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Just letting you know that we have finished our latest documentary DVD, An Taoiseach Brian Cowen - The Homecoming. This DVD documents the new Taoiseach's arrival at his home town of Clara. Watch as the Brian parades through the town to make his speech at the podium. You will also get to hear him sing a song about his father Ber Cowen.

We will be putting exerpts of the DVD on YouTube and MySpace in the near future. Keep an eye out for them.

Also the DVD is now available from eBay or by mailing us on info@sigmaproductions.ie

Thanks

Sigma Productions Team

This was a slideshow video I did of my trip to Ireland last August.  I am and still deeply in love with Ireland.  If my job search in Seattle doesnt work out, I am gonna go next summer.  Only with more money and time!  Well if fuel prices doesn't kill me first.

I am working on my second rendition of the photographs that I have taken from Ireland.  Looking through the photos from Blarney Castle, and U2's Bad live in Boston starts to play.   What a beautiful memory that trip was! The smell, aura, sights, feelings, women, people, food,... it was just great!

You know what that means, my dear readers!  It is time for me to move out there!!  I seriously have been looking for work out there!

     They took in and taught Russian to anybody who wanted to learn it. They had about a dozen students at a time, mostly undergraduates like myself  cramming for their finals,  but also a number of service officers and members of nameless departments collectively called “the funnies”.  One of our university set rechristened them “the quite funnies”, though how he could have known was a mystery since they did not mix with us, spoke seldom, and moved around in impenetrable groups of no less than six. They were escorted by  a one-legged major with a fine moustache who was said to have done well in the war.

     Tuition was given by Nick, Ksana, the Prince - an elderly white-bearded aristocrat who was said to be Ksana’s uncle - and an assortment of Russians distantly related to Ksana. They all lived in the courthouse in a maze of hutches separated from each other by plywood partitions.  These hutches also served as classrooms, although the teaching was not really of the sort that required anything so fancy. The original courtroom still remained undivided, and this served as dining room, kitchen, common room and everything else. Ksana supervised the cooking which was excellent , with piroshki, little savoury pastries, as the chief attraction.

     We, the university set, were lodged in various houses around the village. On one occasion my friend James and I were in a pair of tiny garrets over a tobacconist’s shop which doubled at night as a shebeen. James was (in my view) a typical Cambridge undergraduate,  long and willowy and languid, a condition not far from what the major described as “so wet you could shoot snipe over him”. Later he admitted that he was a boxing blue.  At another time we were lodged in the great gothic vicarage of the local Church of  Ireland priest at the end. of a long winding drive where the dark-green leaves dripped and the owls called to each other. One of the people sharing that accommodation with us was a girl from Girton who had to be consoled with whisky each time we negotiated the perilous path (“stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples ...”).

     We were prevented from too many excesses by Nick’s extremely strict discipline, based on an absolute ban on speaking any language but Russian from nine in the morning until nine at night. This was no occasional by-law but the foundation stone of the whole school. Nick meant what he said: a first transgression was rewarded with a caution, but after that there was no alternative to immediate expulsion. Even when we were far from our instructors we observed the rule – while scoring at tennis (in which we were advised to choose only our  own people as partners) or swimming in the sea on one of our infrequent bus journeys to the coast. We were convinced too that even members of our university set would inform on us, and so we tended to avoid parties in the shebeen or the nightly poker games in Lindsay’s bar or Hoolihan’s. It was important, Nick felt, to identify with the village people, some of whom were, understandably enough, resentful of us as being even worse than the English. I was reminded of the difference each Sunday  at Mass in the huge Catholic church, where the “ting” of my sixpence in the collection plate, interposed with the “tong”of countless pennies, made the whole congregation, and the priest, turn round in shock-horror.

     The arrival of so many young men in the area did not go unnoticed by mothers with young daughters in the great houses of Louth and Meath, the atrocious mausoleums that successful Protestant politicians built to ensure they would not be forgotten. Almost every day at breakfast Nick would announce that such-and-such a great lady would like three or four for tennis, and we would either take a bus or pile into Nick’s little Sunbeam and spend the afternoon whacking tennis balls into the shrubbery while we argued about the correct way to call the score.

     We had the whale of a time, but it  really can’t have been very amusing for the girls. Some of the quite-funnies turned out to be good at tennis, and also had their own transport, so any bad feelings there had been between us were set aside for the common good. A further advantage of these tennis parties was the enormous tea that our hostesses generously provided, to say nothing of the ritual glass of sherry before departure. But we were always under Nick’s eagle eye watching for students making assignations with the daughters or trying to scrounge a second glass.

