Eyjafjallajökull in Ireland

First, there is the psychic uncertainty caused by Eyjafjallajökull (AY-yah-fyah-lah-YOH-kuul)­­—the most awesome name ever for a volcano--well, glacier actually--that you never knew existed. A force majeure in spite of which Eric still found himself driving to Dublin at 5 a.m. to drop off his favorite niece to her non-existent flight to the states. (I suppose it didn't help that he stayed up till 2 a.m. watching Zombieland with his hosts.)

Then there is Fergal Harman. If Fergal were a meal he would be sharp cheddar and tabasco on rye bread with Costa Rican black coffee. He's thin as a tulip stem with dark sunken eyes. He looks strung out whether he's sober or has downed an entire bottle of champage, which, incidently, is exactly what he won singing for a competition at Dunn's Bar in Carrick while we downed Guinnesses and listened to the crowd scream-singing along to his tempered rendition of Billy Joel's "Piano Man."

People in Ireland are much too eager to work with us, so we have decided to exploit this innocence to the fullest extent before everyone starts learning better and turns on us. Wednesday we convinced James and three of his friends to tromp with us out into the woods (again with our beloved wrestler masks) to film a slo-mo walk up and around the circumference of the spruce trees. There is a simple beauty to the boys slowly winding themselves around the trees, yeilding to the branches, marking a path and a place their own. Through our forest romps, we have discovered a species of wild garlic whose leaves, piquant to the taste, can be munched on the walks between shots.

Yesterday we rented a row boat and, in perfect Viking form, JJ rowed us across Lough Key to a 12th century castle. After scouring the castle, I was reminded of the words uttered by Elizabeth Taylor in the 1966 film version of Edward Albee's "Who's afraid of Virginia Wolf," "What a dump!"  The castle, while beautiful from afar is, upon close inspection, plainly tragic.

OK, now that I've settled on the fact the temper tantrum of a certain Icelandic volcano has closed the Ireland airports entirely, I’m finding myself stranded with these harebrained, testosterone-ridden madmen for another few days or maybe many more. Good thing I have my noise-cancelling headphones, rice milk and vegan scones, for which Bernie has willfully perfected the recipie. And garlic leaves when I’m short on my allicin and diallyl sulphides or just want to spice up my pasta sauce or Irish potatoes.