Tilt-a-whirl

Ireland, Part Seven

You know the drill, put the bags out early, one last terrible breakfast at the Bunratty hotel and then out early to drive to the station outside of Limerick. This time, the train was not on time and so the bedraggled bunch began forming into little conversational knots. We got to know one of the last couples to elude us; the retired geology teacher (this is where he gave me the piece of the Burren) and his wife, who was a newly retired psychiatrist. You could have knocked me over with a feather because I would never in a million years have guessed her profession. Scottish and hilarious. This is one time I could have used the old adage about a book and its cover.

Our last share-the-table train ride was facing the the raucous Mike (who loved to needle us) and his more reserved wife, Ann. We knew that he had worked in an interesting field, before he retired but what came out in conversation on the train is that he has been in amateur theatrics for most of his adult life. He suddenly became less of a knucklehead and more serious about what it is that he loves to do and we had more in common, the longer we talked. You see, this trip was as much about our connection with people as with the journey itself. With all of the cheeky banter and a little knitting, the three hour ride was suddenly over, in the place where we had begun our big adventure. A replacement driver/coach was waiting for us at the station because Tom and our belongings were still on the highway.

It seemed quite odd to be in a whole new bus but he deposited us in the center of Dublin so that we could disperse and grab some lunch. Having walked the city, when we first got there, Rod and I made a beeline for a famous old tea shop on the Grafton Street, the pedestrian upscale shopping street. It hit the spot and gave us the energy for our final push of the day, which included the tour of Dublin Castle, which was the home of the Viceroy's of Ireland, when the Republic was still a possession of England.

Check out the Waterford Crystal chandeliers in the Portrait Gallery. It is so funny that this is where we learned about why shops ship Waterford home to you, if you buy a certain amount...the lead content of the glass sets off the metal detectors at the airport. Hah. True or false? I did not buy any so we will never know. :o)

I loved the stories about this throne, which was originally made for a really large and portly king but was last modified for Queen Victoria, who was such a wee thing that they had to chop off the lion heads at the feet and install a footstool.

This building is not a museum but a place where the president entertains and government work ensues. I felt fortunate to have a tour and thought of our own White House and all of the restrictions now placed upon that building, which made me quite sad.

The streets of Dublin were teeming with people on this day. Tom's wife had called him, as he drove us to the station (in an aside to the microphone that was always open...it's t'e wife.) reminding him to tell us that this was Blooms Day and that Dublin would be filled with people in fancy dress, reading from James Joyce Ulysses...on street corners and in pubs. it was all so very Irish. City Irish. The Roma were out in force on this day, as well. The lock shop folks called them Romanians and were warning about pick pockets but I realized that the streets WERE full of beggars in ethnic dress, where they had not been visible, the first time we were in the city. Tourist season had begun, in earnest.

One last dinner on our own before the morning's guided tour of Dublin, by Tom who explained about all of the things that we had seen on foot. It was really fun to see it all at the level of the coach windows, which gave us a different perspective. We had time to get a little rest before our farewell dinner at the Jameson building. (take the tour but the work is now done down in Cork.) We got snockered on whiskey as we exited the tour and had it reinforced at the dessert course with a strong Irish Coffee. It was loud and impersonal and kind of a sad way to end this trip...shouting over the din in this touristy place. We all kept looking for Tom and Simone and found that they had been spirited away to a guide/driver room. Sad.

We had to say our goodbyes in the lobby, that night, because the bulk of the people were catching a groaningly early bus to the ferry station to head back to Wales. How could it be over so soon? We had a plane to catch, in the morning and it seemed fitting to see Fionulla Flannagan lugging her suitcase through the parking lot of the airport. Where was I? Was this all a dream?

I don't know. I dream in color and the Ireland of my dreams looks like this.

And this...

And this...

Every family has their own color. This is why I love this place...the people.

Thank you, Tom O'Brien, for showing us your country and your culture. I knew it all along. When people ask Rod what he liked best, he is stumped...the landscape, he says. When they ask me, I write a travelogue and now I am done.

Ireland-Part six, The Sea

Tom kept muttering, the night before, that he hoped that we would have the luck of good weather for our journey, in the morning. He said that he was going to have to tell The History at a certain point in our drive and to hear him get so choked up, speaking about the experience of one little boy, who was a very sad case, hardened the Brits and softened this American.