     Remarkably, none of the students at the old courthouse rebelled against, or even criticised, the draconian regime or Spartan conditions. We had all come of our own volition and at our own expense, and most of us saw that strict adherence to Nick’s regime was the best way of getting our money’s worth. We were all aware that he and Ksana had had a rough time during the Revolution, and afterwards in exile in Paris and other European capitals, and recognised that both of them were great teachers, even if their methods were based on Russian village schools of the mid-nineteenth century. What sticks in the mind is poetry learnt by heart and recited aloud, often while being driven by Nick to tennis-parties. There was also  interminable discussion of the prevailing political crisis where we had to be careful not to let slip any hidden liberal tendencies; the quite-funnies were good at this.

     And so the golden  summer passed with the smoke of Sweet Afton cigarettes wafting over us, in an age before smoking had become sinful. Shortly before the departure of the main body of quite-funnies the major proposed a farewell picnic. We would, he said, meet up with a party from the nearest great house and sail over to an island called Innisfree where we could spend the morning shooting rabbits. After lunch we would sail back.

     We collected a number of shotguns from well-wishers in the village, and Nick came dressed in his grandfather’s Cossack uniform, much hung-about with bandoliers and murderous daggers, a veritable Lermontov hero of our time. We sailed across and spent a profitable morning shooting rabbits. Unfortunately, both parties in this agreement, the courthouse and the great house, thought the other was bringing the lunch. We discovered this state of affairs when the shooting was over, and there was nothing for it but to sail back.

     By now, with the early start and the morning walking over the tussocky  island grass, we were ravenously hungry. “I wouldn’t mind some lobster for lunch”, mused James as we were about half-way back to the mainland, and there in front of us was a whole row of lobster-pots. There was a gas ring and a saucepan below, and it was the work of a minute to get some lobsters aboard.”Hold on”, said Nick, “Ksana would never forgive me if we didn’t pay for them”. It did not take us long to work out that half a dozen lobsters equalled about a dozen rabbits, so we wrapped the rabbits in oil-cloth and left them in a lobster pot.

     I often think of the fishermen’s astonishment on emptying the pot.

Encontré esta bella publicación, para compartir con mis amigos blogueros. Es “Una historia de amor verdadero y de lealtad a su amo”.

El “Greyfriars Bobby” era el fiel compañero de un policía llamado John Gray quien vivió alrededor de 1856. John y el perro se convirtieron en amigos inseparables hasta 1858, cuando John muere de tuberculosis y es enterrado en el cementerio Greyfriars. Su perro “Bobby” se hizo famoso porque durante 14 años permaneció en la tumba de su amo durante todas las noches hasta su propia muerte en 1872.

“Bobby” era un Skye Terrier. Este perro es oriundo de la isla de Skye y es conocido por su lealtad y compañerismo. Los Skye Terriers se hicieron famosos entre la nobleza debido a esas cualidades.

El Castillo de Edimburgo era uno de los lugares favoritos de “Bobby”.

Una tradición conectada al “Greyfriars Bobby” y el castillo de Edimburgo es la del disparo de la batería de las 13hrs. Cuenta la leyenda que un capitán de marina visitó Edimburgo hacia el 1860. Cuando volvió a su hogar, informó que había visto una ciudad maravillosa, llena de construcciones y monumentos espléndidos, en donde vivían hombres sabios y bellas mujeres y en donde se estudiaba la ciencia. Había sólo un problema, nadie sabía la hora correcta del día. Había suficientes relojes, pero ninguno de ellos concordaba.

En 1861, la situación se corrigió, cuando los funcionarios de la ciudad decidieron que se disparase el cañón todos los días desde el castillo a la una en punto. De ese modo, todos los ciudadanos podrían ajustar sus relojes. La batería aún hoy es disparada.

Al tiempo que esta tradición comenzó, el “Greyfriars Bobby” se hizo amigo de un soldado en los cuarteles del castillo, su nombre era Scott. El sargento Scott presentó a “Bobby” a sus compañeros y todos le dieron la bienvenida al nuevo camarada peludo. Una de las responsabilidades del sargento Scott era la de ayudar a disparar el cañón y “Bobby” siempre lo seguía a las rampas del castillo para ser testigo de la acción.

Inmediatamente después del disparo de la una en punto, “Bobby” se dirigía a un restaurante llamado “The Eating House”, donde el dueño regularmente le daba a “Bobby” su almuerzo.

