At the time I invited guesses.

They arrived by email, by Twitter, and by sheep.

Where in Ireland was that cottage?

Most guesses were for Connemara but it wasn’t Connemara, or anywhere in Galway though this is where I had looked the most and was very close to getting 2 houses there, one near Ros an Mhíl and another on Inis Meáin.

There were a lot of guesses for Kerry. I had looked quite closely at a cottage behind Waterville and another near the Gap of Dunloe, but no it wasn’t Kerry either.

There were a couple of guesses for Mayo, one quite specificly targetting the Louisburgh area and while they too were wrong I had spent the final month of my search concentrating in that area north of Killary all the way up to Clew Bay.

One guess came in for Wexford, but despite the beautiful weather I endured for the 3 weeks in the cottage, I wasn’t in the sunny south east.

A couple of other single guesses were for Sligo and for Clare. Nobody went north of the border with their guesses, but I did. To get there.

The cottage was in Donegal.

I won’t be getting any more specific; I’m just mentioning the county because I promised I would and some people never forget a promise.

If you so wish you can read (or re-read) the chronicles of my life at the cottage and see some photos. For now I have a lot of painting to do, in a new adventure in a quite beautiful corner of county Dublin. More of that next week, though.

Read: Where in Ireland? »

At the south end of the river front, where the Tonlé Sap river flows into the Mekong, a young man with grotesquely thin limbs told me from his wheelchair that he was from Thailand.

And he asked me for 1,000 riel.

Although only equivalent to less than 20 pence it was so much more than other people with less than a full complement of limbs would typically ask for. Usually the asking involved calling for your attention, and then looking at the places where limbs used to be before adding the terse explanation of a placename like Battambang accompanied by a vocal impression of an explosion.

Charades with landmines.

Reflecting on the cheek of this well-spoken non-amputee I continued to satisfy my thirst with a bottle of Pepsi, price 1,000 riel.

After further conversation and with a crowd now gathered around I established that my Thai suitor and his friend would actually be very happy with a drink so I got them a bottle of Pepsi each.

A 3rd beggar, an amputee, indicated that he too would like a drink. Knowing the afternoon sun of Phnom Penh could provide an endless queue of such thirsty legless people I declined but suggested to the English-speaking Thai that he could share his drink. He dismissed my suggestion pointing out that this other person was not his friend.

–But you are not my friend and I bought you a drink.

He didn’t respond, and I left feeling worthless to ignore other beggars elsewhere in the city.

See Also:
   • Kosovo
   • A Table in a Prague Tavern
   • A Visit to Genoa
   • Cycling Across America

Read: Friends »

It’s been a while since Post to Post #1, which was by Sniffle, but now it’s time to highlight another blog post by somebody else that I’ve really enjoyed.

Post to Post #2 is by Conan and is called Killing in Limerick.

It’s a post that makes me happy to say that I live in Ireland.

Read: Post To Post #2 »

Talking and walking were without reservation the things I instantly listed in America whenever I was asked what I missed about Ireland.

I had a friend there who also listed talking and walking as the two things he missed the most about Ireland, though in his case he put walking first.

Either way, we agreed that the acts of walking and talking, as we meant them, were related.

Once upon a time in America I shared living space with somebody who in the depths of winter would, if left unfettered, set the heating on 91 or 92 degrees. Fahrenheit, obviously, but nonetheless that represented a temperature of 33 degrees Celsius, a temperature that Ireland never sees even during summer. Not even during what we label a heatwave.

All over the house, it was 33 degrees inside, by choice.

Doing cold well, I come from the other end of the spectrum and if I was left unfettered I’d have the heating set at, well I don’t know - the thermometers wouldn’t tell me. Honestly they wouldn’t. Because I’d have set them lower than their minimum.

Something I brought to America was a small thermometer that the ESB gave out encouraging you to save energy by lowering the heating in your home. This encouragement was done by the juxaposition of judgmental phrases beside the temperature scale. If I recall correctly there was “Too Hot”, “Hot”, “Warm”, “Ideal”, “Economical”, “Cool”, and “Cold”.