We got our lucky Irish day and the weather was spectacular as we drove through the unusual beauty of County Clare. We were heading for The Cliffs of Moher. I have seen photos and the photos that I will show you will be the same...you can't take it in, fully, unless you go. People stand on the top of the cliffs in wind, rain and all sorts of stuff but on our day, the sun shone brightly. Because the sun shone brightly, the color of the sea was what drew me in. The Atlantic...not grey but green to blue.

The rookeries reminded me so much of our first day in New Zealand, when Maurice and Rebecca took us out along the coast to see the Gannet Rookery near Auckland.

This is where I had more important talks with some of the tut-tut Brits who thought that the Gulf Oil spill was no big deal. Imagine, I said, this place being overrun by ugly waves of oil. They began to understand.

Built into the hills are the visitor center and little shops, no bigger than 10x10'. It is a remarkable place and finding musicians playing on the pathway was quite charming. In the wind you could hear Italian, French, German & Chinese being spoken. It was a beautiful day.

When we began our journey onward, we stopped at a tiny village for a "bit o' lunch". Tom was on the mobile, calling ahead to the little pub with the carvery, and he put the pedal to the metal to "beat the French" into the little place. Just as we sat down to have our hot lunch, in came two more coaches, with loads of people. Tom was looking out for us, as always. Once again, out in the back and beyond, small villages could do well, thanks to the tourists who were ushered in at lunchtime. I just love that stuff. (Only in Dublin, did we get some kid give the bus the finger...everywhere else, they are welcomed.)

Our next stop was an amazing place called The Burren. It is a limestone plateau that was pushed up out of the sea, and while a very barren looking landscape, it is home to beautiful flowers and small bushes that have wedged their way into the cracks of the petrified mud. This place was where, for some reason, I told Rod to shut up, as I normally do when we are play fighting. The eyes went wide, all except for Tom. He elbowed me and told me how I could tell him to shut up in Gaelic...in one ear and out the other, unfortunately. I then, whispered to him that I knew how to add a little something extra to my shut up and we then began laughing as he told me all of the ways that I could say the favorite Irish curse word and how the natives love to say stuff in something I would call Gaenglish, like our Spanglish. Bonding on the wild landscape.

One of the older guys, the sturdy Scotsman that we later found out was 80, found a bit of the Burren and was trying to find what he had initially discovered, on this rock. We found out the next day that he was a retired geology teacher and he had found a tiny fossil in this piece of petrified mud, which confirmed that this land had once been underwater. The next day, he gave me that little rock...too cool.

This crazy, desolate area was a place of great tragedy. During the famine, the only way that people could get soup from the Landlord was to build what the people call Famine Walls, which are much like that bit of wall you see down there by the edge. These walls are made of piled rock and go straight up the hills for no good reason, other than to make the people work for their soup. You can see them all along this area, up behind where I was standing. So tragic.

Ancient Tomb Portal called a Dolmen from the ancient ones of about 2500 BC

We began moving out of the Burren region and into the more fertile area behind it. Tom stopped the bus so that he could show us the ruins of a ring fort, important to the ancient people. I am standing on the top of the ring, shooting back toward the Burren. There is a Norman castle in the distance. This is the beauty of Ireland and County Clare.

Ireland-Part Five

A relatively short day on the bus was promised and delivered. Our next destination was the hotel at Bunratty Castle and to get there, we had to make the ferry that took us across the Shannon River to County Clare. (makes me think of the old song, "It's A Long Long Way, from Clare to Here" as sung by Nanci Griffith...a tear jerker, to be sure) I think that I was beginning to come down with my Irish Cold and so I chose not to get out of the bus to get a face full of cold wind. Slowly but surely, this little ferry took three coaches and a few cars across the river.

The coach deposited us outside of the Bunratty Castle Folk Park and we trouped in as a shuffling crowd and quickly dispersed like puffs of smoke, eager to explore the grounds of this place, each at their own pace. It is a remarkable living museum of homes and business saved from destruction and placed into streets and roads which made them look like they had always lived, right there.

The Castle is the big draw but I had a lot more fun walking the grounds.

As we ran into a group of loud school children, we suddenly got so very hungry and decided to exit the park to get to the pub near the hotel, for a bit of lunch. This was our first taste of Irish Beef, at The Creamery Pub. Grass fed beef just tastes different and like the food I remember as a kid, instead of the god knows what they feed them beef that we get here. It was a pleasure to relax with a good meal and the buzzing of the world cup horns in this friendly place.