Muy pronto se convirtió en una atracción diaria ver a “Bobby” ir a pedir su cena y una multitud frecuentemente se reunía en las puertas de entrada del cementerio para esperarlo. Pero “Bobby” no perdía tiempo con su comida. Ni bien la terminaba, corría hacia el cementerio para sentarse pacientemente al lado de la tumba de John Gray.

Debido a que el “Greyfriars Bobby” es una parte querida de la historia de Edimburgo, su collar y su plato se preservan en la Casa Huntly, el museo dedicado a la historia de la ciudad. La Casa Huntly es una casa restaurada que data del siglo XVI. Después de una amplia renovación, el museo se abrió en 1932.

El collar que pertenece a “Bobby” y que está en la Casa Huntly es más que un collar típico. Después de la muerte de John Gray, “Bobby” no tenía dueño oficial. Era amado y regularmente alimentado por las familias y comerciantes situados alrededor del cementerio, pero nadie había abonado su licencia. En ese momento, “Bobby” había visto la muerte de cerca en varias ocasiones debido a que carecía de licencia.

El Sr. James Brown, viejo cuidador del cementerio, contó como “Bobby” se encontraba acostado sobre el túmulo funerario, a la mañana siguiente al entierro. A los perros no se les permitía entrar al cementerio, por lo tanto, el Sr. Brown debía perseguir al perrito hasta sacarlo de allí, pero, a la mañana siguiente, el perro volvía. Una segunda vez “Bobby” es ahuyentado, solo para encontrarlo nuevamente en el lugar habitual, tiritando sobre el suelo frío y húmedo de la tumba de Gray.

En ese momento, el cuidador sintió pena por el perrito y le permitió quedarse. Aún en los días de clima más horrible, “Bobby” no abandonaba su posición, a menudo, aullaba a aquellos que intentaban convencerlo de que se quedase en sus casas. “Bobby” no tenía licencia y estaba en peligro de muerte.

Afortunadamente para “Bobby”, el alcalde de la ciudad, Sir William Chambers era un amante de los perros. Como jefe del Municipio, era un hombre poderoso y cuando el asunto de la licencia de “Bobby” surgió, pidió conocer al perrito. Sir William quedó encantado con “Bobby” y así fue como decidió pagar por su licencia indefinidamente. A “Bobby” se le dio un nuevo collar, el que hoy se encuentra en exhibición, y un plato de bronce con la siguiente inscripción: “Greyfriars Bobby del Alcalde, 1867, autorizado”.

La zona de la vieja ciudad en donde “Bobby” deambulaba y ahora se encuentra sepultado, contiene una de las iglesias más importantes de la ciudad. “La Iglesia Presbiteriana Escocesa Greyfriars”, construida en 1620, fue la primera iglesia nueva construida después de la Reforma. Lleva el nombre de los frailes franciscanos. María, Reina de los Escoceses, cedió las tierras a la comuna en 1562 para aliviar la presión a la que estaba sometida el cementerio de la ciudad en St. Giles.

Además de las tumbas de John Gray y “Bobby” hay muchos ejemplos de bellos monumentos de los siglos XVII y XVIII. A unos pocos pasos del cementerio, se encuentra la famosa estatua de “Greyfriars Bobby” Por detrás de ella, hay un pub que lleva el nombre de “Bobby” en su honor.

Un año después de la última guardia de “Bobby”, la Baronesa Burdett Coutts hizo esculpir una estatua y una fuente para conmemorar la vida de un perro devoto y la historia de una amistad que superó la muerte. Según se informó, “Bobby” murió sobre la tumba de su viejo amigo, John Gray.

Irlanda, mientras leen les estoy haciendo llegar estrellitas de protección y amor!

Fuente y Foto: http://www.scotlandinargentina.com.ar/bobby.htm

Blogalaxia
hadas
duendes
gnomos
espiritualidad
espiritual
positivismo
marcela+ciaffone+kenny

So Thursday was my first day. I won't go into too much detail, because it's pretty boring and I already have to keep a work journal... Anyway. I met the Lord Mayor! And also made an ass out of myself multiple times. I'm not looking forward to the next five weeks at work. There's going to be a lot of pressure and good impressions I have to make, and it makes me really anxious. The other thing I hate is that it changes everyday, so I have no idea what's in store for me. I mean, I have no idea what I am supposed to do tomorrow... As in where to be, when, with who... It's crazy. I don't know what to do. And I'm really not interested in local politics in the least bit, so I have no fucking clue how I was placed here. But whatever, I'll just go with the flow.

After that we had our treasure hunt which ended up at a pub called The Duke. I mean, after a hard day at work, all you want is a pint. So I did.