In Ireland this was great, like having your own household umpire on all matters temperature. So when your mother asked “Is it me or is it warm in here”, you would have a quick consult with your paper Solomon before confirming that it was in fact your mother because in the house it was “ideal”. And the next month, or hour even, when your mother pronounced it cold in the house you could point out that she was way off and the term for what we were feeling was “economical”.

It’s only mothers this applies to. Irish Fathers are as likely to talk temperatures as they are to talk about the cubic centimetres of liquid in their cup of tea.

I bring this up because that thermometer was useless in America. Similar style thermometers in the US only overlapped slightly with my thermometer from Ireland. The US bottom was the Ireland top.

As I remember it here are those temperatures on the Irish thermometer:

    Too Hot 24C (75F)
    Hot 22C (71.5F)
    Warm 20C (68F)
    Ideal 18C (64.5F)
    Economical 16C (61F)
    Cool 14C (57F)
    Cold 12C (53.5F)

So in Ireland I was happiest, back when I used to be happy that is, down at 12 degrees C (about 53-54F). But in America those temperatures, and several above it, didn’t exist. Not on fridge magnet thermometers nor on the one that controlled the heating. So even left unfettered I couldn’t get anywhere near my desired temperature.

I was never unfettered however, and the comprise temperature, on those rare occasions when compromise reigned, was a chilly 86 degrees Fahrenheit (30 Celsius).

So in summer the temperatures were so hot they were off the Irish scale. And in winter, well the temperatures were so hot they were off the Irish scale.

This meant that I loved walking out into sub freezing temperatures. Everybody’s house, every building, and everybody’s car, was too hot for me. I got heat rashes over most of my body every day.

So alone in my own car I didn’t just choose to leave the heating off; I left my coat off. And I opened the windows for the whole 15 mile drive to work. My body was buffered from the bitingly cold temperatures by all the heat it had absorbed in the hours away from my car.

And then I parked as far away as I could from the office door so that I could get some sense of what walking was like. One such freezing morning on that long 50 meter hike to the office, I was joined by a man who had opted for the shorter walk of 20 meters. Our walks to the building joined when we were just 10 meters away.

I didn’t know him and I’d never seen him before. He didn’t open with the more traditional “Hello” or “Good Morning”. Instead he spat out angry sentences. I don’t know why, but it appeared to be my fault.

-Where’s your coat?
-I don’t really need one; I’m just going in there.
-It’s 17 degrees (-8C) out here.
-Yes but I’m expecting to be in that building in seconds and for the heating to be on in there.
-I suppose you think it impresses the ladies.

Stunned into silence I held the door open for him. The next day it occurred to me that once we entered the door I should have asked why he was wearing a coat inside in such warm temperatures (it was 71 - “Hot”). I mean he still had some distance to go to his office.

But anyway, who are these women who are impressed by such great coatless walking feats?

See Some Differences Between Ireland & the US:
   • Turkeyed Out
   • End Times
   • Exits
   • Valentine’s Day
   • Fun

Read: Impressing The Ladies »

I made up a joke over the weekend. It was for the benefit of two young children during a riddle fit.

Q. What goes “Moo” and swims in a Chinese restaurant in Belfast?

In the great tradition of unwanted emails I won’t tell you the answer straight away. Instead I’ll give you a moment to think of the answer, or scroll down.

I should add that it makes me laugh every time I tell it. Hard. Even right now just thinking of it has me laughing so much I’m finding it tricky to type. Plus my fingers are close to numb.

Are you ready?

just remember that if you ever hear this joke again, this is where it started.

The answer is:

A Koi.

Ha, ha ha!

No of course the kids didn’t get it, but they’re kids so they laughed anyway. I think I might make up some more.

Read: An Irish Joke »

I’m busy painting right now. Planning a big sale in 2 weeks. It’s easy to plan.

If I get a chance I might have something to say when I take a break in a few hours.

And I might not.

More on My Paintings:
   • My Favourite Paintings
   • So I Painted It
   • Things I Paint the Most
   • Things People Say (When They See You Painting)

Read: I’m Painting »