Journal

Sunday, November 23, 2008

The summer has come and gone. Whish! Now, winter is setting in with its grey skies and long nights. So I’m back to work on the drawing board, literally. Briefly, the Sibley workshop in June – awesome. Then fire season took me out to 3 separate fires in the state of Washington. Great experiences all of them. No – I’m not a firefighter! That is for the young folk. I help setup and run the fire camps. My first call was just after July 4th, and for the next month and a half I was out supporting fire fighting efforts. A whole ‘nuther story, perhaps another time.

The end of September I couldn’t (or didn’t want to) wait any longer so I returned to Ireland for a couple of weeks vacation, this time with Mom. I was very excited to share some of my favorite places with her. Just to go back was great. We briefly met with a couple of friends from the college while we acclimated from the jet lag, then I played tour guide for Mom.

Finally, mid October and I was back home and settling in for the winter. Finally back to work on drawings. Mostly I’ve been working on trying to complete a set of 5 Sporting Group head studies for a set of prints and cards (hopefully first of next year). Then a little piece I’d been wanting to do for my daughter – her two little “yappy” dogs, Tayysa and Angel.



I’m a little stuck at the moment on a good reference and layout for an Irish Setter and a Pointer for the last two Sporting Group dogs in the series. So, I’ve taken the plunge into a landscape that has been rattling around in my head for a bit. I’m sticking with pencil for now. I really like the effects and the textures and detail I can achieve with it. So, with some encouragement from the little exercise I’d done in Mike’s class way last spring, off I went.



There was this bike in the backyard of the cottage I stayed at while gong to school in Ballyvaughan. I have no idea how long it had been there. It was quite rusty and the ivy and grass had been having their way with it for a few years. It was calling out for a picture to be taken and something made of it – eventually. And then there are the rock walls I absolutely love. The different styles, textures, ways the ivy and blackberries and other bushes would climb over and around the rocks. So, the idea of the bike leaning on an old wall started bouncing around.

To date I have been working on the drawing for about 3 weeks, a couple hours a day more or less.

Now, as I move a little further into the drawing I’ve started to wonder about whether or not I want the bike to look like it has been there for years…. or someone just put it there. Each one conjures up a different story. Not sure which story will be told yet. I’m letting it unfold as I work up to the bike.


If you'd like to see more of the drawing board, go to my Drawing Board page on my website.

Not long before leaving Ireland, about a year and a half ago now, I was browsing the website of a British pencil artist I quite admire. He had just published a book which I found to be very helpful. Anyway, I'd already purchased my plane ticket home, when I found he was offering a workshop just across the water in England! Oh, if I'd known I would have postponed my go home date. Bummer. But... not long after arriving back home in the states I found he had just opened an offering for a workshop in - of all places - West Yellowstone Montana! Wow. Not only the chance to take a workshop from this wonderful artist, but to do it in my "other" favorite place - Yellowstone. Well, no hesitation, one way or the other I was going. So I signed up sure the spots would fill up quickly - which they did.

Well, that week has now come and gone, and it was well worth the wait! What a week. Mike is so generous with sharing his knowledge and helping those of us attending. To be together with about 20+ other wonderful pencil artists, all having a similar desire to draw animals and detail. Just to wander around and see how the others were tackling the exercises he gave us was eye-opening.

Well I could go on and on (which I might later...) In the meantime, here are some of the exercies from the workshop. Little tidbits of information, practice and understanding how to make that little pencil do some amazing things.

I have enjoyed putting together a kind of scrapbook presentation that capture photos, sounds and music from my time abroad this past 9 months. For those who have visited my blog you will perhaps recognize some of the photos and art work. I have added songs, music and sounds that I heard often and now remind me of the places I've been and things I've seen.

You can download a version that runs in a smaller window but downloads a little quicker, or one that uses a little larger window but will take longer to download. Just click on the link and it will ask you if you want to open or save the file. It will download the wmv file and then run it on your computer. The duration is just over 15 minutes.