Friday we explored St. Stephen's Green and the Iveagh Gardens and went to a Shamrock Rovers FC game. That was an interesting experience... Lots of swearing. Good old fashioned fun. And if anyone cares to know, they serve fish and chips in the concessions at football games. Pretty amazing.

I think I can safely say the majority of Saturday was spent on a bus. We got lost so many times trying to find our way to Phoenix Park and back home. The weather was pretty crappy, but I had the best fish and chips of my life. When we finally got back, we started talking about our traveling plans for the weekends... This weekend we're going to try and go to Galway. Somewhere along the lines, we'll be going to Belfast, maybe Cork, London, and possibly Paris.

I was going to go to church this morning, but I think I woke up too late... so I'm just uploading photos and videos and catching up on journal writing. I need to do my laundry soon and find out what the plan is for work tomorrow....

Source: WHO - European health for all database (HFA-DB)

photo : our street

We have moved to a new place and hence the lack of updates.

photo: our new neighbourhood

We are slowly finding our way around and last week was all about discovering the local Tesco, post office, bank, indian takeaway etc. So far things are looking good and it is just a matter of time until we fully adapt
ourselves.

photo: our aparment block

The move was somewhat tiresome and moving 11 years worth of belongings across the country was definitely no joke. I couldn't believe at the amount of clothes, shoes I have collected over the years and I blame it on the four seasons! ;)

photo: the big move

Anyway, the long break is over, sleep is a luxury nowadays and occasionally, I do miss the freedom and liberty I once had before.

I was terrified the night before I started my new job but thankfully the week went by pretty smoothly. As before I was only dealing with premature babies (who only cry and poo) and hormonal moms, now it's back to interacting with bigger kids who are so much easier to work with. A big sigh of relief there!

The hospital is just a 5 minute drive from home so unlike my previous job, it's great not to spend too much time on the road.

I've got 2 paediatric courses and a presentation lined up for the month of July which requires me to do a little bit of studying, so, if you don't hear from me in the next few days/weeks/months, you know where I am.

Didn't I say ? *Gulp* The break is over!

The main one is that this vote illuminated clearly for the first time in a while the class divide in society. A good example of this is the voting patterns of the various constituencies. Dublin South-West, a predominantly working class constituency, rejected the treaty by a margin of 65%, while Dun Laoghaire, a wealthy coastal constituency home to many of Irelands 'great and good', voted for the treaty by a margin of 63.5%. This, along with similar results in other constituencies on both sides of the class divide clearly shows that there is a clear gulf between the political and economic elites and the mass of ordinary people. This is unsurprising given the recent history of cuts in public services, especially health, implemented by the current Fianna Fail, Progressive Democrats and Green Party coalition, which have adversely affected the quality of life of many working class families, as well as the raft of allegations about the former Taoiseach, Mr. Bertie Ahern.

While it is true that this sign of a class divide is heartening for socialists, it must be remembered that the reason for voting against the treaty were purely cynicism and apathy about the role of the government. That is why Lisbon is not a tipping point for consciousness as some groups on the left (notably the Socialist Workers Party) seem to think it is, nor is it a sign that workers are seeking a new left alternative comparable to the WASG in Germany.

I wanted to be a traveler, but not the kind that comes to your home and rips you off with unnecessary or unfinished repairs - I wanted to see the world.  My goal, however, was not necessarily to see the pretty parts of the world, but to gain understanding of how the rest of the world lives - the real world, and not just the capital cities.  So I set a goal to visit Africa, the Middle East, South America, and China.  I threw in Europe because America is so Eurocentric that I thought it wouldn't hurt to see how life was lived there as well.  I have enjoyed traveling and have been fortunate to travel to Cape Verde (Africa - a series of islands, but technically Africa), Israel and Jordan (Middle East), Costa Rica (almost South America, but not really), Portugal, England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland.  I've also been able to travel to Mexico and Canada several times.  I hope to next visit China (maybe this winter), then maybe Peru.

