a long-ish trip and see some other parts of Asia while I'm in the neighborhood.  My flights to and from Ireland are booked with Flight Network and I'm just so giddy I can hardly sit still!  I even get to fly out of Cork, instead of having to trek up to Dublin – bonus!

There is so much to do before I leave, but I'm savoring it.  It's kind of like when you cook up a nice Thanksgiving dinner and you smell all the delicious aromas for hours before you actually sit down at the table.  A friend gave me a gift certificate for a book shop for my birthday a while back.  I think I'm going to finally use it on a guide book for India!

Besides being up for silly, I'm also up for suggestions on must sees, responsible travel, and being sure to stop by and say hi to your friend that you met on this wild bus ride, and whoa, you wouldn't believe the craziness, man, that dude is hilarious..!  If you went to India with a tour company and had a great time, be sure to let me know the name of the outfit.  If you have hints on manners and etiquette, tell me in the comments.  If there is one thing that every visitor to India should know (I clearly don't – yet!), don't keep it to yourself.  Looking forward to your words of wisdom!

Tell me all your India travel secrets!

The post Update: …and the big news is? appeared first on TourAbsurd: Traveling with a light heart!.

Part 1: Before the Madness

Play "Call to the Dairy Cows" from the William Tell Overture, or maybe Edvard Grieg's "Morning" to get a sense of the lovely idyll that is Sunday Morning in Cork.  People are either at church or sleeping off the bender from the night before, and the streets are gloriously empty…

You can almost hear the birdies chirping…

Smacks of tea and scones while reading the morning paper, no?

Barriers up!  No Balrogs need apply.

Aleesha featured with permission.  I hope her mammy likes this pic.  :)

My friend, Emily, and I had previously scouted out a restaurant with a good view of the festivities.  We got there when they opened, 2 hours before the parade, to get a good seat.  It was only us for an hour or so, but then families began to join.  One particularly cute addition to the crowd was a tiny person who fit on the counter.

Our spot was considerably more comfortable.

Church of St. Anne Shandon peeks around the corner.

There were other enterprising folks who had nice observation spots above the parade route.  While the view from our giant, picture windows couldn't be beat, being able to open them and hear the music would have been nice.  Perhaps next year we'll inquire at the dress hire shop like these folks.  I'm quite fond of this photo, however, as it features one of my favorite Cork landmarks, the clock tower of St. Anne Shandon, known as "The Four-Faced Liar," on account of all four clocks showing different times.

Let the Festivities Begin!

Spectators had arrived and taken their stations.  Parts of the parade arrived, too, but only in fits and starts.  There is a bit of a pacing issue with this small town trying on the big kid pants.  Speaking of big kid pants, the first large group to appear included the real fighting Irish.

The members of Ireland's armed forces march like their feet hurt.  And their heads.
Which, given the day, perhaps they do.

A rare sighting.

The first time I heard bagpipes in Ireland, I was in my apartment.  I was so excited I immediately threw open the window and poked my head outside to see where the music was coming from.  Much to my chagrin, I realized it was for a funeral procession.  My sheepish withdrawal soon followed…  Yes, not as many bagpipes in Erin as you might think.

"Fiddle with your rosaries…"

It wouldn't be an Irish parade without some Catholic representation.  Although Rome's influence has been waning in recent years, it's still a deeply embedded part of the culture.  I'm too iconoclastic to really dive head on into any set religion, but learning about the struggles for Catholic emancipation here were really eye opening.  The right to worship – or not – as you choose is a struggle that's been played out on many a world stage.

Can't see the video?  Watch it on YouTube: http://youtu.be/QKWI41G8h_A

However, as this blog is about cheerful gaiety, and this particular post is about a feel good event like a parade, I would like to interject a bit of irreverent cheer, courtesy of Tom Lehrer.

Land of the Rising Sun meets Land of the Rarely Seen Sun.

Despite the underlying Irishness of it all, Cork's parade has become decidedly multicultural.  Immigrant organizations make a fair showing, as do a number of sports and martial arts groups, some of whom carry the flag of the country where their particular discipline originated.

Steamed fish.

The Cork Community Art Link always brings fun and interesting critters to life.  I know of them mainly from the fantastic Dragon of Shandon Samhain Parade, but I always look forward to seeing their work.

"That white thing was great.  Whatever it was!"
(overheard at the window)

This piece, which may or may not be titled "The Spirit of the Lee", is made out of out of Sellotape and featured occasional water spouts from the top of the umbrella.  One of the three older ladies who joined us at the window thought she'd heard something about Cork Community Art Link doing something with that title.  I think maybe we didn't pick up on it at first because there were no shopping trolleys (carts) on the sculpture.  The river is a bit of a hoarder when it comes to trolleys, you see, but you can only view them when the tide is out.  Otherwise, they are kept hidden and secret as a treat for the fish.

Do not mess with young hurlers: they look like wasps and bear weapons.

One of the things I LOVE about the youth sports teams in Ireland is how there are just as many girls as boys.  If anything, the Na Piarsaigh hurling and football club appears to have more girls than boys.  Such cheerful little hard chargers, all of 'em, dressed in their black and yellow and carrying hurleys.