Clearly for me the pictures and sounds bring back many memories. I hope for those who view it, you will at the very least get a sense of where I've been, a wee bit of what Ireland, London and Italy look like, and a taste of the music and sounds that are so much a part of the memories.

Click here for the smaller window version.

Click here for the larger window version:

I hope you enjoy it.

The walk into the village now is pleasant. The evenings are long, it is light until after 10:00, though I’m usually well in before then. On one side of the road the waters of Galway Bay vary on the day between glass calm and frothing whitecaps, in color from a clear brilliant blue to grey and angry green.

On this evening it is calm enough, there is some wind on the water pushing up small waves and wrinkles on the surface. The tide is in, bringing the water right up to the wall along the road. A few feet to spare yet, but I wonder, on a stormy high tide, do waves leap the wall?

On the other side of the road are a scattering of homes and cottages, holiday homes I wager for the most part. It seems, now that I’ve had a chance to spend some time here, that Ballyvaughan is largely a village for tourists. There are a few locals who stay year round, but there are many, many B&Bs and rental cottages in and around the village.

My last few days here. It is going to take a long time to digest all that I’ve learned, seen and experienced in the past 9 months. For now, it has been a well spent time.

I’ve learned quite a bit about my painting and about art in general. Can’t say I know yet what is going to come of it. I will keep drawing and painting, that is a given. What it is going to turn into, that is still open. I do know I am drawn to doing animals, in realistic rendering, and in landscape both as a background for subjects, and as a way of registering a sense of place.

I have also learned I am interested in traveling more. In looking back, the trip to Italy was a highlight for me. Something I never really thought I’d do, but am very glad I did. I would like to see more of the places I’ve read about in history, and of places where my ancestors would have left behind. I will certainly come back to Ireland to visit, and I am still particularly drawn to County Donegal.

And then there are the little things. References in reading or conversation or movies that now have more meaning because I have a context to put them in. And how differently we frame our thinking. I made a comment to some friends here one time about how Yellowstone was not far from where I had lived, about 200 miles. They sputtered at the thought. That is a major journey in the context of this place, where the next village is only a few short miles away, and you are never further than 150 miles from the edge of the island itself.

The smell of peat fires now brings warm and pleasant memories of walks through the village, or home after school on a cold and blustery evening. How much I’ve become dependent really, on the internet and the fact that it doesn’t exist everywhere, and where it does connections can be slow and dodgy. Soda bread is my downfall, particularly a thick slice toasted with melted butter in the morning alongside a bowl of wheatabix.

Walk on the footpath, not sidewalk; Hoover the house instead of vacuum. Use the cooker, rather than the oven for fixing dinner. Put recycle and rubbish in the bin. Very good things are grand rather than great. Everyone talks on a mobile, with a long i. Never ask for ride, its a lift. Young children go to cresh rather than daycare. And always start a conversation with a comment about the weather which can be soft, lovely, dull, bright, fresh and it will change before the sun sets.

I am building a slide show to post here that I hope will capture some of what I saw and heard. I hope to have it up in a couple of weeks. Stay tuned.

Glencolumbkille, The glen of St. Colmcille or St. Columba as he is more commonly known. I have wanted to return here since my first visit a few years ago. Mostly I remember a road from Glencolumbkille to Ardara. On that day it was cloudy and rainy and I remember it being a narrow road over high bog land mostly. Not spectacular, but a place I wanted to return. I decided to hold off on Glencolumbkille until a better weather day, and today is it. It is sunny and clear, a promising day.


My first evening here in Donegal, my host introduced me to a visitor who had dropped by. Knowing I was at least partly looking for signs of McGinley’s in the area, he told me this chap was a McGinley and a historian of County Donegal. We met and chatted a bit. He told me where the McGinley’s were most likely to be found, and this was true for before the plantation of Ireland of Scots and English farmers. So, as I’d read elsewhere, further confirmation that McGinley is indeed Irish rather than Scottish in origin. He also asked if I know the meaning of McGinley and how it is spelled in the Irish. The meaning is Fair Valor and the spelling is Mac Fhionghaile.

