I used to overthink when asked, “What do you do for fun?” Assuming, whether correctly or incorrectly, that I’d better come up with something worthy of the asker’s interest.
Well, closing in on 40, I have fully accepted and embraced my special hobbies. Some may call them granny hobbies. Some may be correct. These pursuits include: reading, bird watching, rock hounding, gardening, house plant cultivation.
Travel is also an interest. It’s a way to see well-known things with new eyes. Or unknown things with old eyes. Or, to eat something weird. My most recent trip was to the west coast of Ireland with my family.
As a group, we had many bucket list-worthy activities carved into stone. Exploring abandoned abbeys, braving Galway Bay en route to Inis More and the Cliffs of Moher were some. Surfing the Irish sea and exploring a long hidden limestone cave in the barren Burren were others.
As an individual, I had one other plan in mind (OK, besides seeing a puffin, hedgehog and seal): MUDLARKING.
Prior knowledge, in my opinion, is key to success. Especially when traveling somewhere unknown. (Example: Always read the menu before entering the restaurant.) So by the time the Ireland adventure arrived, I had many a mudlarking-related Facebook post’s worth of knowledge filed away. These posts, from folks in the UK and beyond, searched for, well, cool stuff in the coastal mud.
I too, now yearned for the muck treasures.
It is with great pleasure, I announce: I have a new hobby! It’s cleaning mud off my shoes. NOOOOOO. You guessed it: it’s mudlarking. If I had to guess, it is called such because the mudlarker likely looks like a bird (lark?) poking around in the freshly revealed tidal dirt.
Assumedly, this bird is hunting for food. We larkers, however, are hunting for glory… I mean, treasure… errr.. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder?
Conveniently, or Irish rental included its very own tidal river/ocean bank. Through the gate, over the rock pile, and down the ancient-looking concrete pier, I took to the seaweed-littered pickins’ post haste.
As the luck of the Fair Folk would have it, it was low low low tide. Nearly destroying my most favorite, comfortable sandals, I mucked right in. Various ceramic and pottery shards (as well as an odd look or two from the family,) sea glass and a mystery item later, I was a true mudlarker.
The mudlarking good? It’s “free,” fun, and exciting for those who find joy in surveying the land for little treasures as they go. The bad? I live in Montana. There is no tide. There are no long-lost treasures from many, many years ago.
I have done similar activities here in the mountains, like finding tidbits from the old mining days; maybe some “sea” glass here and there. But nothing can really be Europe old, old…. ya know? Like, that broken, slime covered container just may have been a mystical shoemaker’s pot of gold. Or, that hollowed out round thing? It’s the tiny end of his cute lil’ pipe.
So, I guess I’ll have to head back to the alluring muck of Ireland again one day. Until then, I’ll fondly recall the misty rain in my frizzy hair, the persistent rank of seawater in my clothes… the feeling of magic that permeates each winding, hair-turning, sheep-poop slicked and narrow roadway.
Did I mention our Connemarra rental had once been set aflame by the IRA? That it served as a salmon fly fishing lodge for many years? And had tight ties to the sinking of the Titanic? Oh, I didn’t? Well, as I gathered from an Irish tale – relating a person needing and not having a story to tell – I shall shear that sheep another day.
– RANDOM THOUGHT I FIGURED I’D INCLUDE FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT AND ALLUSION
Mountains to Mangroves 