Blog, Blog Like The Wind Little Horse!

That's what the adorable Annie Rhiannon told me when I left Iceland. And, what exactly have I done? Blogged like a muggy puff of air. Now, when your Swiss Army Friend, your Partner in Crime, your Soulmate, your Princess Rhiannon, your .. actually all these nicknames are getting a little embarrassing, much like the small elephant she gave me last year. Anyway, the point is I am trying! I guess if I spent less time nostalgically loitering in the frozen food sections of Cork supermarkets trying to recreate that authentic 'I live near the Arctic Circle feel' and more time actually writing my blog I would make some headway (any day now I will be offered a book deal). I am at least relieved that Bald Eagle has the same problems. Nina however manages two! TWO! In different languages. An example to us all. Anyway, I am getting sidetracked. This blog was meant to be my 'blog lesson number four: inserting links' but I have totally failed to put them in the right place and it's nearly bedtime so you will all (yes, all five of you) just have to click those ones on the side instead. Yes, over there, on the right, no Tanya, the right.

Just like Annie Rhiannon and PJ Harvey I'm going to stomp stomp stomp up to bed. A busy day tomorrow at Electric Picnic (again, another choice spot for a link) when the sulky PJ herself will be playing. I can't wait to meet her for beers. After I get married in the inflatable church. In the rain.

Culture Shock III - The Language Barrier

Understanding what people are saying all the time is a right pain isn’t? I much preferred it when I was in a remote valley surrounded by Danish, Norwegian, Swedish and Icelandic speakers. I knew only what I was supposed to know (and only about 25% of that) and was kept in blissful ignorance unless I banged my fist on the table and demanded a translation in a loud and aggressive manner. I was always disappointed by the contents of the conversation when revealed (unless it was about a beer-run). Somehow they always looked way more exciting and hilarious than they actually were. But now that I’m home I can’t help but eavesdrop or be part of all the discussions everywhere all the time. And it’s driving me crazy! I mean it’s not like I’m hearing anything scandalous. And that’s because all Irish conversations are based on five things:

a) a ‘show and tell’ compare and contrast display of mobile phones (always takes place round a table in a pub)

b) the property market

c) the imminent demise of the property market

d) the continued growth of the property market

e) the price of weddings

From now on I’m only hanging round with foreigners.

Culture Shock II - The Woolly Jumper

It's been six days, six days! And I'm still confused, mooning around like a lovesick teenager. I just don't understand this country, I really don't. I mean, for starters it's all warm and sunny, just when I was all ready for winter. And there's all this green stuff everywhere, like trees and whatnot. And dog-shit on the footpaths. And there aren't any hotdog stands, dried fish is impossible to find, kókómjólk doesn't exist and there's clutter everywhere, everywhere. Like trees and signs and billboards and people, tanned and beautiful people and Irish people too. Loads of them!

But the worst, the very worst thing is that sheep fur is not cool in Ireland at all. So my new beautiful lopapeysa cardigan with hood thing, which was sexy, cool, fashionable, stylish, cosy and practical in Iceland, has suddenly been transformed into old-fashioned fuddy-duddy Nerd-Wear in Ireland. It has been called 'a Christmas jumper'. The worst type of jumper, the jumper your mad old aunt gave you that you have wear when she visits, an object of ridicule, an ill-fitting scratchy yoke with reindeer on it (sounds lovely to me).

Anyway, this explains the high sheep unemployment rate here and why they're all laying around on the roads of Connemara wearing their big long overgrown unwanted woolly jumpers.

So that's me, Truculent Horse, uncoolest (but most warm and waterproof) person in Ireland.

The Lost Teddy-Bears' Desk

Well here I am again, slowly recovering from the shock of being in Cork and working away like a beaver. It turned out that missing the bus was a cunning plan as I got a lift down in a jeep instead (though I nearly missed this too as I got locked in the toliet after missing the bus). Of course we didn't go to the fascinating archaeology sites that the bus did so the journey took only five hours instead of nine but what can you do? Saying a sad farewell to Iceland and Annie Rhiannon was harder that ever and I could feel tears welling up a little as I drank kókómjólk through a straw at the boarding gate and handed the nice lady my boarding pass.