With that, and the information that they seemed to be mostly from near the Letterkenny area and also Glencolumbkille area, I am looking forward to spending some time in Glencolumbkille. It also happens to be the place where I had planned on spending a few weeks studying Irish language among some other activities offered by the Oideas Gael school. And, I believe, the students from Evergreen State College might now be there for their 6 week stay in Ireland for their Irish Studies class. One of the instructors I have taken some summer Irish language classes from. It is was during one of those classes where she mentioned she would be taking a year long sabbatical to include some time in Ireland, that I first got the idea of taking time off work myself. Had I not taken that class I doubt I would be in Ireland now. It would be right somehow to see her for a few minutes, here in Ireland, to thank her for her inspiration.

The road I want to take is closed for the day. That is disappointing. There is a sign saying they are doing culvert work until later in the afternoon. Well, maybe I can come back by this road. That leaves me with dropping south just a little further to Kellybegs. This will actually work out well because I’d like to see Slieve League today as well, and these cliffs are on the way from Kellybegs to Glencolumbkille.



It is still relatively early, around 10:00 and only a couple of cars are at the upper parking lot at Slieve League when I arrive. There are two parking lots, a lower and an upper lot. The road to the lower lot is narrow, the road to the upper lot is narrow and in a couple of places just a few feet from the edge of a rather tall cliff. Deep breath. Nice and slow. Ok, it is safe to breath again. The cliffs of Slieve League are said to be the highest in Europe, and well worth the trip to see. Spectacular.





Once back off the cliffs, the drive to Glencolumbkille is uneventful, but pretty. I stop in the village for a cup of tea before wandering around the area and visit with a local chap about yesterdays weather and the weather in general. The rain yesterday he says caused some of the worst flooding he has seen. He said there was water in his fields where there hasn’t been before. At one point a neighbor called to tell him he had a sheep stranded on a little hillock, which he went out and rescued. He also has a couple of lambs come up missing but they later turned up safe. The weather in general has changed, and he echoed what I’ve heard from local people in County Clare as well. The winters are warmer, rarely do they get snow now, or frost, and this past winter was one of the wettest he could remember.



After driving out the coast drive as far as I can go, or nearly so, I come back into the village and follow a heritage sign pointing to Colmcille’s church. That should be interesting. Once again a single track lane, this time the area is open enough that once I leave the last of the houses I can see it snakes up a hillside. Nope, not today. There is plenty of other things to see in the village, including a stop by the Oideas Gael office to see if Sean is in fact here.



When I pull in to the building where the school is located there are few people around, except for a couple of young ladies sitting outside. So, they look like college students. When I ask if they are from Washington, they both give me a curious look, and then I ask if they are Evergreen students they say yes. In fact they are waiting for Sean and a class that is to begin in 20 minutes. So, there is nothing to it but to wait to tell her hello and thanks. Which I do after she has lined out the students for their class. Before I can say more then hello Sean she gives me a strange look and then recognized me. We chat for a few minutes, how strange to run into someone so far from home. And then they are off and so am I.



This time I’m going to go to the 2 cemeteries I’ve seen and look for McGinley stones. Who knows, might find one or two if the historian I spoke with is correct. The first one is now and Anglican church. The church yard full of markers, many with inscriptions as many without, simply markers that someone is buried here. I’ve been told that they often are famine graves, people who died leaving no name or kin or wherewithal to have their burial marked. Others I have also been told could be catholic or Presbyterians who were against the rule of England. Both had little if no status under the Penal laws of the time.



