My week in Donegal or a love story

I had nobler intentions of writing a series of blog posts as a diary to my week in Ireland.  But there were writing assignments every day (often with hours to contemplate, craft, and submit = good lesson for being a professional writer) and the days were long.  Not the oh my god will this day never end kind of long.  The I want to savor every glorious minute of Northern Atlantic light, Irish brogues, and the happy serendipity of being thrown together with a small crowd of kindred spirits kind of long.

So here I am in the early morning of July 4^th, still on GMT sipping my coffee (after starting the second load of laundry, vacuuming, a half run/half walk with Sadie, and watering all my thirsty plants) when I finally get around to some detail about the week in Ireland.

I spent the week in a little town in Donegal called Bunbeg with the Ireland Writing Retreat.  I spent an extra day on either end – mostly to make the travel a little less frenetic as I was flying to Donegal airport rather than renting a car.  Those days were a nice bookend to the week – on which I took a decent walk down to the beach and fell in love with the sea in a way no New England coast has ever moved me.  Enough to confirm that I will never want a house on the Cape, but if fortune and time allow I will get a beach house in my ancestral home.  (But that is topic for another blog post.)

The retreat was at Teac Jack.  I like to think I heard enough Irish to understand you don’t say the ‘t’ in Teac – it’s more a ‘ch.’  I’m not really one for hotels, but if I ever stay in one I hope they have the warmth and hospitality of Teac Jack.  The staff were so kind and helpful (to the point of offering to go to the grocery store to buy me an electrical adapter because I only had one that accepted a USB).  They remembered my name and taught me phrases of Irish.  There was a restaurant where we had breakfast.  I did the full Irish my first morning, but then settled into a habit of scrambled eggs, tomato, bacon… and brown bread.  I want to make brown bread, but I know I can never recreate it (especially because our butter is a sad imitation of any dairy in Ireland or the UK).  Then there was the pub on the other side of lobby.  It was where we ended up with our laptops to complete our writing assignments we had to email by the deadline.  But we lingered for a late lunch or dinner or music at the end of the day.  I think I had the seafood chowder every day. 

The fact it came with the brown bread was definitely a selling point – but it was really delicious and paired nicely with a pint of Smithwicks or Bulmers or Guinness (if you really wanted a meal with a Guinness).  The composition of seafood changed every day – sometimes more salmon or more shrimp or more clams.  You could tell it was fresh – and how could it not be walking distance from the ocean?  If I didn’t have the chowder, I ate seafood.  Except that one chicken Caesar salad, which was not the Caesar salad I know.  It had warm potatoes on the bottom and bacon.  And the dressing was so thick with mayonnaise… well that’s Irish cuisine.  It was all delicious.  But I appreciate that half run today and will be stockpiling the green things in the fridge this week.

The writers’ retreat started on Monday evening.  We all gathered in the lobby, cautiously asking one another if we belonged to the group.  It was kind of like the start of an Agatha Christie dinner party, where all these guests with intriguing back stories gather for an unknown adventure.  Fortunately there was no need to call on Miss Marple.  Our ‘magical mystery’ first evening brought us to the back room of the hotel, where there was a beautiful view of the horizon outside and an ornate fireplace setting an intimate tone.  At the corner of the room was a table with a dozen glasses filled with whiskey.  The whiskey was from Sliabh Liag Distillery (Check out their story.  This blog would be too long if I got into it, but it is worth knowing).  The owner was there to tell the story as well as the significance of the name of his blended whiskey, Silkie.  Whiskey is delicious and can inspire many stories, but having those details before sampling it made it taste much richer.  I think that evening was a similar preamble to our week – we were able to know enough of one another’s back stories to make the week to come that much sweeter.

Every morning started at ten in the back room.  We had workshops on the importance of questions in storytelling, landscape, dialogue and editing.  I am not going to give you the play by play.  But I will encourage you to participate in one if you can.  The best part of the formula is that there were introductory remarks, but each session was an opportunity for discussion.  We also shared our work and got feedback from other members in the group.  Our pieces were short (max 500 words) and our feedback was immediate.  It wasn’t an in depth critique from other members of the group, but more reflective from facilitators.  I found both useful – because gut reactions are important in knowing how different readers hear your words and story.  I decided to connect all my assignments into one continuing story in the world of my novels.  This allowed me to enter that world from a different door - also appreciate the invasive quality of Japanese rhubarb in the real and imaginary landscape of Northern Ireland.