When I arrived in Cork after 12 hours travelling I thought I'd arrived in a foreign country. What was this? All shiny and glass and wood. Where were the beloved yellow and brown signs, the old carpets, the four gates, the crisp machine that refused to relinquish its crisps? What, where am I? Ah, somone has finally agreed to pay for the new terminal. And the following announcements appear to indicate a new service at the airport which I think we will all welcome.

'Attention please, attention. A teddy bear has been left on the recently arrived flight from London Heathrow. The owner may claim same at the Aer Lingus baggage enquiries desk in the arrivals hall'

'Attention please, Attention! A teddy has been left on the recently arrived flight from London Heathrow. The owner may claim same at the Aer Lingus baggage enquiries desk in the arrivals hall'

And again, you could hear the worry in her voice, 'Attention please, Attention all passengers recently arrived from London Heathrow. A TEDDY has been left on the plane. The owner may claim same at the Aer Lingus baggage enquiries desk in the arrivals hall'

Ah, yes, the Lost Teddy-Bears' desk. I must be home. And I'll be holding onto my teddy tighter than ever next time I travel.

Culture Shock

My blog and ratings have suffered due to travel and four days of culture shock. I had no idea that blogging would turn out to be such a chore, but I can't stop now. What about my fans?

Hilarious updates coming soon, very soon. Very very soon. I promise.

Destiny

Hmm, how strange. I remember in one of my first posts saying how I would stay here forever. And now it looks like it has come true. I have missed the bus. I was asleep. Of course. And no one on the bus, not one single person (out of all my colleagues and expensive new friends) noticed! Okay so apparently they were all still drunk and confused, having gone to bed just before breakfast and got up an hour later. But still! I can't believe it! Okay so you're saying, what's the big deal, get another bus. No, there is no other bus. That was The Bus.

Well, right, so. I will stay at Hólar forever. With all the left over beers and memories. I have a flight out of Iceland to catch tomorrow morning, but I'll just have to miss it. Wow, I'm going to have so much time for blogging now. So much time for writing my agricultural poetry. So much time ...

And no, I didn't catch any boys. And now they are all gone.

'One sheep left all alone'

Impeccable Behaviour

Well, it's day-three of our conference here at Hólar and I must say, all the evidence shows that I've behaved impeccably. So far.

I've been handing out free beer (the smallest cheapest ones I could find) to confused and unprepared foreigners who never imagined they wouldn't be able to get their hands on any. Some of my colleagues suggest I'm trying to acquire friends but to be honest it's just that I'm Nice. Plain and simple. I haven't even asked for anything in return. Unfortunately this means I have only three left for myself tonight and it's the big last saturday night thing. I'll be guarding them closely. The beers, not the friends. I have also made sure I chatted to nearly everyone especially the loners, the really nerdy nerds and the person everyone else is trying to avoid (there's always one isn't there). I've also attended nearly all the lectures and told many people how thoroughly I enjoyed their fascinating talk. All this means I haven't had any time to herd boys into nets, but that's okay. It's the new calm me, Truculent Horse, Conference Saint. In fact I'm probably the least truculent person here.

And as if that isn't enough, I have promised to perform a part of 'Riverdance' later tonight. Afterall, I did get a medal for my Irish dancing when I was about six years old (I remember I noticed they were giving everyone medals but nevermind, I'm sure I was very good).

So there we go, Conference Saint, Irish Ambassador and Friend to New Foreigners.

I wonder how long I can keep it up?

Autumn, Winter, Summer Again

It's crazy. The day before yesterday we were sure winter had arrived. You could feel it in the biting north wind sweeping up the valley. Whipping flocks of cold woolly cloud-sheep into a frenzy and driving them up to Hólar. Howling around corners and whistling through cracks. I was coming to work in hat, scarf and woolly jumper and wondering where I'd left my gloves.

But then all of a sudden, Summer turns up and next thing you know you're out sitting in the sun after work with a cold beer, wearing just your woolly jumper and feeling not too cold, hormones racing in the sunshine, giddy as a spring lamb, discussing the best ways of catching boys (rumour has it some are arriving soon). Several methods have been suggested. My favourite has to be putting up one of those long fine (almost invisible) mesh nets used for bird counts and then sort of chasing them into it. Overpowering them at breakfast when they are least expecting it was also suggested as was the tried and tested 'get them drunk'. The latter is a little expensive of course.