Boyles, Walkers, and other names, no McGinley’s. I walk up through the unmarked stones wondering if my ancestors would have been buried in this manner, I believe they were Presbyterians when they arrived, I’m sure they were not Catholic. There is one tall stone leaning forward, sort of out of place because of the small stones or flat markers nearby. As I bend over to read it, the name Michael is fairly easily read, the rest coated with white lichen and not so clear. There is an M and a G. Oh I have to look a little closer. And as I do, I run my finger over the carved out lettering, McGINLEY. What about the date? Is it old enough? Sacred to the memory of Michael McGinley who departed this life Novbar 29 1872 aged 82 years. – RIP



What are the chances this person is related to my Michael McGinley, b 1803. Could their fathers have been brothers? Lets see, the father of my Michael would have been born in Ireland likely between the years 1770 and 1780. This Michael was born 1790. Could this Irish Michael have been an uncle or a cousin? Or was he from a different McGinley clan altogether? I don’t know. Likely never will know for sure.



There is one other marker with the name McGinley in this cemetery, a Bridget McGinley who died at the age of 21 in 1841. In the other cemetery, next to the Catholic church, there are a few McGinley markers as well, but most of them are recent, within the last 50 years. I need more information, and that information has to come from Pennsylvania, around the years 1780 – 1800 telling me who Michael’s father was, a name and maybe a date when he arrived in America. That I’ll have to leave to some future journey, perhaps a road trip following my ancestors arrival and dispersal across the new frontier of America.


For now though, the afternoon is drawing to a close and I should be heading back to Glenties before the sun sinks too close to the far horizon. That still is several hours actually. It isn’t getting dark until nearly 10:00 now. But, I’m going to try the Ardara road, just in case they finished the culvert work. And I’d like time to take it slowly if it is open. Luck is with me, they are just finishing up as I head up the road. Several workers are heading back to their cars, and the road closed sign is moved back away from the road.


It is a nice drive, as I remembered it. Many peat cuttings, both recent and from many years ago are evident. Along the road, past the top of the summit, little farms hug the narrow valley along the creek. Here the golden bogs give way to fenced green fields dotted with sheep and loads of little lambs. As I drive by one farm, a lamb bounds off in the direction of a ewe and then launches himself into the air, all four legs splayed out as if he had landed on slippery ice. I don’t see him land, but I’m sure all four little legs were well under him in time to launch into another series of bounding leaps before demanding a drink of warm milk from his mother. I wouldn’t mind imagining that this was the home place of my McGinley ancestors.

Morning dawns grey, wet and gusty. But there is promise of bright spells this afternoon. In either case, I’m off on a bit of a road trip today. Hopefully I’ll get some painting done, maybe not. The distance isn’t far on the map, about 150 km roughly. What is that, 90 miles or so. Mileage is deceiving here, where best speeds, for me, are only 50 to 80 km/hr even though marked 100 km/hr even on the narrow winding roads.


My host, Michael, suggests a scenic route good for a nice view of the bridge at Dunglow. As I pull out of the driveway, I opt to do that later this evening. Given the rain I figure the scenic route will look better in the evening with the promised sun breaks.

So I ask Nüvi, my GPS navigator friend, to direct me to Dunglow just to get me headed in the right direction, which she does dutifully and before I know it I’m “arriving at destination”. Hmm. It is Dunglow alright, so I ask her for directions to the next town, Gweedore, where I’ll take off on a side trip along the coast to the Bloody Foreland. So named because the red glow of the sunset on the pink rocks. Bless her electronic heart, she gives clear directions and I end up driving past a few new housing developments then a little further past some older homes and finally into the yard of a farmer’s home; barn with stacks of peat on my left and house on my right. The road once did, and maybe still does continue, but I’m not going to. So I put the car in reverse and gingerly back out of the narrow quarters as the farmer comes out the door. I wave and smile sheepishly, no pun intended, and he nods. Well, ok, I am taking my own advice on getting to Gweedore this time. Back to the heart of Dunglow and my best guess at what the road signs say is the direction I need to go. This results in going in a circle, only once though, before finding the main road to Gweedore.

Bunbeg is a little village on the road to the Bloody Foreland. So I start looking for signs, and, yes ask Nüvi, how to get there. And, eventually, I do find my way to Bunbeg. Road signs here are all Irish as the is An Ghaeltacht, an Irish speaking area. This is where road signs do exist. So when I see An Bun Beag, the little bit of Irish I’ve dabbled with over the years kicks in. Besides it isn’t as different as Gaoth Dobhair is for Gweedore even though the are pronounced nearly the same.