The rooms were ready and I was happy to relax for awhile. Into our "dress-up" clothes and down to the hotel bar for our first taste of Bulmer's Cider (Magnus outside of Ireland) before climbing onto the bus for the ridiculously short hop back to the castle for our big treat of the night, the Medieval Banquet.

Piped in.

Home to the O'Brien Clan in the 15th century, this castle was lovingly restored by Lord Gort. It is now a treasure of Ireland.

This is the bright reception hall where we toasted with delicious mead.

Our dinner table, way in the back was made much more fun with Ma and Pa (Tom & Simone) as well as the man who played the Scoundrel to a T, Dave from Wales. Loved the crockery.

If you have the opportunity to go to the castle, it really is a great evening of food and entertainment. I highly recommend it.

Tomorrow, off to the coast.

Ireland-Part Four

The same question popped up as we were approached by yet another very polite couple; are you having a good time? Where are you going next, on your holiday? Why only Ireland?

This day was to prove to be the most meaningful to me, as if I were a child of Irish Immigrants, and the most uncomfortable for some of the more posh Brits. This was the day where we set off from our old world hotel, after a big Irish Breakfast, and back into the Ireland that was waiting for me. History.

We did not get far from our hotel when Tom pointed out a huge tree in the yard of the Catholic Cathedral, not more than two blocks from the hotel. Under that tree are the graves of countless children who died during the Famine. Chills. It is a very big tree, happily nourished by the remains of these little ones. Talk about a hearty breed. I heard Tom's voice choke up many times in the days we spent in the Southwestern Counties and I know that he spent a lot of time worried about offending the Brits but he had to tell The History.

The Ring of Kerry is a gorgeous drive, out onto a large peninsula in the southwest. It is where we learned so much about Ireland.

Peat bogs, everywhere but if the government does not slow the use of peat in the electricity plants, Ireland will surely deplete this centuries old store of nutrient rich stuff. We know that farmers are having a harder time being allowed to cut much peat on their own land and we heard the stories of an old woman who maid poteen, (pronounced PO-cheen) hiding the bottles from the English government, down in the bog near her home. She would come up to the roadside when customers would drive up, rush down to uncover a bottle and get it up to the passing drinker. The story goes that when she died, t'e secret of where t'e t'ousands of bottles are buried, died wit' hurr. We all laughed and I thought of the Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

First stop, after our lessons on peat cutting was the Peat Bog Village, a historic group of cottages, preserved as in a time warp.

A peat fire was burning in the stone cottage in this picture and the smell is quite pleasant. Not as acrid as woodsmoke, in my estimation, and the tidy fire of steepled peat put out a nice amount of heat. I'm glad that we visited this little museum and happy that the tourists that visit, allow this family to make a good living, out in the back and beyond.

This shot is for Kathleen. I was thinking of your dear Fiona on this day.

County Kerry. Got to love these people.

On we rode, to another of Tom's favorite stops. This time it was to visit with Brendan Ferris of the Kells Sheep Centre. Yeah, a smart and resourceful championship sheepdog trainer spends the summer months giving busloads of tourists the working dog demonstration and the explanation of the collection of sheep that he keeps to show the breeds living in Ireland. HORDES of people happily pay their five euros apiece for the demonstration, which is much like one we saw in New Zealand. It thrills me to see these dogs work for their human and when it is as beautifully done as this was, I can never get enough.

The sheep are Scottish Mountain Sheep, newly shorn.

 

Of course I zeroed in on the Border Leicester. Rod and I stayed behind. after the crowds left and talked wool with Brendan, exchanging cards. I guess that he was pleased to talk to someone like me and told me that he wished that he could give me wool because it is more of a pain these days, at 60c a pound.

Back into the John Moroney with nodding heads as I apologized for holding them up. Now they all knew what it is that I do...

Our lunchtime stop came in the little village of Waterville, on the Ballinskelligs Bay. It is where Charlie Chaplin came to live with his Irish bride. It is the white one.

 

The people loved him and he loved this place.
It is a blustery bay, to be sure. I got my first taste of Irish smoked salmon at the little pub. I also bought sweaters/jumpers at the local shop, which brought such razzing from the now less polite Brits. :o)

The afternoon was spent, hearing stories or the famine and how Ireland lost her families after 5 years of crop failure and the callousness of the landlords, who thought of the Irish as lesser beings. We passed vistas of ruined famine houses that must stay on the property, even if someone builds a new place.

Imagine trying to scrape out a living here. Coomakista.

