Journal of an Urbane Gorilla

On the ramparts at Caernarfon

Around 10 years after King Louis IX of France built Ste. Chapelle in Paris; King Edward I of England started building a castle at Caernarfon.  It was finished around 1285. He already had castles at Beaumaris and Harlech.  He wanted to build another castle in order to maintain the English presence in Wales.

King Edward built over the ruins of a Norman fort and a an even older Roman fort.  He created a town too and enclosed it and the castle within a wall.  You can still see parts of the wall around the town of Caernarfon today. 

Caernarfon sits at the western end of the Menai straits and looks on to the Irish Sea.  Across the straitsto the north of Caernarfon lies Anglesey island.  The castle is in remarkably good condition.  The best time to see it, however, is outside the tourist season.  You wouldn’t want to get caught going up or down one of the turrets when there’s a crowd.

Big Guy and Emlyn were like kids, playing on the ramparts.  I watched from below; just looking gave me a nose bleed.  Grams took the picture.  At the castle there’s a motion picture presentation about the history of Wales, and the usual gift shop (Grams made a bee-line for that).

As you can see, it was a spectacular day.  But then, every day in Wales is spectacular.

A la prochaine.  Moochas smoochas, Gweeds

Oh, the days of the Kerry dancing Oh, the ring of the piper’s tune

We hadn’t thought about driving around the Ring of Kerry.  We just got in the car and took off for parts unknown.  We headed south and west. We had to stop every so often to just look at the view. 

Ireland has no end of views. The amazing thing for all of us was the size of the country:  Ireland is quite large and has a very small population.

There are vast areas of empty land.  Some of it is cultivated, but much of it is just empty rolling hills. Of course ‘empty rolling hills’ in Ireland are a color of green that is indescribable.

On this particular day, we had wonderful weather until we turned around and came back from the Atlantic Ocean side of the Ring.  The weather suddenly turned dark and foreboding.  The rain came down in sheets. Then, in about 5 minutes, it stopped and a rainbow appeared.  Grams hollered, “Stop, stop!  I’ve got to take a picture of that!”  Emlyn dutifully stopped the car.  We stayed in the car, while Madame got out and took this picture.

Then we tried to find the end of the rainbow, but found a pub instead.

A la prochaine.  Moochas smoochas, Gweeds

The water is wide, I cannot get oe

The sun setting on the Irish Sea is something to behold. Ireland is beyond beautiful.  Of course Big Guy and Grams felt genetically pre-disposed to be at home in Ireland. For Emlyn, it was a similar experience.  For me, well for me it was a little different.  The weather is very different from my ancestral home, but I've become accustomed to a chillier clime living with the Grams and Big Guy by the Pacific Ocean at a latitude higher that I thought possible to sustain human life.

Ireland has monumental weather; the Irish don't do anything by half measure. While we were in Dublin, we lived through a gale that might've flattened most folks. Grams would wrap her coat around her and me and walk at a 45 degree angle to the pub. Ah, The pub, that's why there're are so many pubs in Ireland: the weather. We would be walking along and all of a sudden it would pour buckets. So, we'd dip into a pub. After 15 or 20 minutes, one of us would peek out and see if the rain had stopped.  It usually had, so we'd be on our way.

We would walk along for a while, and another rainstorm would start. We would dip into another pub.  And so it went.  As the Grams is fond of saying: we drank our way through Ireland one pint of Guinness at a time.

But that's the way to drink: one pint every couple of hours. Ah, Guinness, the nectar of the gods.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas, Gweeds

The light in Ste. Chapelle

We were at our favorite brasserie having our morning continental breakfasts and Grams was looking at the guidebook.  “It says here that ‘while Notre Dame is awe-inspiring, to not see Ste. Chapelle is to miss a real treasure of Paris.’ Well, what do you think?  You boys want to go see Ste. Chapelle?”