Two groups of pipers is two more than I've seen in the last year.

Women make up a significant portion of the piping community, too, it would seem.  Nice!

Sudanese Community Association of Cork Ireland.  Who knew?

This year I counted four African countries/groups: Republic of Congo, the Sudanese community, Ghana, and Nigeria.  I seem to recall there were more at the first St. Patrick's Day parade I attended, but can't be sure.  I wonder if there was only one Sudan when some of these folks moved to Ireland.  As an expat, I wonder how I'd feel about my home country dividing up into two separate nations while I was away.  Well, it would probably be Texas vs. everyone else, so I guess it wouldn't be too much of a shock.

The golden dragon circles Father Mathew.  I shall name it "Temperance"…

The picture of the dragon doesn't do it justice.  It was not just yellow, it was golden – and lovely!  I suppose it speaks volumes that the two things that occur to me when I think "golden dragon" are: 1) restaurant name, and 2) World of Warcraft. 

Nearly finished.

There were groups from the Philippines, more marching bands, belly dancers, theater groups, fire trucks, dance troupes, and several groups I was unable to identify because they either had no sign or had it half rolled up.  The Americans I know tend to find it rather ho-hum after a while, but based on what the three older ladies sitting with us said, it's really quite an upgrade from parades past.  20 or 30 years ago it was "…advertisements for alcohol, tobacco, or coal.  And all on lorries!*"  I think the technical aspects could use some tuning up – pacing, banners identifying the groups, more interaction with the crowd – but all in all found it a lovely expression of community spirit.  It still feels very small town and friendly, which I really like.

*trucks

The Aftermath

Emily told me she was quite shocked how our relatively tidy little city becomes a mountain of rubbish after the parade, especially in the vicinity of certain fast food joints with Scottish-sounding names.  Ahem.  It's true, there was trash on the street, but it wasn't nearly as bad as I'd feared.  The city cleaners had it all straightened out in relatively short order.

About 10 minutes after the parade was over.  Everyone's off for tea!

Forensics shows that this is rubbish from a St. Patrick's Day parade in Ireland.

People vacated the parade route in very short order.  Probably because down on Grand Parade (a street name, not another event), there were a series of food and goods booths set up.  One of the best known tea brands in Ireland is Barrys.  On St. Patrick's Day, they give out free cups of tea, so naturally everyone gets in line (or "queue", as they say here).  The default tea in Ireland is no frills, basic, black.  However, their line of green teas was the special of the day.  Naturally.

It's a lovely hat.

There has been a picture making the rounds on Facebook and other social media of crazy, green clad, beer drinking Americans celebrating St. Patrick's Day.  It is juxtaposed against a photo of Irish people, calmly drinking in a pub enjoying the craic.  The second photo is overlaid with the text, "Meanwhile in Ireland…"  The implication being that only Americans completely lose all sense of decorum and fashion sense on the 17th of March. 

I am here to tell you that this is not the case.  The craze is catching and came back across the Atlantic some time ago.  Heck, this tendency for Irish cosplay has spread around the world.  It appears to be growing here and, frankly, I think that's OK.  I'm a little sad when a great native tradition gets replaced by name brands and flashy commercialism.  But to hear my Irish friends tell it, St. Patrick's Day was rarely more than "meh" in recent memory.  Indeed, the name brands on their lorries have been pushed out of the parade in favor of local art groups – how cool is that?  So go ahead and paint yourself green, put on a silly hat and a false beard, and raise a glass to St. Patrick.  Then bless the Irish for giving you this reason to celebrate!

Until next year…

Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig!

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

The post Photo Essay: St. Patrick’s Day in Cork appeared first on TourAbsurd: Traveling with a light heart!.

Today's post was written by my friend and fellow expat, Emily Davis-Fletcher.  She writes a lot of great poetry and fiction.  She also has a sly sense of humor, hidden beneath a friendly and innocent-seeming smile.  (Shhh!) 

I love Charles Fort.  If Charles Fort were a man and not a 17th century coastal ruin, I’d marry him.  Stunning in any weather—dark and mysterious under threatening skies that shower you with misty kisses or charming and gracious in full sun with a generous world view, heaping a sea of diamonds upon you.  Charles Fort has something special to offer every romantic soul.

Dynamic and complex as any Irish man (without the mammy) – rough and rugged as one of the largest star-shaped military forts in the country with a roguish flare for drama, showing off in front of brazen cliffs and plunging sea line.  But Charles Fort is no bully or macho man.  In fact, its tender side is its most striking. Low to the ground, it seems to crouch, enveloped by soft, thick grass sprinkled with white and lavender flowers like a plush blanket laid out for you to walk or lie on.

 If you need romance, you are in luck. Romance is Charles Fort’s specialty by providing plenty of the key ingredient: suspense. Charles Fort holds out for 30 minutes as you get closer, sometimes losing sight of each other along the winding trail from Kinsale called Scilly Walk.  When you finally meet at the crest of a hill, your blood will be pumping, your heart racing, and your cheeks flushed.