Of all these, I may have enjoyed Cape Verde the most.  Briefly, I went with a group from our church to live and work alongside the people while constructing a church building on one of the smaller islands.  It looked kind of like Gilligan's Island, but without as many trees.  At the time I was there (1991), they were suffering from their twenty-third year of drought.  Most of these volcanic islands had been denuded and the government was in the process of trying to revive plant life.  The people there were wonderful, friendly, beautiful, and hard working.  They are a mixture of Portuguese and African and speak a creole language.  They knew a little English - mostly, "I love you America!  Give me monies."  They were also very poor.  Back then, if they could find work, they would earn the equivalent of about five dollars a day.  The cost of living was high, so most people lived in cinderblock homes without running water or electricity.  They depended on the well in the nearest town and on Kerosene lamps.  It really almost seemed like biblical days.  They did wear western style clothing, and I'm assuming the clothing was sent from America, because one day I saw a young man wearing a shirt that said, "Baby on Board" with an arrow pointing at his stomache.  He was very proud of the shirt and seemed to believe it proclaimed his prowess as a fertility expert, so I smiled and nodded dumbly since I didn't really want to be an ugly American by speaking loudly and slowly and trying to burst his bubble.  I say most people lived this way, because the only people who enjoyed electricity and running water were the ones who worked for the government.  Each town had a generator that ensured the government offices had electricity.  The streets of each town were also paved with cobblestone - which was a joy when you are riding in a taxi (seven passenger minivan) with the seats taken out and 2x6 wood planks inserted to increase the amount of seating available.  I have many stories and fond memories of Cape Verde, and encourage you to visit.  If you go, be sure to travel to Tarrafal, on the island of Santiago.  I've included some photos below (not mine, I took them from a travel site - traveljournals.net):

There is one road running through the center of town, the same road that runs to Clifden in the West and Galway city in the east. Besides being the location of The Matchmaker, Roundstone is also known for famed local celebrity, Malachy Kearns, owner of Roundstone Musical Instruments, home of the Irish drum, the bodhran; and Mt. Errisbeg, which looms above the seaside community.

Climbing Mt. Errisbeg can be an adventure, if not a physical test of endurance. When I climbed the mountain, it was during the Food and Mouth disease outbreak, that hadn’t seemed to reach the outskirts of the wild West. Using the tiny map in my Lonely Planet guidebook, I found a path next to O’Dowd’s pub and then a small lane by some houses and farms.

I came to a dead end with a house right at the end of the path, with the mountain looming up in front of me. A man standing outside the house joked with me when I asked him if I could go through his back yard to climb the mountain. He said it would cost five (punts) to hire him as a guide and also told me there were a lot of “wild animals” up there. I went through his gate (“just close it behind you,” were his last words to me) to his pasture where his sheep were grazing. The whole mountain was used for sheep grazing and I’m surprised no one was worried about me spreading Foot and Mouth. But I am slowly learning that in Connemara, rules mean nothing.

I made my way up the mountain, carefully avoiding the streams and sheep droppings, and scaring the herds as I walked by them. It was a beautiful mountain with no real path and when I got to the top I could see the entire town and the water down below. The strong, chilly wind kept me from lingering too long at the top, so I quickly started my descent. I should have left a trail of breadcrumbs because I got lost and disoriented on the way down. I couldn’t remember which way to go and soon I couldn’t even see the town for a landmark. Also, there were gates and walls up around me and I couldn’t figure out how to get around them. I feared I was on the private property of people not as kind as the man who offered to be my guide and that they would come out of their homes and yell at me. I made a lucky guess on the direction I had to go in and the man’s back yard and gate was very close to where I was as I made my way back to civilization.

I went to Roundstone Musical Instruments store to browse for the second day in a row. A man having tea said, “Hello again” and I said hello even though I had no idea who he was. He began talking to me and I soon learned that he was the bodhran man, Malachy Kearns, owner of the shop, maker of the most famous bodhrans in the world, a vary prominent man, actually. He makes drums for all of the famous Irish musicians, including the Chieftains. I told him that I was planning on purchasing one of his bodhrans and he proceeded to force me (kindly) to sit and talk with him over some coffee and a delicious cream pastry. He took me over to his collections and pointed out some particularly nice drums. It just so happened that we liked and admired the same one—the skin used to make it wasn’t perfectly white—it had some darker patches running through it—and a painted Celtic design of a bird. Malachy actually gave it to me along with three beaters (“sticks” to hit it with) and a manual on how to use it. It was such a pleasant surprise because we had just met and didn’t even know each other very well. I only had to pay the 24 punts shipping charge to send it home so I wouldn’t have to carry it around with me. I think it was worth around 50 punts, which is actually inexpensive for a bodhran. I thanked him profusely and told him I would stop in the next day to say hello.

I had to find something to do to fill the next day because the bus didn’t come until 4:50, so I wandered into town and back to the music shop. I had coffee with Malachy, two local men, and a Swiss couple who bought one of the only replicas of the Book of Kells (the original being on display in Trinity College in Dublin). The Book of Kells is an illustrated manuscript from the year 800, which makes it one of the oldest books in the world. It is believed that monks on the island of Iona, off the western coast of Scotland, produced the book and moved it to Kells in Ireland to keep it safe from a Viking raid in 806. To buy your own copy of this book would cost $18,000 but a paperback version can be bought for $17.99. Malachy said he wanted to buy one of the copies and display it in his shop and they were all discussing how he could do that (how to display it, how to keep it safe, among other logistics).