Big Guy and I looked at each other over our croissants and shrugged our shoulders, “sure,” we said.  So, after we gulped down our cafés Americaine, off we toddled.  We walked passed Notre Dame and went around the corner to the left.  A couple of gendarmes were outside some gates.  They looked as if they might know the way, so Grams approached them, “Où est la Ste. Chapelle, s’il vous plâit?”  They pointed us in the right direction.  Grams was feeling pretty smart at this point.  She always does when the locals understand her really terrible accent.  She can’t even roll her ‘R’s for goodness sake!

That said we entered Ste. Chapelle.  Now Grams noticed these carvings on the front door.  What caught her eye was the shape of the plaque.  It is very like many of the plaques carved during the Renaissance in Italy. “Look Gweeds, don’t they look the same?”  She was right, but I wanted to see the stained glass windows.

The windows are magnificent.  Now here’s the scoop:  In the late 1270s, King Louis IX had managed to spend a small fortune on some relics.  He bought, among other things, the ‘real’ crown of thorns and a piece of the ‘true’ cross.  Now, from what I heard, he met a guy at the side of road coming back from the Crusades.  This guy was wearing a big overcoat and he said, “Pssst, Louis, have I got a deal for you!”  Louis spends half the wealth of the kingdom on this stuff.  Of course, the next crusader was met by the same guy in the overcoat offering the very same ‘Crown of thorns’ piece of the ‘true’ cross.  As a matter of fact there were ‘Crowns’ and ‘piece’ all over Europe during this time.  Then, Louis gets his booty home and has no place to put any of it.  So, he spent the rest of the wealth of the kingdom to built Ste. Chapelle.

It is a little gem.  The stained glass windows are about 50 feet tall, very impressive.  But, it suffered greatly during the revolution. The revolutionaries swept through took everything of value.  They ripped plaques off the wall, took the sacramental chalices, broke into the treasury and stripped it clean.  The only they couldn’t take were the magnificent windows.  The chapel is well taken care of today, but it’s not longer consecrated.  Grams was very forlorn about that.

But the French have a very complex attitude toward the Roman Catholic Church.  For instance, even though Notre Dame still functions, it too has a forlorn continence.  Here’s a tip:  when you go to Ste. Chapelle, don’t bother with the downstairs, it’s gloomy.  Go to the ground floor.  And make sure it’s not too late in the day; you’ll want to see the light coming in through those incredible windows.

A la prochaine.

Moochas smoochas, Gweeds

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again”

I don’t know about anyone else, but I had tofu-turkey dreams last night.  It was a nightmare about Rupert Murdoch.  So, let’s not go there. 

The consensus yesterday was the Grams had been able to recreate everyone’s memory of what a Thanksgiving meal should taste like.  Since we don’t have a Thanksgiving Day in the Small Banana Republic, I wouldn’t know.

We do have Fay Wray Day.  It’s celebrated every 29^th of February – so it’s really something to look forward to.  All the citizens of the SBR gather at the Cocoanut Grove and raise their Banana Daiquiri glasses high at say in unison, “Hip hip, Fay Wray!  Hip, hip Fray Wray!”  The next time we celebrate, it will be mixed with certain sadness since we have now lost our beloved blonde.

Yesterday, after the dinner all of the non-fuzzies flopped about barely able to raise their heads; no doubt suffering from the effects of tryptophan.  We fuzzy- types, on the other hand, were raring to go.  So, we played and played.  But, we weren’t spared the nighttime effects of over indulgence in tofu-turkey.

I needed a nice hot cup of cocoa this morning just to get me back on an even keel.  Big Guy brought me a cup with little marshmallows in it (my fave) while Grams rubbed my ear lobes.  This is what I’m thankful for, or as my pal Emlyn would say, “This is what I like!”

A la prochaine,

Moochas smoochas, Gweeds

Far frae my hame I wander, but still my thoughts return

Far frae my hame I wander, but still my thoughts return,
To my ain folk ower yonder, in the sheiling by the burn.