I will let you know how it goes.

Another Crazy Weekend

When there is even a hint of a party I will usually do one of three things: party like it's 1999 (or however that Prince song went, boy those were the days), lock myself in a room with a Czech novel and refuse to come out (quite rare but I think increasingly likely), or, get sick.

So, in typical Truculent Horse fashion this weekend I spectacularly missed nearly all of Hólahátíð (the 900 years festival and most exciting weekend in Hólar since, well, since ever) by staying in bed, coughing, snorting, sucking on a lemon and thinking at length about the error of my ways in a very general 'So, how is your life going so far' review type of way, like you do when you're taken ill far from home and have finished all your books (and found the mistakes in them).

At least I managed to make it to Heim að Hólum on Friday evening. This performance, which detailed the antics of some of Hólar's notable bishops, was about the length of your average film (that's a 'movie' guys) and was like a cross between a school play, a church choir, a lecture and the Vagina Monologues (except with no mention of a vagina). It didn't help that the Icelandic language used was kindof beyond me, as there was no mention of familiar topics like beer, archaeology, buying hot dogs, shyness or the mental institution in Reykjavík.

I also staggered up feverishly to the party grill on Saturday night as it was the only way I was going to get any food. As I sat there in the cold evening air, ducking cameras and clutching my damp bread roll, my friend hissed: 'This is all wasted on you, you have no idea how many famous people are here, look, there's the Minister for Sheeps'.

In the end I admitted party defeat and somewhat tearfully retired to my bed at 8.30 pm.

Another crazy weekend.

Just when I thought it was safe

So there I was today, still frazzled from my three-day party weekend and snuffling like a wild boar on a truffle-hunt, working away, totally absorbed in drawing my pictures, minding my own business, hidden in the mountains far far away from Reykjavík, when who do you think bursts in the door?

Yes, that's right, of course, it's a fascinated photographer from Morgunblaðið*, just when I'm looking my most fabulous ever, in the peak of health, the prime of life, the sheep's pyjamas. He pounces on me and my plethora of pens and pencils straight away. Despite my protests of 'Nei Nei, ekki ég' in my toddler standard Icelandic he is not to be put off. I finally agree that, yes, I am one of the 'sights' of daily life in Hólar (there's not a lot happening) and he snaps away while I sit there like a complete tool with a pencil in one hand, a ruler in the other and big lump of old iron in front of me. Oh yes, very scientific.

If only I'd had the presence of mind to whip out one of my finished masterpieces in a 'here's one I prepared earlier, you'll need a genius to help you with this' style. But no, instead I get caught at the early stage of masterpiece creation, captured forever holding my little school maths set ruler and worn-down pencil like an earnest 5 year old. Now everyone will know that I do not create my works of genius by 'witchcraft', as I had explained earlier in the day, but by 'tracing'.

Well, well, there goes the rest of my reputation. And another little piece of my soul to the Icelandic press. Please, please God let something more exciting happen quickly so that it doesn't make the front page.

*Think the national circulation of 'The Irish Times' with the content of 'The Galway Advertiser' (but with less death and violence)

Three Day Weekends

Jesus, am I glad that normal weekends are just two days. That third day of partying with Annie Rhiannon on the biggest party weekend of the year in Iceland was almost enough to make me give up partying forever. My body clock is totally messed up, (thinking I don't go to sleep til 7ish every morning), I've developed a cough like that old ewe in 'Babe' (yes, the old one who died, although not of the cough I'm happy to say) from a few drags of a cigarette (I was clearly trying to be cool in front of my new friends), I've had a tiny mid-life crisis (it was quite fleeting lasting about 5 seconds), a minor nervous breakdown (this was a little longer, lasting ten minutes but was cured by making the sensible decision of going to bed 'early' at 5 AM), I've learnt far too much about far too many people (most of whom I was blissfully unaware of 4 days ago), they've learnt far too much about me and my reputation in Reykjavík is tarnished forever, having had a hand-holding flurry with 'one of the tallest men in Iceland' (well, I thought he would come in handy for getting stuff down from hard to reach shelves, rescuing me from the tops of high walls and participation in impromptu basketball tournaments).