Something that amazed me in this landscape is the way that one person's treasured plant is another person's weed. Everywhere we drove, there were mauvey/pink blooms of now wild Rhododendron and wild fuchsia, which were probably brought to the countryside by the English landlords.

Unfortunately, my little camera was not fast enough to capture the mountain sheep sitting on top of rocks everywhere but they kept me snapping my head around, constantly.

It was a remarkable and beautiful and chilling day. The beauty of this place is remarkable.

Coming back into Killarney, after a full day, most people wanted a night off but we opted to go with Tom and Simone to a pub outside of the town, about 15 minutes. He had arranged for us to have an evening of great food and wonderful music, the latter provided by a a band called Tuatha. We had a couple of local girls and their littlest siblings dance for us (the little ones trying to emulate their sisters...adorable) and one of our group, Eric the RAF bomber pilot, got up and led us all in a rousing version of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, from the chair he was standing on. I nearly laughed myself silly at the ridiculousness of it all. Here was a posh brit doing all sorts of hand motions and getting us to sing along. Tom got up to sing as well. What a night, which was topped off by the girls, in their street clothes, giving us a rendition of the broom dance. What a night...it was after 10 pm. See how light it was?

What a perfect ending to my best day. Back to the posh hotel for a night's sleep before setting the suitcases out in the morning. Off to Bunratty.

Ireland, Part three

This is the morning where the bigger adventure began, simply because we were boarding the inter-city train for Cork. We piled in, a little bit less politely and shared a table with an interesting couple. One can never have a clue about a person, especially people from another culture, until you out and out ask them about what it is that they used to do, before retirement. I thought that I would be spending a lot of time working on THIS, my first Twist & Lace, after all of these years, made with my brand new Baby Alpaca Silk Petite. See those needles? Ernst Glass Fiddlehead Scarf Needles...dreamy.

Yes, I did get a LITTLE bit done but spent most of the ride talking with someone who had been a graphic designer for British pottery. You could have blown me over with a feather. We yammered on and on about art school and graphics as well as what one does when the pottery industry in your country goes south because young brides don't care much about fine china anymore. Very interesting. He finished up his career, teaching. In England, back in the day, one could leave school at 15 and get a job, which was the mantra of the generation we talked to, those in their early 70's. The other thing that I learned from so many of them is that THEY remember The War, which to them was WWII, which goes to show you that History is whatever happened BEFORE you were born. :o)

This conversation made the three hour train ride go so quickly that I was surprised, as we pulled into Cork. There, outside the station, was the big white coach and our ginger haired guide. We were to trade roomy seats with a place to knit for our bus seats, with little to do, in between. We had things to discover and someone to tell us about it.

Our first tour stop was for a bit of lunch and a self guided tour of the museum in the small maritime village of Cobh (pronounced Cove). It is a remarkable place that tells the tale of the thousands of people who left Ireland during the Famine, whether by steamer to the US or by convict ship to Australia. Ireland lost about half of her population during those years and I have been fascinated by this story for many many years. The other part of the museum was about this port being the last place that The Titanic stopped before pushing off to her destiny. For a small village, this museum is well worth the stop.

Our next stop was Blarney Castle. Yes, that Blarney.

See that figure way up there at the top? That is the old guy who holds you so that you do not plummet through the hole in the castle. OY.

One must, of course, climb for it and the way UP is like nothing I have experienced before. It totally amazed me that two men, following us, were going to fit in the tight surrounds of the winding staircase. They weighed 400 pounds or more. They were determined and they did it.

I, on the other hand, was glad that I had to wait in this spot as people came pouring out of a room, on the way up. Knock yourselves out, people...go for it. I was very glad for the rope that helped one round each curve.

View from the top, down into the ruins.

Here is the infamous "kiss this, stupid" spot. The Blarney Stone. One must lay back, hold onto the two metal straps and then dangle down into the hole of death to kiss the spot that has been kissed by many nuts before you. Can you tell that I chose to eschew this practice? Not a party pooper, just an adult who was happy to make the climb and watch others do the deed. Hah!

We headed down (grateful that the egress was a lot easier) and walked around the beautiful grounds before heading into the village for some retail therapy and ICE CREAM.

Our next hotel was clearly in our sites and before dinner time, the Bob Moroney pulled into the big spot in front of the Killarney Plaza Hotel which was an old school, fancy shmancy hotel, which was perfect for the older crowd who wanted to turn in relatively early, because it was not in the center of the action but one street over. Killarney is a wonderful and joyful town with Irish music and singer/songwriters blaring from every pub. What a difference from Dublin. We had a very hoity toity late meal (much to the chagrin of the octegenarians) and the younger ones (!) walked around the town until dark, which was much later than I am used to. I felt like I was getting to the heart of Ireland.