It is quite stormy now, the rain lashing at the road whipped by a fairly strong wind. Lots of standing water on the roads is hiding some pretty good sized potholes along the edges. This makes dodging oncoming cars a little more interesting. If I hug the side of the road to avoid the car, will I loose the front end of the car in that small lake of a puddle just ahead? Ok, perhaps a exaggerate a little, I’ll only loose the hubcap.

The area is quite picturesque, even in the foul weather. Houses scattered along the flatter coast line; greens, golds and grey landscape speckled with white and blue and yellow and cream color buildings, and loads of wooly white black-faced sheep. Several ewes and lambs calmly, slowly, are crossing the road at the moment. At a high point looking out at the frothy ocean I stop, brace myself against the car, and take a few pictures. Then I jump back into the car and check the map for directions to my next planned stop, Glenveagh National Park. I only find myself going in a circle once as I try to navigate my way away from the Bloody Foreland. I don’t plan any detours this time, I’ve had enough little side roads for the morning.




The road to the park goes up a valley past Errigal Mountain, a 2466 ft cone shaped peak in the Derryveagh mountains. What I can see below the heavy clouds drifting along the steep slopes looks like wide-open bog land and rocky bog covered steep mountain slopes. Brown-stained from the peat, little rivulets and large r streams engorged by the today’s heavy rains tumble in ribbons of waterfalls off the hillsides. The rocky stream alongside the road is heavy and frothing as its load of water races over and around rocks and boulders. It feels like a wild place. Few cars pass on this little road. I like it here.


Less than an hour after leaving the Bloody Foreland I arrive at Glenveagh National Park. I’ve been told there is a visitors center and a shuttle bus that runs up to the Castle where guided tours are available to view the luxury of a past century. I choose to just wander the Castle gardens for a bit. As I understand the story, the Glenveagh area was aquired by John Adair who evicted the local farmers from their lands after the famine to build the castle and grounds and 40,000 acre park area in the 1870s for use by the then nobility and British royalty as a hunting lodge. Red Deer were reintroduced to the walled park, having been hunted to extinction on the island. The gardens are very pretty, very manicured. The castle was given to the nation in 1970s by its last owner, a wealthy art dealer from Pennsylvania. The castle has a beautiful view across the lake. After just coming from the wilds on the other side of the mountain the castle looks at, I found I was a little less than fulfilled by the park. I prefer the wild.




As an aside, the Red Deer reintroduced over a hundred years ago have now escaped the park and are repopulating the Donegal area where managed forestry provides many acres of pine forested hillsides and valleys. My hosts says it isn’t unusual to see small herds of 10 to 20 across the road from the B&B along the forest line. The park is also actively now in the process of reintroducing the golden eagle. It too was hunted to extinction on the island over a hundred years ago.


The time is now nearly 2:00 in the afternoon. The rain has stopped and the clouds are starting to break up allowing the sun to burst through with the “bright spells” forecasted for the afternoon. Time to point myself back towards the B&B I suppose. Not far from the park are signs to the Colmcille Heritage Center and birthplace of the saint himself. The remains of a church, built in the 1600’s, is located on the hillside overlooking a beautiful glen, or valley, of green fields dotted with sheep and scattered homes. Very picturesque. Here I could sit a paint for a bit. The weather is good now, the little parking lot by the church is empty. But the afternoon is wearing on and I don’t know how long it is going to take to get home. I have a plan, a route, I’d like to take. It is even a main road on my map. But that doesn’t always mean a quick drive. So I take lots of pictures for future reference. Yep, the juices are stirring again, gotta paint this stuff.



