THE PILFERING NEWCOMER

I am not a fisherman. I never have been, but there is a great big lough behind my new digs here in Portumna, Co. Galway, and I wanted to take advantage of the water. I had already ordered a kayak, and I thought fishing might complement the paddling, so I went to the local tackle shop and met Maureen, the proprietor. She was pleasant and understanding of my needs, and sold me a very basic rod and reel. She also loaned me a beautiful, coffee table-sized book of the lake, showing its 100+ islands along with historical places and ruins surrounding it. “Shur, there’s no rush in returnin’ it,” she said. “Keep it a few months.”

I returned to the shop the following day to purchase a life vest, but also to admit that the basic rod and reel had me flummoxed. For some reason, the reel wasn’t reeling in. I apologized for being a moron, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“Ach, shur lots have a blither of a time the first outin’. Just bring it in and we’ll sort it out.”

I was back the next morning with the rod and reel. Maureen was busy with a customer, so I perused the merchandise and saw some hooks that were bigger than the puny ones that came with the pole. I wanted to land BIG fish! I figured I should buy something in exchange for the tutorial I was about to receive so I grabbed a pack of the larger hooks and dawdled for a while, daydreaming while Maureen was finishing up her post-purchase pleasantries with the customer in front of me. Eventually, I heard, “There ya are, now! Let’s go outside and see what ya have.”

She immediately diagnosed the problem, that I had run the line up the wrong side, so she cut the bob, weight, and hook I’d managed to attach, restrung the line, and then re-attached the gear. She also gave me pointers on how to cast as well as places I might want to drop a line. She couldn’t have been more gracious, and I thanked her greatly for the service before I started the walk back home.

I’d gone about a quarter mile when I realized I hadn’t bought those fishhooks, so I returned to find Maureen behind the counter. “Was there somethin’ else ya needed?”, she said with a smile.

I scanned the counter for the fishhooks, saying, “I thought I’d placed some hooks here I wanted to purchase.”

“Shur, no, ya put them in yer pocket. I thought they were yours.”

I reached in my pocket, and sure enough, I found the hooks. I was mortified! I had absent-mindedly slipped them in my pants, which was bad enough, but this was coupled with the fact that she watched me do it, and then went on being helpful and instructive. All the while probably thinking this new Yank was some brazen thief. And then, when I returned, she stated exactly where the hooks were, but in the same breath let me off the hook.

“And ya don’t want those hooks. Those are for sea fishing. Let’s find ya the proper ones.”

Oh, I have so much to learn.

I really do. I moved over here in late February with only a vague plan of action, how I would visit my sister and her family on their farm in Offaly for a few days, then look at a couple of apartments in Galway before picking one, and be gone within a week. I hadn’t researched the market from Stateside, outside of looking at the prices for the apartment listings on Daft.ie. They seemed reasonable. How could there be a hitch?

Oh, there was a hitch, alright. Ireland’s generosity towards refugees exceeds its ability to house the steady flow. Although I was seeing apartment listings on daft.ie, i didn’t realize that the realtors were getting over 200 inquiries in the first half hour for each posting. I was quick to learn that it wasn’t like there were a couple of crummy places to choose from. No, there were none! I would stare at Daft.ie’s webpage for hours on end, refreshing regularly, but even when a new listing would pop up, my application would go unanswered. This happened over and over and over again.

My sister Joanne, her husband Joe, and their children all assured me that staying on for awhile was no bother, but as Mark Twain said, house guests are like fish; they are only good for three days. That was about my original estimation for staying, but as the weeks drew on, my anxiety level grew. The only saving grace was an extra hand was needed in helping out with chores around the farm, especially now that it was birthing season for the ewes and heifers. I threw myself into being helpful.