If you like a challenge, this is the fort for you.  Impenetrable, it faces out to the sea with walls up to 6 meters thick, but change is possible with the right lover.  But lovers beware, like all romantic figures, Charles Fort has a history.  It was constructed between 1670 and 1680 to secure the harbor entrance into Kinsale and defend the town.  Over the centuries, it has been a strategic site of battle during the Williamite Wars, a stronghold of occupation for the English, and a spot of conflict in the Irish Civil War which erupted between the state and anti-treaty forces.

If you are the type that gets weak in the knees over a dark, gothic sense of humor, Charles Fort is more than able to make you fall head of heels as you stumble through a nearby cemetery abandoned by all except thorns and weeds and cheeky, moonlighting grave diggers.

And for the unromantic…well there were a few battles at this site, most notably the Battle of Kinsale in 1601 in which lots of people suffered agonizing, gruesome deaths.  Thirsty?  Then, follow the hill down to The Bulman, call a pint and watch some sweet, dumb local mutt play chicken with every car that struggles to pass.

Emily is also currently sprucing up Some Neat Things by enhancing the content curation and turning it into a creative space, which really IS neat!  In her spare time she's a grave digger.  (Ok, not really.  But she could be if she wanted to.)  If you'd like to hire Emily to compose some smokin' prose for you, you can email her.

The post Romancing the Stones of Charles Fort appeared first on TourAbsurd: Traveling with a light heart!.

Behold, my friends, the spring is come;
the earth has gladly received the embraces of the sun,
and we shall soon see the results of their love!

~ Sitting Bull

Sproi-oi-oi-oi-oing!

By Irish reckoning, Spring begins on the first of February.  Having grown up in Southern California, it took me a while to get my head around the idea of 4 separate seasons.  (And no, it was not just sunshine all the time; it was more like "deathly hot / wildfire" season vs. "downpour / mudslide" season.)  After moving to Washington state, I finally started to get a sense of how solstices and equinoxes marked separate parts of the yearly cycle.  Discovering that Ireland, where a lot of this pagan-ish, solstice-y stuff was said to originate, was on a different schedule is something to which I am still adjusting.

Still, the land moves at its own pace and we're just along for the ride.  Since the beginning of February, the skies have ranged from sunny and clear, to windstorms and small craft warnings, to the regular ol' grey and damp.  The temperature has temporarily risen to Nearly Warm Enough For Only Two Layers and then dropped abruptly to Wearing A Hat And Scarf To Bed.  So far the flowers don't seem to mind and the days keep getting (gloriously!) longer.

Not long ago there was about a week of warmth and sunshine that inspired me to go on the hunt for a pair of athletic shoes.  I found an amazing deal – one pair only, my size, on sale – for 10 euro.  "It must be a sign!" I thought.  Alas, it was a short-lived sign. 

Despite a promising beginning, my exercise regime got put on hold the day I went outside and nearly froze my face off.  Yeah, that one week was followed by a couple of weeks of Arctic temps that led to much laptop snuggling and drinking of hot beverages rather than jogging.  Is the fact that I got happy when the rain came back an indication that I've been here too long?  After all, it's a bit warmer now.  Hmm.  Jogging in the rain…  I will have to ponder this one over several cups of tea.

There are other signs that the wheel of the year is turning…

Parents playfully pursuing pipsqueaks at the park…

Peeking purple petals…

Swans sweetly swimming…

I've got more than a couple of friends who help out with animal rescue organizations in Cork.  Recently, one of them suggested we head out into the wilderness with a couple of doggies in need of fresh air and play time.  We initially planned for some inland woods, as the Arctic weather was still upon us.  However, by the time our actual expedition rolled around, we opted for the beach.  As he is a huge fan of Youghal, that's where we ended up. 

Not being a pup-sicle at the beach is a sign of spring.

It was indeed warm enough that neither the doggies nor the humans froze to death.  The doggies enjoyed a rousing game of Chase But Fail To Return The Ball, while the humans enjoyed a game of Fetching The Balls We'd Thrown.  The dogs were wet but happy and the humans were dry-ish and happy.  Until we got back to the car and had wet dogs sitting on us.  (Actually, I'd cleverly packed some towels, so it wasn't bad at all.)

But really, the thing that says "spring" to me like no other thing in Ireland is the daffodils.  I think my camera must have picked up on the way I see them, because they are truly luminescent! 

I smile every time I see this photo.  LOVE daffodils!

This scene immediately puts me in mind of All in the Golden Afternoon from Disney's Alice In Wonderland.  If only there were tulips nearby, I'd go tiptoe through them!  In the meantime, it's time to have some tea, sans hatters and rabbits, and hum along with the song while looking forward to the next warm day…

What signs of spring are you finding?

This post is part of a series about Spring along with several other websites.
You can find more great posts at Traveling with Sweeney's Spring Fever Blog Carnival.  Check it out!  :)

The post Ireland: Signs of Spring appeared first on TourAbsurd: Traveling with a light heart!.