Nüvi says if I take a left, then a right I can begin to work my way back the direction I need to go. So I do, and my first red flag is the road is a narrow one lane path. The left turn doesn’t help much, it remains a narrow one land path, with grass growing up the middle of the track. But, I’ve been down a few of these so far and they, nearly always, drop me out on the main road. So I go with it, but I’m not as comfortable with this track. There are few wide spots and fewer places to turn around should I change my mind. Sheep filled fields are on the right, and pine forest on the left. When I come to a burned out car partially off the road, at a wide spot in the road, I decide that is far enough, I’d much rather turn around here and backtrack a bit to a slightly more used road. That’s it. I’m convinced Nüvi isn’t as familiar with Donegal as she is with other places. Or maybe it is just that there are fewer people and farms here and distances between farms and roads is farther. Ya, that’s it.

Once back on the main road, I follow signs to the Colmcille Heritage Center. Wouldn’t you know it, it is closed. So is the Art Gallery I was told stop at if I was in the area. That leaves only the drive home. The road is good, there are houses, even the occasional village school. I’m ok with this. About the time I get comfortable with the road, signs of civilization fade from my rearview mirror the road narrows some. But, it has been newly re-chipped and sealed. I take this as a good sign and continue on. I’ve not seen a road sign for some time now so I don’t know the name of the road I’m on. I think I know where I am, I know I’m heading the right direction. And oh my but the scenery is improving by the kilometer.


There seems to be no one but me on this little black ribbon of road between growing golden bog covered mountains. I just checked and I don’t have cell service here. No, I’m not going to worry about that. I’m just going to enjoy the drive. The music playing is soft, mellow Irish traditional pipes and fiddles. And as I come to the top of a long gradual climb I feel completely surrounded by these great, golden mountains, in front, on both sides and as far as I can see behind me. I stop the car and get out for a few pictures. But they can not capture the feeling of being engulfed, wrapped around by these mountains. The sound of water, rushing off them in little water falls, is the only thing I hear. It is an amazing sensation, and place.




I stay for a few minutes, then remind myself I still don’t really know how far yet I have to go, so I get back in the car and move off. Just when it feels like there is nowhere for the road to go because of the mountain in front of me, I top a crest, the road turns left and follows a little stream down until the valley opens up to a wide flat green place with a lake, and a few houses. Nüvi says it is Lough Barra, ah hah, this I can find on the map. I’m right where I wanted to be. It is also a lovely place, with the sun breaking through in places.


Eventually I come to a junction, with road signs. I could go on staying with the small secondary road, but enough of back roads for one day, nothing will beat the place I just came through anyway. So I take the left to Fintown, and from there the B&B and a ready cup of tea is only a few minutes down the road.

Today is cloudy, windy and wet again. My host suggests a few sites that include visitor centers to get out of the weather. So the plan is Knocknarea, Carrowmore Tombs, Drumcliff High Cross, Parkes Castle.


Knocknarea is not very visible in the low clouds today, but, the drive out to it is nice. It is here where there is a megalithic tomb perched on its summit visible for miles around. The local lore says this is the tomb of the queen Medb (Meav) of Connacht), a legendary queen of Ireland associated with its epic the Táin Bó Cúailnge (Cattle Raid of Cooley). The tomb actually predates the time of the legend by several thousand years, and is contemporary with Knowth and Newgrange.

Not far from Knocknarea, is the megalithic cemetery Carromore. There are several tombs in various conditions. I stop at the visitor’s center to get information and a map of the cemetery then head out for a look. The wind is lashing, but the rain is holding off. It is actually a very nice walk. There are only a few people around, a busload arrives shortly after I get out on the field though. Very interesting place, again contemporary with Newgrange.


The other stops include the Drumcliff High Cross and church. Here is where Y.B. Yeats is buried.

Parke’s Castle sits on Lough Gill, the bright lake, although today it is a bit grey and wind tossed. The tour of the castle is interesting. It is built on the sight of an earlier tower house castle owned by Sir Brian O'Rourke in the 1500’s, who was executed for harboring a Spanish captain at a time when England and no love for Spain or the Irish. His lands were given to an Englishman in the 1700’s during the plantation period of Ireland. He tore down the century tower house and built a manor house, reinforcing the castle walls as he and his family were not popular landowner among the native Irish population of the area.