After Malachy gave a brief talk on the bodhran and an explanation and a demonstration to a hoard of German tourists, I left the commotion and went to O’Dowd’s Pub for lunch and caught the bus on the way to Oughterard, which is another adventure I might write about later.

Actually, the weather yesterday was terrible! As they say here in Ireland, it was "lashing rain." Patrick Street is always very crowded during the day, and I had to run a few errands on my lunch break. In order to make any progress through the crowds, I had to hold my umbrella very close to my body. Every now and then a gust of wind would roll through and knock the stem of my umbrella against my glasses. It would catch me by surprise every time and elicit a few choice curse words. I probably looked like one of those crazy people on the streets who mutter and curse to themselves. I probably was one of those people.

I am one of four Americans working at the Cope Foundation. To mark Independence Day, and as an excuse to be social, the Six Pubs of Summer was planned. About 20 people from work met at Captain America's (an American-esque restaurant) for burgers and fries. After dinner, the group proceeded to a variety of pubs (six of them, as you might imagine) throughout the evening.

Pat had planned on joining the group later in the evening, but the weather proved to be too great a deterrent. I managed to hang in there with the group for the first three pubs, but then my 36-year-old body told me I should go home and I wisely decided to listen. Typically, an Irish night on the town will run until 2:30 in the morning. And some revelers will stay out even later than that. I'm just too old for that kind of fun.

It is definitely a different experience to be in another country on such a big American holiday. I wonder if I would have felt more homesick if the weather had been less inclement. I suspect the answer is yes, but since the likelihood of having a beautiful warm summer seems slim to none here in Ireland I may never know.

NOTE: With the exception of the above shot, where the original is of poor quality, clicking on any picture in this article will bring you to a full-size version.

The above is included despite the poor quality because it illustrated my very first encounter with the AV class, when the first couple of buses had just arrived at Phibsboro Garage in July/August 2000.

AV1 is seen over the pits at Phibsboro, beside one of the remaining fleet of Bombardier KDs which would shortly be replaced by the new buses. Over the next couple of days AV3 could be seen out on the streets driver training, but it was not until September 1st 2000 that the first AV entered service - AV6 at Ringsend, the first trip being on the 65.

AV1-5 were "additional" buses for fleet expansion, allocated to Broadstone, and so stayed off the road pending the introduction of service improvements later in the year.

Above: AV1 has been a bit of a wanderer, and following a spell on euro duties at Broadstone it was moved across to Clontarf, where it mingled with other AVs on most of that depot's routes.

This photo, taken on April 21st 2002 shows it in Abbey Street about to depart for Malahide. If you look closely in the picture, you can see that AV1 has a small digital display unit at the front of the upper deck, visible through the front windows. AV1 later moved to Ringsend, to tidy up the numbers, and give Ringsend a complete run of AV1-21.

Above: Phibsboro's AV50 loading up on festival shuttle duty, in the days when the shuttles used to leave from O'Connell Street. The picture is taken in summer 2001, and the festival was Witnness (these days known as Oxegen).

Above: AV108 was an out of sequence allocation to Donnybrook, seen here in 2001 in Dun Laoghaire. It left Donnybrook after a fairly short stay, and is now based at Harristown.

Above: anyone remember The Christmas Bus? Few AVs have been in allover advert colours, and this one only lasted a month, as a "Happy Christmas" greeting from Dublin Bus to its customers. AV136 is seen in December 2003 at Ranelagh.

AV173 was another odd allocation, later tidied up. Seen here at the old 46A terminus in Fleet Street, being overtaken by RA222, also in City Swift livery.

Above: this more modern shot is included to illustrate AV178, the first of the type to be lost by fire. This picture in O'Connell Street was taken just 3 months before its unfortunate demise.

AV185 brings us to the end of the 2000 order, and is seen here brand new at Broadstone, in storage pending the introduction of extra service on the Blanchardstown corridor.

Above: I guess you could call this the arse-end of O'Connell Street (!).

The 2001 batch of AVs was very small compared to the 2000 order, comprising AV186-229 - a mere 44 buses (there was an additional 12 WVs also). A slightly revised body style was introduced, with slanted window and overhang, introduced at the request of drivers, who found the large vertical window on the original AVs too prone to internal reflections at night, particularly when driving in less well-lit areas.