I like this Thanksgiving ritual.  Grams made tofu turkey, just for me and my mates.  Andrea is visiting and that means she’s brought my pal Nino and baby Donatella.  Trish came and brought a home-made apple pie.  Mmmmmm good.

We had an incredible meal.  Everyone had to push themselves away, groaning, from the table.  Then, I went to check my email and there was a missive from Gerald della Porta.  We stayed at his B&B in Edinburgh last year.  He wrote to wish us a happy Thanksgiving.  I was surprised that he knew about Thanksgiving.  Gerald made our trip to Scotland so nice.  He’s a wonderful host. 

We walked almost everywhere from Gerald’s place.  There was a pub not too far away that we thought twice about going, but it turned out to quite nice.  It sounded so ‘touristy’ with the name The Conan Doyle.  But it wasn’t.  It had a right to be called that since it was just down the street from the Royal College of Surgeons where Arthur Conan Doyle studied medicine before turning to writing. 

When we got there it was right after work and the ‘joint was jumping.’  The pub is up a flight of stairs.  We found a table near a big window.  Big Guy and I commandeered the table while the Grams went to get the drinks.  Guinness all around and thank you very much.  Of course it takes to get Guinness because it must be poured until the pint glass is about 2/3 full, and then it has to sit.  After a minute or so, the barkeep fills it up with a nice head on the top.  Sometimes, you’ll find very talented barkeep who can make a four-leaf clover on the head.

Big Guy and I looked out the window at the street below.  Since the pub is at the end of a street that ends on a triangular corner, there’s a lot going in the street below.  We had a great time ‘people-watching.’  It’s one of our favorite things.  Finally, Grams came with the pints.  We sat there looking at the crowd within and without.  It was great.

A la prochaine.

Moochas smoochas, Gweeds

The picture is of the Georgian crescent where Gerald’s B& B is, the lyric is from “My Ain Folk,” a traditional Scottish song.

But as the last glimpse of Ireland faded into the mist

But as the last glimpse of Ireland faded into the mist

Each one fought back tears and felt strangely alone.

This is the view from Emlyn’s study.  It looks out onto the Irish Sea.  Occasionally, very occasionally you can see the coast of Ireland from this window.  Bronwyn lives here with Emlyn and Marian and Teddy Edward and (of course) Declan.  Ah, Bronwyn, how I miss you!

Teddy Edward is a big bear of a dog.  He watches out for Bronwyn and Declan.  Grams says that if I behave myself, we will go see them after Paris.  I gonna be good, I’m gonna be good.

Can you imagine having this view to look forward to everyday?  Ah that Emlyn, what a lucky fellow.

Happy Thanksgiving.  Grams is making a Tofu turkey for me.  Hooray!

A la prochaine.

Moochas smoochas, Gweeds

Point me toward the Pont Neuf

That little pointed spit of land in the middle of the picture is the park below the Pont Neuf.  I would love to have a picnic in that park with Bronwyn.  Bronwyn is the cutest gorilla in my universe.  The Pont Neuf is at farthest end of the Ile de la Cité.  This island has the Notre Dame and Ste. Chapelle on it. It also has the place where the revolutionaries kept Marie Antoinette (of “Let ‘em eat cake” fame) before taking her off to the Place de la Concorde to lop off her head.  Oooh, I can hear it now, “guillotine, guillotine!!” Remember the “Tales of Two Cities”?  Madame Defarge knitting and knitting.  Yeah, me too; I saw the movie.

Anyway, the Ile de la Cité is also home to that little café where they make those great crêpes.  As I recall, Grams had some stew.  Oh, It was good.  The café is behind Notre Dame and just to the north of the garden of the cathedral.  It has big windows from which you can see across the Ile on to the Left Bank.

I know that Grams is feeling better.  When I merely hinted that it would be nice if my friend Bronwyn came over from Wales to spent time with us in Paris, she gave me the ‘look.’  You know, where one eyebrow goes slightly up and the eyes get very cold.  Ouch!  Well, I guess I was pushing my luck after the perfume incident (see post from a couple of days ago).  Oh well, it was worth a try.

