It Is Fall

Most houses in Ireland have little, glassed-in conservatories attached to the back of them, and I understand why. Not only can they use these rooms to grow various sort of potted plants all-year round, but they can also go sit in their window-full rooms and look out on their beautiful country all of the time, regardless of the weather. That way, they never have to miss out on the scenery, even if the weather is bad (which it probably is.) That's what I would do in my conservatory, if I had one.

This weekend has felt like fall. It is fall, technically, but this is the first weekend that has felt like it. Both yesterday and today alternated between furious bouts of rain, and shining, cold bursts of sun. It was the kind of weather that had me freezing and putting my hood up, and then taking off my coat because I was too hot.

I spent yesterday in Antrim. I was planning on just going down to the bus station and getting on a random bus to somewhere that I'd never heard of, but I found an Antrim tourist brochure in the Arts Centre, and I decided that it was a sign that I was meant to go there. So I went there. It seemed like every Irish family that had an unhappy, irritating, screaming small child also decided to go to Antrim yesterday. How nice for me.

Actually, the real reason that I wanted to go to Antrim was because it is the home of a round tower from a 10th century monastic settlement. Which was pretty fantastically awesome. I walked around the tower and touched it, and I thought, "I am touching something that was built over a thousand years ago." It felt nice and kind of holy.

On the train ride back, I eavesdropped on the three old ladies next to me, watched a happily-married couple flirt with each other, and listened to the names of each town that the train was going to stop in being read off in the automated voice of an English women. My favorite
name was Cullybackey. Say it to yourself. Cullybackey, Cullbackey.
It's a fun word, right?