The Barmaid set the pint of Guinness stout in front of me, tiny tan bubbles of nitrogen still cascading upward through its dark brown liquid. The last time I’d tasted one, almost 40 years earlier, I thought it vile. Dreading strong, coffee-like flavors, I feared the pending attack on my taste buds.
Is there a heaven for stallions? I think I may have found it.
Once upon a time, in the dim mists of history there lived a monk named Kevin.
“Hey, that guy looks familiar!”
In the lands of the Emerald Isle, of the Highlands, of the pipes and the stepdance; a group of travelers set forth to find new discoveries. Ireland and Scotland, each with its own identity but brothers in spirit, played host to these adventures.
Once upon a time, I created a set of gallery pages that provide a quick way to check out the photography from past posts without having to access them individually. I’ve just updated the galleries, and rather than explain the lot I’m reblogging the post that introduced the galleries in January of last year- Short Attention Span Theater.
PS: I’m about to do some traveling, so if you don’t see any blog posts or me responding to your posts for a few weeks, not to worry.
The Pass was hidden, a treacherous rift of currents that didn’t want to shoot strait – at least from the perspective of Captain George Vancouver. Back in 1792, while exploring the Pacific Northwest, he sent Joseph Whidbey sailing northward along the east coast of a strip of land that now bears Whidbey’s name. Whidbey made it up the Saratoga Passage and explored eastward into Skagit Bay, but didn’t make it far enough west to find an outlet. It wasn’t until they changed their practice and explored up the west coast of Whidbey that they found the strait, making Whidbey an island rather than a peninsula. Captain Vancouver was so annoyed being fooled by that hidden rift of roiling water he called it Deception Pass.
226 years later, another group of intrepid sailors headed up to that deceptive pass to pursue a different set of practices. I was one of them.
The dirt road was a veritable minefield of potholes, craftily camouflaged in dappled midday shadows. Trees lined the road, providing a source for that insidious shade, giving those potholes ninja stealth. Driving down this minefield was akin to navigating an impassible obstacle course, where occasions of failure gave me thoughts of riding a bucking bronco, and dropping into the bigger craters evoked a guttural oof.
But what brought me to this kidney buster?
“Fooooooooooaaaaaaaammmmmmmm.” “Fooooooooooaaaaaaaammmmmmmm.” The man in the front of the room encouraged on the followers, “Fooooooooooaaaaaaaammmmmmmm.” The old, respected guru was about to enter. What sort of cult was this?
Carefully, I chose my steps. The herd of deer was out in an open field, as was I. Too sudden a movement and they’d spook, and I was trying to get as close as I could to take my shot.
Two or three more steps and another pause, a bit parallel, a bit closer. I’m taking care not to stare, to pretend I’m just doing my own disinterested thing. There were 14 in the herd. It would only take one to interpret my nonchalant amble as the stalking that it was and set the alarm. 40 yards away now.