In the meantime, the Principessa has a very cute pic on her blog of Henri.

A la prochaine.

Moochas smoochas, Gweeds

The darkest part of the longest night

She has gone and done it again!  For someone who is supposedly bright, the Grams can be so amazingly dense.  She’s sick, right? Right.  She put off calling the (Ear, Nose and Throat) Doctor, right?  Right.  So, she finally calls him yesterday. So far, so good. He prescribes the meds.  Big Guy and I go pick up the meds.  We bring them home.  She rips open the package and then looks at the label:  it’s penicillin. She breaks down and weeps.

Long story short:  We were in Scotland a couple of years ago.  She gets sick; we go to national health doctor.  “Are you allergic to penicillin?” asks she.   “No, no,” says Grams.  Off to the chemist, we get the meds.  Next morning we all awake to a Grams who’s dayglo pink with little welts all over.  She’s become allergic to penicillin; she can never take it again.  She had told the regular Doc, but not the ENT Doc.

Lap dissolve to last night:  Grams is weeping and wailing.  Too late for the chemist.  Too late for the Doctor.  She’s berating herself, “Why didn’t I tell him?  How could I forget?!?”  We decided not to ladle it on any thicker; she was doing a good enough job as it was.  So, phone calls were made, messages were left and Grams went to bed.

Now, Grams has this belief that everyone at some point in their lives must live through the “darkest part of their longest night.”  By that she means everyone has to face his or her own mortality.  One can only look, at that point, into the mirror of his or her own soul and honestly assess how they measure up.  There’s no hiding from what you see there during that long night.  Now, the next morning what you choose to do with that insight, that’s the measure of the person.

Last night was a very long night indeed.  Grams was up and down and up again.  Hacking and spewing (oooh, too much info!) she spent a lot of time looking into the empty space in front of her.  I made her many cuppas.  Finally, around 4 AM she said, “Gweeds, it’ll all be okay.”  Of course it would, silly woman, but this was good coming from her.  She has this tendency to take the blame even when it’s not hers to take.  This time, it was hers to take, but for once she wasn’t putting on the hair shirt.  Hey, I’ve got enough hair for the three of us.

This AM she spoke with the Doc. He prescribed a med that she has a standing order for and she has right here in the medicine cabinet.  She started laughing.  “Joke’s on me, Gweeds!  I could have been taking it days ago!” ‘Nuff said.

The picture?  30 years ago.  I think she still looks good, not the same, but still good, for an old lady.

A la prochaine.

Moochas smoochas, Gweeds

And the days dwindle down . . .

As I was packing my bag, again, I saw this picture on my dresser.  It’s the Grams and her darlings way back when.  On the right is Ms. ‘Bekah, esq.  Lower left is Mama Rachel, mother of Andie Candie and Bean.    Lower right is Meg, AKA Principessa-of-quite-a-lot, mother of Henri.

                     

Who woulda thunk it?  They grow up so fast.  Interesting thing about the Grams:  when she dreams of them they’re always little.  She never dreams of them grown up.  Now she has no problem with them being grown up, she just never dreams of them that way.  I wonder if all mothers are like that.

The picture session came about because their neighbor, Gene Cheltenham, was learning photography.  He asked is they would come and sit for him.  Grams said, “Okay, but only if you supply the wine for me.”  He did and they did.

I’ve never been good at fathoming what women think, and Grams is no exception.  Sometimes I’ll find her looking at old pictures.  Her expression is impenetrable.  All I know is that she’s very quiet and stands there looking for ages.  When she’s done looking, she moves on without a word.  I know that she’s not the sentimental type, but I just can’t figure what’s going on in that head of hers.

I do know something though:  I’m going to Paris, I’m going to Paris.  Je suis tres contente, vraiment!

A la prochaine.

Moochas smoochas, Gweeds