The next morning began the day that was the pinnacle of my journey. The Ring of Kerry.

Ireland, Part two

Contact. Modern hotel. Big white Bus/Coach pulls up out front with the name Bob Moroney painted on the windshield and would prove to be our home away from home for much of our travels. (you can just see Simone, there inside.)

At the door of the coach, there to guide an elbow and give a friendly aside was the man that I will credit with my having such a rich experience on this journey, Tom O'Brien. Ginger hair, freckles, the face of Ireland and the heavy accented English of a native speaker. The man who was glad to have two Americans stuck in the middle of this group of Brits. (shown here with Barbara, from Jersey.)

Our experience of Ireland began that day, as we boarded the coach and politely took our seats, nodding at one another as we passed. Our first destination was to Glendalough (valley of the lake). We began getting out of the city fairly quickly and got out into the countryside as the big white vehicle was deftly handled on narrow roads. Tom's accent over the microphone intrigued me because I kept hearing something that sounded Germanic or Scandanavian and because I had not looked at him closely, as I got on the bus, I figured him for an immigrant. (there are Eastern Europeans in every hotel and restaurant, it seems) Boy, was I wrong. The sound of the English came directly from the fluent Irish that he speaks...old school, baby.

We rolled out into that countryside and were regaled with history as we got further away from Dublin and had one of those Hollywood type moments (there is a Hollywood on the journey, where much of Brave Heart was filmed) as he pointed out the area where Daniel Day Lewis lives, happily outside of a tiny village. That seemed fitting and perfect.

Glendalough is where you will find St Kevin's monastery, an ancient place where there still stands a perfect example of a round tower of the period.

I was more interested in the architecture of the ruined church. This was our lovely guide, who reminded me of Jane Goodall.

It was such a peaceful place where people the the surrounds are still buried amidst the ancient graves. 

It seems strange looking back on pictures with people in them because on that day, we were still strangers, so many of us politely keeping out of each others photos. By the end of the trip we were joshing and needling our trip mates...

As we piled back into the coach, having visited this beautiful national monument, we rode on down narrow lanes choked with Foxglove and Fuschia, on our way to drive through a little village that was the filming site for the BBC series called Ballykissangel, one that I actually became quite a fan of, many years ago. Charming and narrow streets made me glad that it was Tom driving the bus, not I.

Our next stop was at the Avoca Weaver's demonstration workshop, which led to retail therapy of the wool variety...a throw for the couch and a scarf for the hubby. Those who knew what I do were amazed that I would be interested in textiles but those who really know me would not be surprised at all. I love wool. Period.

We stopped for a simple lunch at a small hotel by the river and shared sandwiches with a sweet couple who asked us the constant question...Are you having a good time? Yes, and as we get to know you and learn that your beloved sweater was knitted by your wife, I am having a better and better time. The hotel was a bit of Faulty Towers and full of charm and white bread sandwiches with no crust. Weird. We boarded the bus one more time and were dropped off at the rail station for an obligatory train ride which dropped us at Bray, before we boarded the DART system back to Dublin. People were ho-hum about our stop at Bray but I was happy to stretch my legs and take in the sea, for the first time. It worked for this denizen of the forest and I hope that I captured what I will think of Ireland and will be conveyed more as I show you more pictures from subsequent adventures. Ireland is drop dead gorgeous and everything that I hoped that it would be.

We had a lovely dinner at the Clarion, sharing our table with yet different people (this time with the two couples who had lived as neighbors in Cypress, before one of them moved back to Jersey), making more friends by being ourselves and not what they thought of as typical Americans. We talked culture, politics and oil spill...great stuff. A good rest and our first check-out was to happen in the morning...bags in the hall, breakfast and away to the train station for the first class coach to Cork.

Ireland, part one

All that the Brits wanted to know was WHY we decided to come to Ireland and WHY we were going back home, after 8 days. Oh yes, they really wanted to know how we came to travel with a British tour group instead of an American one. Big questions and simple answers:

1. I have always wanted to go to Ireland. I have read loads of books about the history of the place and it has been my wish forever.