If you’ve ever spent time on a farm (which I hadn’t), there’s always work to do. Each day would start shortly after sunrise, with the sound of the cows mooing and the sheep bleating for hay. I took some solace in the fact there was no rooster on the farm. Those annoying animals start crowing even before dawn. I’d slide out of bed and into some jeans and boots, and trudge over to the barn, grab a pitchfork, and start distributing the silage to the sixteen head of cattle and three ewes. These gals were eating for two (the ewes sometimes for three or four) and could be quite aggressive in stealing the feed from their neighbor. Joe showed me how the backside of the pitchfork could be employed to teach them to keep their eyes on their own plate, but I didn’t go all Kristi Noem on them. After a while, just the turning of the pitchfork and raising it over my head had the intended effect and they kept their eyes and cuds trained on the food in front of them. I often sang to them just to hear my own voice, or danced while pitching the hay, but to a cow, they were indifferent to anything but the pitchfork and where the next bunch of silage was heading.

After this chore, it was on to the fireplaces in the main house and the side house (The Moonshack) where I was staying. After each night’s turf and wood fires, they needed to be emptied of their ashes. This is not a fun job, as there’s always cleanup afterward due to the dusty, fine particles wisping away on the slightest of breezes. I learned quickly to check the wind direction before heading outdoors to the ash pile. You only have to have that stuff blow back in your face once to remember to keep the dustbin upwind of yourself.

Usually at about this time, Joe and Joanne would be rousing, so I’d grab a few empty turf bags and go out to turf pile to refill them. Turf has to be cut in late May/ early June and then left to dry out in the fields. It can take anywhere from two to eight weeks depending on the weather. Last years cuttings in Offaly were pretty poor as it rained all summer, but Joe had cut his earlier than most, and his bricks were dark and solid, and put out as much heat as could be expected from this particular fossil fuel. His mountain of turf would see them through until the autumn, and he augmented the turf with wood cut from his different properties.

Have you ever chopped logs? This was my favorite chore after a while, as it is great for releasing tension and anxiety. Early on, I’d just swing wildly into the stump, invariably getting the axe head buried into the wood, and then spend the next few minutes trying to wiggle and bend the head out of the wedge. It could be quite frustrating, but after a while I started to see the grain and was able to read the wood, and I quickly learned to cleave an 18-inch high log right down the middle, then quarter it. The satisfaction in doing so was quite rewarding, and I could spend an hour or two just chopping and stacking. As the days turned into weeks and still not finding an apartment, the wood pile was my happy place.

After cutting wood, the day was usually mine to do as I wanted, but I tried to help out with anything else needed doing around the house and farm. As the new-born calves and lambs came in, I was there to assist in any way I could. I got a birds-eye view of seeing the newbies coming down the channel, and often held an ewe or heifer while my brother-in-law went shoulder deep into the birthers to assist if the babies were breaching. These moments aren’t something you soon forget, and I will be eternally grateful for being allowed to hang around the farm, but I really needed to find my own place soon. 

As the days and weeks past, I wondered if this dream of moving permanently to the place I’d lived for a short while as a child, and returned to visit often over the last 50 years might just be a pipe dream. I was receiving no responses to my dozens of inquiries, and I started mulling over returning to the NY/NJ area. I didn’t want to quit on the dream, and staying on the farm indefinitely didn’t seem an option, but just when all hope seemed lost, the phone rang.

“Hello, this is Majella, from Estat Ltd property management. I see you enquired about a 1-bedroom flat in Portumna. Are ye still interested?”

‘Oh, yes! Will you be showing it soon?”

“Certainly. How soon could ya come?”

“Tomorrow, early, if that works for you,” I said.

“Well, I have a showin’ at 11, so if—“

“I can be there at 10,” I said. “How long of a lease will I need to sign?”

“It’s a 5-month lease currently”, said Majella. This fit perfectly into my plans, of which I’ll explain in a later post.

“I’ll pay cash upfront for the full 5 months if that would work for you, “ I said.

“Oh, that’d be grand!”, she answered.

Immediately a weight seemed lifted. It seemed that if I liked the place, I just had to show the money. I was ecstatic with the thought of finally having my own roof. Now, the only question was, where the hell is Portumna?!

NEXT: Portumna, Co. Galway