We keep coming back to Ireland

Start to write this instead. Much of my writing is done as a way of avoiding writing.
(Anne Enright: My writing day on The Guardian)

We keep coming back to Ireland, Jen and I. Staying inside the Bridgehouse we drink tea, eat ginger cookies, try to write stories and read books by Deirdre Madden, Anne Enright and Sally Rooney. The weather changes every ten minutes. There is rain, there is sun, reflecting on the ocean’s surface behind the garden. Then rain again.

Es zieht uns immer wieder zurück nach Irland, Jen und mich. Im Bridgehouse trinken wir Tee, essen Ingwerkekse, versuchen Geschichten zu schreiben und lesen Bücher von Deirdre Madden, Anne Enright und Sally Rooney. Das Wetter ändert sich alle zehn Minuten. Erst Regen, dann Sonne, die sich auf der Meeresoberfläche hinter dem Garten spiegelt. Wieder Regen.


We walk her dog through forests covered with moss and along the sea that hugs the Béara Peninsula, and we remember all our other trips to Ireland – hitchhiking up the west coast from Kenmare to Galway, drinking Irish Coffee and listening to live music in dark pubs, strolling around her favourite city Dublin, exploring Northern Ireland two years ago. There are so many memories when you are together.

Wir spazieren mit ihrem Hund durch moosbewachsene Wälder und entlang des Meeres, das die Béara Peninsula umarmt. Wir erinnern uns an all unsere anderen Ausflüge nach Irland – als wir die Westküste von Kenmare nach Galway trampten, Irish Coffee entdeckten und irischer Musik in dunklen Pubs lauschten, als wir ihre liebste Stadt Dublin erkundeten, als wir vor zwei Jahren durch Nordirland fuhren. So viele Erinnerungen zu zweit.

And, as always, I keep bringing my Canon A-1 along everywhere we go. And when I pick up the photos a few weeks after the trip, it somehow extends our time there and I discover the place once again. We’ll come back again, we still want to swim in that lake.

Und immer habe ich meine Canon A-1 dabei. Und wenn ich die Fotos Wochen später abhole, scheint es wieder einmal unsere Zeit dort zu verlängern und ich entdecke alles nochmal neu. Wir werden wieder zurückkommen, wir wollen ja noch in diesem See schwimmen. 


birthday girl

Ireland 08

ireland 08

ireland 08

ireland 08

You can never control longing. Sometimes, the feeling comes over you in waves. Jen and I feel similar about longing for another home somewhere else. It is Australia for me, it is Ireland for Jen.

We are not sure if it is wanderlust or homesickness. All we know is it makes us write. She wrote a fascinating and personal article about the meaning of Irish pubs in relation to the new documentary The Irish Pub. You can read it (and more) on her blog Working Title 6. Longing comes also with a nostalgic feeling, so I looked for some pictures I took in 2008 on our two-weeks-trip hitchhiking along Ireland’s west coast.

It is her birthday today, and I wish Ireland will soon come to her or she’ll make it to Ireland, but most of all: that it will always inspire her to create!

Happy birthday my dear.

Snow White and the seven rain drops

Once upon a time, there was a girl who found the place of the rain. In the city, the rain dropped softer against window and only touched her hair without soaking it. When she was outside she didn’t feel the rain anymore, it was as thin as air. Only when she stepped inside,

air turned into little drops of water
like beginnings turn into stories
like drops melt into keystrokes.

It was nothing more than the feeling for the right place. The city was everything and it could always be, from far away and nearby.

In June, I was there. When I left Porto, there was thin warm rain as if Dublin had stretched out his hands to the South to welcome me. It was colder though when I arrived. We watched the busy brewery from the balcony, had cups of black tea with milk; read Jeannette Winterson’s Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit and found a sentence for Jen’s master thesis and past, present and future times:

Round and round he walked, and so he learned a very valuable thing: that no emotion is the final one. (p. 48)

No weather is the final one either. There will always be a longing; for different weather, for a different place.

The keystrokes move with every change.