But it turned out that this virtual (but perfectly nice) stranger was not only my friend's boyfriend's friend's boyfriend's brother, but also my friend's friend's ex-boyfriend, my friend's would be date's friend (who just also happened to be her boyfriend's informal counsellor) AND my former colleague's best friend's son. AND they (nearly) all knew. About the hand-holding. AND we were going to the same party the next day. And if you can name ALL of the persons in the above list I will buy you a pint of beer.

I have re-learnt that Reykjavík is a tiny tiny village. And that sometimes too much fun is just too much. And we reassured ourselves that it isn't really a proper Icelandic weekend of adventures until at least one person cries, just a little bit.

So it was with some relief that I found myself back in peaceful foggy Hólar (population 99) last night. A good 350 km away from Reykjavík, I should be safe here, hidden in the mountains, safe from parties. Opening the front door of the apartment it felt strangely like coming home. I caught myself glancing at the floor for post. And then remembered, kindof sadly: 'I don't really live here'.

Now, where was I? ah yes ...

'Two sheep stretched out on a beach'

Pastoral Poetry

Well,

despite having not carried out any of my cunning plans to increase readership, my ratings have soared! That's it, the pastoral poetry stays (although I have a feeling that my ratings have soared due to a link on Annie's blog which I can't link to here as I am having teething problems - yes, Annie, okay okay, I do need help linking!). Anyway, the poetry is here to stay, especially as a couple of new poems, inspired by real life agricultural animals in the Icelandic nature, have also crept into my head this weekend. They still need some tweaking though so I'm not prepared to share them just yet (my early effort was slagged off at length this weekend - yes, so easy to laugh at those who try).

I am however, going to reduce the font. We are not five years old after all. And I'm not planning to give this web address to my mother or my niece.

Plummeting Ratings

In view of plummeting ratings, Truculent Horse plans to spice up her blog and increase readership to new heights in the near future. New plans include:

Spending less time working during work hours and more time writing a blog and making it look pretty.

Broadening topics to include sex life (although do not actually have one. May have to get one).

Spending long nights at home alone leaving comments on loads of other blogs in order to increase own readership instead of going to parties until 8 AM.

Telling more than two real-life people about my blog.

Giving out about stuff more. Everyone loves a good rant.

Encouraging tragedy and despair in own life. Let's face it, happy and contented rural idylls and agriculturally themed poetry do not make for gripping reading.

And just to clear things up, as some of my readers (yes, that's both of you) seem to think I might be an actual Horse. I am not. A name change is imminent, to avoid future confusion.

Three Sheep Curled up in a Field

Inspired by the beauty of Icelandic nature, poetry has started to flow from me like a..., like a hot spring. I thought I should publish my first efforts right away so that I can be recognised as early as possible and then do something easier than drawing (drawing isn't easy!) for a living. As a tortured teen I almost won a National writing competition for my well-crafted poems and now that I don't have ready access to beer I have begun to create once more. So here we go:

'Three sheep curled up in a field'

That's as far as I've got but I think it has a certain ring to it. I'm happy to say that it certainly is a lot more upbeat than the dark stuff I produced in my younger years and is also based on something I actually saw ('write what you know' isn't that what they always say?) so this is probably why it will ring so true for many people. Poetry for the masses. Perhaps Sigur Rós would be interested in using it in one of their songs.

The Black Hole of Hólar

Much as I love being at Hólar - living the rural idyll, galloping on the mountains, watching the fog, the horses and the waiter - there comes a day, eventually, when you need to leave Hólar for some reason or other, like to buy beer, or a toothbrush, or just to ease the symptons of Walley Fever.

Or to go on a road-trip with your Soulmate.

And when that day comes do you think you can escape the place? NO! Days of scheming, covert questioning, eavesdropping (in several different languages), and working out elaborate arrangments involving combinations of planes, buses, rental cars, bicycles and horses have yielded precisely Nothing. Unless you count anxious nights spent tossing and turning as Something. I may as well be trying to climb out of a black hole in flip flops.

It's becoming clearer and clearer to me that once again I may have to hitch-hike. And this means only one thing. Putting myself at the mercy of that solitary creature: the Lonely Single Middle-Aged Rural-Dwelling Male Icelandic Driver.