When we weren’t writing in the afternoons, our hosts took us to see the highlights of Donegal.  Our first day we went up the street to a Teac Mhuiris, a thatched cottage that has been kept as an historic home. 

But defying some of my American museum sensibilities, they had a warm peat fire in the center of the room and served us tea after our host told us about the history of the town and the house. It was like walking onto a set of Dancing at Lughnasa (for which I admittedly took a lot of mental notes after a couple friends hinted that I should direct the play next time I want to go to Ballybeg).  The cabinet full of china, the peat fire, the stone floor (with one slab of wood because the stone would break the hot iron pots when mashing the potatoes and veg), the cross on the wall.   And then there was tea.  Irish tea is appropriately strong enough for some cream.  And then there were scones, butter, and jelly.  We also sampled some of the seaweed that was collected on local shores.  One – the dulse – was very salty and used to add salt to a meal or one’s pH.  The other was carragheen moss, with which they made a milky sweet jelly (custard).  This moss is said to help with any chest cold.  Having battled a cough the week leading up to my trip, I was eager for some of this Irish magic.  Maybe it was in my mind, but I didn’t need my cough drops as much after that.  I also got some on my way home, so if you come to my house for a supper club, you may find yourself sampling some.

Our hosts also gave us a dance lesson, which we could put to use at the ceili gathering later that night at Teac Jack.  I participated in one dance, but really enjoyed watching the dancers.  Most of them were women – many of them my mother’s age.  I thought it an amazing celebration of culture, but also of spirit.  It connected very much to the theme of Brian Friel’s play but also the unabashed joy of music and art and community.   Wheels in my head are turning… but that, too, is subject for another conversation.

On Wednesday, we visited Glenveagh National Park (and castle).  This was, of course, the rainiest day of the week.  It didn’t allow for many walks through the park, but we did make a few stops along the way to take in the awesome landscape of Donegal.  I particularly appreciated the Poisoned Glen because of its connection to Lugh… but also because… well, look.

The castle reminded me a LOT of Beauport.  The last owner was an American who was a curator at the Philadelphia Museum, specializing in American Decorative Arts.  Maybe my obsession with Sleeper makes me see his influence in everything, but the wood paneling, the rooms themed by color and countries – the fact there was amethyst glass in the French bedroom – were all very resonant from my summers on Eastern Point.  You’ll have to take my word for it, though because they don’t allow photos inside the castle.   But I do have pictures from the gardens and grounds.  The rain subsided enough to allow us to follow the paths before we left.

Our last venture was on Friday to Gola Island.  It was a perfect Irish day.  The sky was blue.  There was a sea breeze, but it was refreshing as we walked around the island.  It was a 15/20 minute ferry ride from the shore.  There are a few houses on the island.  Not many people live there.  But one resident was our host and guide, telling us about the island’s history and legends - including its connection to Asgard, the ship that stored and carried arms that were essential to the Easter Rebellion in 1916.  His wife prepared us a lunch of seafood chowder (obviously I was besotted).  I loved (coveted) the view from their kitchen window and appreciated the added benefit to one’s water therapy. 

After lunch we walked around the island, as far as the sea arches.  I breathed in the sea air, listened to the water crashing against the rocks, and found my inner peace.  I told myself I could live there.  Maybe I could on a brilliant June day.  Maybe I couldn’t commit to a dark December one.  But my characters definitely find some life there.  So I will make my way back.

The retreat ended on Saturday night with an informal gathering in the back room.  Our hosts offered wine and sandwiches.  It was my favorite kind of evening.  Artists talking, sharing stories, laughing, and losing track of time.  It was actually dark (considering light can linger after 11) and the early part of Sunday when we all bid good night, promising one last check in over breakfast.  There were so many kindred spirits thrown together for a week of creativity, learning, and falling in love with Ireland.  It was that special kind of magic that creativity breeds.

I was sad to leave yesterday, letting a few tears fall as the plane took off and Errigal faded from sight.  I am glad to be home with my dog, but I know that I will go back to Gweedore.  The sand, sea, and mystical air are a part of me now.