As a workaround on the first 185 AVs, they were sometimes driven at night with nearside interior lighting switched off.

The picture shows AV193, new into service in the tail end of 2001.

Above: new AV222, close to Christmas 2001, entered service without a Dublin Bus logo on the front, and looked slightly odd as a result. In the background, one of the VanHool D tourbuses can be seen - these survived in service until spring 2002.

Above: not an oddity, but a first day in service, and so worthy of inclusion. Clontarf received the first of the 2002 batch of AVs in April 2002, mostly for the 27, though they strayed a lot to other routes. AV236 is gleaming and perfect at Talbot Street.

Above: summer 2003 saw an interesting oddity, with route 123 converted to fully double-deck operation for a couple of weeks to release the WV single-decks to act as shuttle buses for the Special Olympics.

The buses used were brand new AVs being delivered at the time, which went to Broadstone and worked the 123 prior to going to their intended depots. AV292 would become a Conyngham Road bus, which was fitting in a way, as Conyngham Road had operated the predecessor route 23 back in its double-deck heyday. This shot is taken on the 22nd of June 2003, at the Bulfin Road junction.

Above: a little while later on the same day, and one of my favourite shots, as brand new AV301 works the 123 at Suir Road. The landscape here with houses and railings had changed little since the days when I used to pass this way regularly in the 1970s, on my way to and from a summer holiday job. In those days blue & cream double-decks on the 23, either D281-288 or often RA class halfcabs, would always be encountered at this stretch of road. Seeing a blue & cream double-deck again at that spot really brought back the memories.

After a couple of weeks, AV301 moved to Phibsboro and the 123 reverted to WV operation.

More from the AV files in the future!

]]> http://irlandairlanda.wordpress.com/?p=955 Sat, 05 Jul 2008 13:36:11 +0000 irlandairlanda http://irlandairlanda.wordpress.com/?p=955

Quiero agradecer a mi querida Hada Amanda, por entregarme el premio Blog con Huellas 2008.

Su dirección de Blog es:http://eldiariodeamanda.wordpress.com/. Disfruto cuando la visito por su frescura, y su transparencia.

Primero mis queridas hadas:

Nélida – http://elombligodelmundooelmundoenelombligo.blogspot.com/

Fabiana del Sol - http://fabiannadesol.wordpress.com

Marola - http://marola77.wordpress.com

Mis Duendes elegidos son:

Domingo – http://xalenky.spaces.live.com/

Santiago - http://www.santiagodelrio.wordpress.com

Meme para compartir...

He recibido un Meme de Marcial Candioti VI http://marcialcandioti.wordpress.com , de mi compañero de ruta.

Lo estoy publicando para compartirlo con mis Hadas y Duendes Blogueros. La consigna es responder, ¿Qué lleva cada una/uno en su bolso o mochila de la vida?.

Por mi parte llevo en mi mochila, vivencias tristes y hermosas. Las tristes dado que el ser humano está acostumbrado a los físico, es la pérdida de mi padre a los 4 años. Al año siguiente mi abuelo materno, al que le decía Quiquito; y que me tenía una paciencia infinita.

Posteriormente la pérdida de mi querida abuela materna Tissie, una genia. Se que todos están conmigo, el amor va mucho más allá que lo físico. Día a día tengo pruebas que me lo demuestran.

También tengo desde hace muchos años, un lugarcito muy especial donde está mi mayor afecto la persona que amo. Otro bolsillos para aquellos que subieron a los vagones de mi la vida, en diferentes momentos para apoyarme o solo compartir un café.

...¿Y ustedes?:

http://elmundoenelombligooelombligoenelmundo?

http://jardinhiaku.wordpress.com

http://eldiariodeamanda.wordpress.com

Irlanda, mientras leen les estoy haciendo llegar estrellitas de protección y amor!

Blogalaxia
hadas
duendes
gnomos
espiritualidad
espiritual
positivismo
marcela+ciaffone+kenny

On Thursday I went to the dentist for a cleaning.  I know, getting your teeth cleaned during pregnancy has some controversy surrounding it.  Something about bleeding gums and infection, but my dentist felt it was best if I kept my regular cleaning schedule and being that Ireland is the land of pregnant women, babies and families of 8 or more, I figured she might know a thing or two about pregnancy and teeth.  I also am in love with my dentist.   I've never had such a thorough, honest, and competent dentist in my life.  So with that said, I went through with the appointment. 