2. I am not retired.

3. Great Rail Journeys is a British tour company and Rod loves trains. (did not really focus on trains other than a means of getting from here to there) It was a total immersion experience with a group of retirees from various English speaking places, including England, Scotland, Wales, South Africa and the island of Jersey, plus a couple of ex-pats who live in Cypress.

We flew into Dublin a day early, to have a day to get accustomed to the time change, which worked pretty well. The group met one another in Wales and took the ferry over from Holyhead, while we spent much of the day walking alongside the tidal river, Liffey and on over into the Southwest side of town, where the action happens to be. Our hotel was the Clarion, in the financial district, which although being a good schlep from "everything" was a lot quieter than being in the heart of the action. I would recommend this hotel. It is quite modern and has very nice rooms as well as public spaces. The breakfasts provided by this hotel were over-the-moon wonderful and I got my first taste of Irish bacon. Lordhavemercy.

Our hotel was very near to this beautiful vehicle and pedestrian bridge. The symbol of Ireland, the harp. I really like the old and new architecture but downtown, Old is King.

Our exploration came without much information and so we wandered the city streets with no expectations. When we came upon the Templebar district, we were lucky enough that we beat the summer crowds. I would actually say that by the time we returned to Dublin, after our grand tour, the population seemed to have doubled, but then of course it was Bloomsday. (the celebration of James Joyce's Ulysses.) These two photographs bracket our trip, as a matter of fact, with the latter being taken at almost 10 pm.

Templebar doors, for a woman of colors.

O'Neil's Pub for a woman who likes some fun.

It's Dublin, where the people walk fast and there is a feeling of youth amidst the history. You just have to walk it. In the grand scheme of things, in the world of cities, it is pretty small but houses an enormous park where the president lives. Something for the people of Ireland to be very proud of and if our native driver/guide was any indication, they most certainly ARE proud.

We met our group in the hotel, late in the afternoon of our second day. Our tour coordinator was a gal from Yorkshire with Italian heritage and a Scottish surname. We had to just love Simone. This was her first trip to Ireland, as well. I could have called her the senior citizen wrangler because, seriously, we felt like kids amongst a different generation. There was another couple that may have been a couple of years our senior and the Welsh postman who was probably younger but other than that, the average age of the tour was 72. I think that there were at least two men who were in their 80's, the point being that they were going and doing, instead of sitting on their duffs complaining about being old. Role models, to be sure. The Brits know how to travel and they taught us a thing or two. One dear lady, a retired nuclear medicine doctor, came all of the way from South Africa (leaving her country to the buzzing of the World Cup horns) to travel with her sister. You see? A tour within a tour. We began our bonding with a welcome dinner at our hotel and it all went rolling along from there.

Mom's Concert Grand

Before I begin my travelogue of Ireland, I have to tell you the end of the saga, or perhaps just The Beginning, as in the story of The Red Violin.

Louise Borland Oldt Corsale's 7 foot Baldwin Concert Grand was born in in 1973, before the piano company was sold to Gibson and the pianos began to be built in...god help me...China. This piano was my mother's pride in a big black package and had served her well as her years as a member of the SF Opera chorus came to an end and her career as a very well respected voice teacher began.

There has always been a piano in the life that I shared with mom (she hated being called mom) and for as long as I can remember, the comforting sound of the piano tuner working his magic was deep in my DNA. It has been over six months and about a month ago, I knew that it was time to let go of this entity that dominated my living room. Through word of mouth, I got the message to the right people and my wish to donate Mom's Baldwin to the music program at El Dorado High School came to fruition, just yesterday. I had to wait while the music teacher finished all of his year end projects and then he had to wait until I got home from Ireland. The result was the appearance of a delightful couple with a truck and a modified horse trailer, early yesterday morning.

They made short work of turning the piano from its original resting place and began to jack it up, using his fabulous Jack in a Box contraption. I am telling you, after seeing the movers bring this instrument IN, I can't tell you how I was so surprised to see two slender people arrive to do this.

The jack enabled them to put a block under the pedals. Wrapperup!

On the dolly and ready for leg and pedal removal.

Ready to roll.

Out she goes.

In she goes.

Done.

I can't begin to tell you what a relief it was to have had such remarkable professionals (and all around nice people) be the ones that helped with this transition. The Baldwin is going to live on and have a technician to keep her singing properly and all that I can say is that for a community to care enough about the arts to have such a program in these times, I know that we found the right home for this instrument. I know that mom would approve because it is not about money, it is about passing the flame of knowledge on to yet another generation.

Onward.