Sheep and Pintxos: Notes On The Perfect Summer
Two months’s summer travel is, I know, a great luxury, and I joke that in our solid middle age we took a gap summer, as opposed to the now-normal collegiate (or not) gap year with a backpack. But if you follow me, and if you are a human in this world, you know that it’s a miracle that we did it at all: this trip “started” two years ago, not two months, when my husband planned a lovely surprise trip with our best friends and family to Ireland to celebrate my, ahem, very big birthday. A pandemic intervened. We did traverse Ireland, finally; we also took a dip into the UK and spent almost a solid month in very sunny Spain. We wore the backpacks. And we discovered a few things:
Everyone eats potatoes. I mean everyone.
From Dublin to Madrid (and all over Europe), the lowly spud reigns supreme. We had boiled and mashed and a million chips in Ireland and the UK, we kept copious notes on our search for the best patatas bravas in Spain. (Found them.) This tuber is everywhere because it makes sense - it’s easily sourced in all three climates, it lasts in storage and it can become just about anything; imagine that, a vegetable as unifier! But let’s be honest: one does not go on vacation in European countries famous for their “food glorious food” and not try it. Our vegan ways took a vacation too.
Summer from my husband’s point of view.
I tried to stay steadfast. My gateway dish was a gorgeous bowl of cauliflower soup in Dublin laced with…. bacon. Hubs had an unusually moving ham and cheese sandwich. We ate the fish with those chips. We are pretty sure we found the most delicious tortilla - a sort of egg-potato-pie - at Antonio Bar in San Sebastian. And the small plates that often have nothing to do with potatoes, the pintxos and tapas? Fugghedaboutit. We gorged ourselves unabashedly: we inhaled bacalao fritters, practically snorted wee boquerones (anchovies) and let translucent slices of famous jamon iberico melt on our tongues without a second thought. I will say that ambrosial plates of tomatoes and lots of gildas - hot and spicy skewers of olives and pickled peppers named for the movie starring Rita Hayworth - let us still feel somewhat virtuous. I swoon just thinking about it.
But in retrospect, the potato was all. It makes brutal sense that the potato famine of 1845-1849 was as devastating as it was - it wasn’t just that the crop failed. It’s that the crop failed while the other crops tenant farmers produced were sent to Great Britain, which governed Ireland as a colony at the time. Death and displacement, to the US and the UK, mostly, reduced the Irish population by 2-3 million. Perhaps it’s a simplification (I’m sure I will get letters), but history shows us how easy it is to take from those already in need, be it food or a human right or equal treatment, rather than raise them up. Even now, the idea that something might be taken away, true or not, causes intense strife and resentment. I sound naive, but I wish it were easier to be kind.
P.S. While we couldn’t quite bring ourselves to try the real version, we did manage to find delicious vegan haggis in Edinburgh. And it came with, what else, chips.
Into every journey a little rain will fall.
Sunset from our front door in Glenmore.
But not as much as usual, apparently. The landscape in Ireland is as gorgeous as they say, and more. The island practically glows green (they’re not kidding about the forty shades), and the wind on the coasts will carry you away while you gaze at the fullness of the landscape, especially if you get distracted by the adorable and ubiquitous sheep. To us the rain seemed non-stop: we were so glad of our raincoats - mine especially because the shade of pink is fantastic and my husband could never lose me in a crowd when I wore it; neither could anyone else. But in the very wee village of Glenmore in Kerry, our sheep-herding hosts lamented the light state of the spring rains. What to us is a delightful, if misty, 71 degree-day to them is a day that’s a bit too warm for June. Those sheep need to eat and lush grass is what should be for dinner.
Once in Spain we stowed our coats permanently; a cute pink raincoat isn’t a summer necessity there in normal times, and certainly not when 40% of the country is aflame. Climate change isn’t a divisive issue in most other countries, and it made us sad to be surprised by that, especially when we were so swept up in the beauty around us. But duh, the health of the world we live in, a world that holds such beauty, shouldn’t be divisive. The only thing we should be fighting about is which place is prettier: Ireland (me, obvs) or Spain (Silver Fox). I’m right. :)
We all just want to be known.
Travel makes one more likely to chat. We loved talking to people - locals in a pub, grocery store clerks, other tourists, our housing hosts, the young server at The Lobster in Waterville who’s planning her first trip to NYC. My husband bravely did the talking in Spain and made friends daily. And I “know” everyone in Ireland. Sweeping statement? Every person I met seemed like one of my relatives - chatty, warm, welcoming and clever, with a deep love of literature and a fantastic, if bookish, sense of humor.
The more we explore the more we find we’ve got tons in common with, well, most people really. And when you chat with a fellow traveler, there’s a tacet understanding of being out of the routine - it’s conspiratorial, in a way - and you’re drawn into a recitation of where you’ve been, where you’re going and of course where you’re from. Nothing else seems to matter and you could chatter on with no politics, no enmity. You’re united in the one thing that matters: exploring this strange world in which you find yourselves in. The conversations start the same way: an offhand comment about what great bar tables old Singer sewing machine tables make, did you see such-and-such a sight and do you have any suggestions for a good meal?
We paused to take in the Giant’s Causeway with the hiker from Senegal who just wanted to enjoy the view with us, exclaiming how lucky we are to see such a stunning sight. So true. The owner of our neighborhood wine store in Madrid put aside bottles for us to try. And a table of Scots told me they loved my American accent! Maybe we’re freer to share when the risk is low, but I think we crave that connection in normal times, too. The common thread is there and perhaps we can be looking for it more. We all just want to be known.
It’s worth it to stay in the moment.
I wrote at the start of the trip about staying in the moment so as to honor my dad who couldn’t travel with us, and to be able to tell all about it in detail upon return. I posted a couple of times on the socials, before It dawned on me that posting was taking me out of said moment. So I stayed quiet, took a social break and reveled in the trip.
Clearly I have a lot to catch you up on and maybe this post is a little too long; thanks for sticking with me, dear reader. I think you’re getting that our travels gave us a lot to think about. I’m just a musician who likes to write, and I try to stay away from subjects I can’t parse well. But our country looked a little bedraggled from across the pond. Democracy is messy, yes, but it isn’t supposed to be mean. A number of locals we met lamented our gun situation, the abortion question, the way we sideline those we view as “different,” and now I find myself more willing to talk of difficult things. I’m not sure how this will manifest in my life; I hope you’ll stay tuned to find out.
I also hope you get to take your own break; give yourself the gift of slowing down and looking around you and finding the beautiful. Our world is marvelous, other people are marvelous. So are sheep. And anchovies.