It has been raining here, like torrential downpour rain and I was concerned about the possibility of traffic and arriving late for my appointment.  So, as I often do in Los Angeles, I gave myself a few extra minutes to account for traffic.  For some reason the stop lights on the coast road near Dun Loaghaire ( pronounced Dun Leery, don't ask!) operate weirdly and can create congestion and backup the likes of the 405 freeway.  I don't mind it because I always give myself extra time, but I think for the Irish who aren't used to 405 traffic, it can be maddening.  So, this day, I decided I wasn't going to take the coast road and chose to go the back way, thinking it might take me a bit more time, but I'd avoid any possible traffic delays.  Needless to say, I arrived 15 minutes early for my appointment.  Now in LA, arriving early is what it is, but in Ireland, for some reason arriving early for an appointment is the absolute strangest thing someone can do in the world!  It's happened once before at this particular office, where I arrived 10 minutes early, and the receptionist made a point to mention how "considerably early" I had arrived for my appointment.  I remarked back, "well only 10 minutes...", but it fell on deaf ears.  I remember that day feeling stunned that I was being "called out" on actually being courteous and making it a point to arrive on time to my destination.  Today was no different.  As I walked up to reception, I made a point to mention that I was early for my appointment and took a seat in the waiting area.  Several people were in and out of the area, striking up conversation with the reception team, as I sat and gladly read a magazine waiting for my appointment.  At one point, around 10 minutes into my wait, a woman who worked at the office approached me asking if "I was Okay?"  I said, "yes, thankyou, I'm just a bit early for my appointment." She replied, "well yes, you've been sitting there a long time, I wasn't sure if everything was alright!"  I smiled, said, "nope just early," and after that exchange she was content to go back to her conversation.  So weird!!!  They treated me as strangely as if I'd come in wearing antlers, wearing roller skates, and carrying a harp.  Apparently, arriving early for an appointment makes you stand out that much!

At this point with all eyes upon me, staring at the "girl who arrives too early", I was wondering, I hope they know I'm pregnant and not just fat!  That is what travels across my conscious brain as of late.  Even when I'm walking down the street and I notice people looking at me, that's the first thing that pops into my mind.  So, as I walked out from my teeth cleaning and up to reception to pay for my appointment, the receptionist asked, "when are you due?"  I looked at her stunned.  I haven't had one person ask me that question without me adding a precursor about morning sickness or just flat out stating that I'm pregnant.  My stunned look must've taken her by surprise.  She looked like she wanted to take back the comment and hide under her desk, worrying that maybe "whoops, she is just fat and not pregnant."  After I sat there for a moment, I said, "you can tell I'm pregnant and not just fat?"  She laughed at me and just smiled.  I told her I was due at the beginning of December, and that was that. 

So I guess I'm finally showing enough for strangers to notice that I'm pregnant.  Right On!!  Although to me, I still look in the mirror and think, just fat...not looking Pregnant, but I guess I'm mistaken. Plus, now that receptionist knows what it feels like to be looked at like you're a total freak of nature, instead of just... "early for your appointment."

1.6G. Vtec. Engine, mission good working condition. ONly roof paits a bit fade outs.

Engine blowing rising very good.

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Sorry, no pun intended.

I'm going to Ireland, with Mackensy, and it is amazing, a trip of a lifetime, one many people will never experience.

It was a totally random decision, but completely characteristic of Mackensy and me. We planned on moving to Southern California together, and talked about it like crazy, and had apprehensions about it, but when it came down to the wire, we just did it, no plans, no reservations, no knowledge whatsoever of how amazing and drastically different our lives would soon become. I never have and never will regret that move because it shaped who I am today.

We've talked about Europe, which she did last summer, we've talked about Brasil, and most recently we discussed Ireland. But not seriously. So when she called me on Tuesday and said, "Let's go to Ireland in two weeks" I was surprised... for two minutes. Then I said yes, absolutely. And the next day we bought plane tickets. Are we crazy? Maybe, but perhaps sometimes you need to be a little crazy, to feel really normal. Does that make sense? I hope it does. Because it does to me.

So here is the plan, although we really don't have a "plan" quite yet. We fly into Dublin May 22 and will spend a couple of days there. We are staying in the Republic of Ireland, (we aren't going to venture into Northern Ireland) and want to kind of circle around visiting Galway, Limmerick, Waterford, Cork, Kilkenny and back up to Dublin. And we fly home on June 5. We're taking backpacks only, we don't have any reservations and plan on walking a lot, and riding a lot of trams and busses. Plus bicycling and hiking and anything else we decide might be fun. We're doing a lot of research but neither of us have ever been so we don't know quite what to expect. So if anyone reading has any tips or suggestions, we'd love to hear them.