The Book of Kells

Ireland’s indisputable finest national treasure deceivingly looks like a small stack of tatty old hardbacks. But within those tomes is a vibrant and colorful monked-up retelling of the teachings of the Gospel. Written in the eight century, the four calligraphic volumes of the Book of Kells have survived the pillages of Vikings and the wanton destruction of all things considered Catholic by Oliver Cromwell and his Roundheads.

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After twelve hundred years, the Kells continue to present their spiritual teachings within the scholarly confines of Dublin’s Trinity College library.

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Dublin’s nearby magnificent castle displays an impressive array of period architecture dating from the twelfth century.

 

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Many rivers including the Liffey and the Dodder greet the Irish Sea at Dublin Bay.

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The Home of Golf

The magnificence of St. Andrews in Scotland is reflected not least through the largest public golf complex in the whole of Europe, and is frequently home to the famous British Open Championship. The charming town also features the oldest university in Scotland, dating all the way back to 1411.

About one hundred years earlier, in 1318, the shrining cathedral of St Andrew was consecrated by none other than King Robert the Bruce, only to be later sacked by a mob of drunken Rangers supporters in the late 1500s. Next door to the cathedral rests the imposing medieval castle, still standing guard against the powerful North Sea after seven or so centuries.

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Notable alumni of the university include Alex Salmond, Kate Middleton, Prince William, John Cleese and Chris Hoy.

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St Andrews Cathedral was Scotland’s largest and most magnificent in its heyday.

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During the Scottish wars of independence the fortified castle changed hands several times.

 

Precision Pairing

While traveling recently, I found the Manzanita restaurant in the Lake Tahoe Ritz Carlton Hotel to be an entertaining, warm respite for tired and awestruck hikers and skiers. Sitting atop one of the many peaks surrounding the beautiful Lake Tahoe, the restaurant offers great food, drinks, and a preponderance of modern, effective, glass bead-laden fires—a very cozy, smart-but-casual atmosphere.

At these higher-end eateries, I’ve always found recommended food and drink pairings to be a strange concoction. Generally, I usually accepted, without as much as a question, the validity and appropriateness of feast and tipple unions proffered to me. My thinking was that someone, qualified and well-trained, had anticipated my nourishment and imbibing needs, well in advance of my emerging appetite, saving me the trouble and bother of picking from an interminable catalog of permutations and combinations, which might otherwise result in some gastronomic catastrophe or other recipe for disaster. Or worse, social shaming and peer belittlement. For example, should one happen to like Merlot and artichokes, or Chianti and tuna salad and have the audacity and impudence to desire them outside the privacy of one’s own home.

There are, undoubtedly, numerous rational merits to pairing appropriately, such as avoiding potential hangovers or unforgiving acid reflux, but other than circumventing biological imbalance some matching suggestions vex me. Certainly, cuisiniers, culinary artistes and gourmet virtuosos have the ability and skillset to match foods, sauces, preparation methods and beverages for concurrent consumption. In a gallant quest for palatable perfection, Ritz-Carltons use a pre-defined matrix to match foods with wine based on a variety of factors such as sweetness, spices, acidity and bitterness.

Over time, however, while I have in part come to appreciate the aptness of precision pairing, my gut tells me that restaurateurs could perhaps think a bit bigger than mere chow compatibility or other half-baked ideas. Instead of matching drinks to food, why not to other mood modifying stimuli, such as the weather?

Take my old favorite, Scotch, for example, which after many years of personal research, I have come to conclude is best served with rain. Blended whiskies generally tend to go well in light dreary drizzle, while the stronger single malts hold up better in a disheartening deluge. One of my favorite smoother blends, the Famous Grouse, matured in oak casks for six months, is fabulous for the palate when balanced with a somber sprinkle. Best served in a soaking downpour, the trademark of the glorious ten year old Macallan is the misty aftertaste of handpicked sherry seasoned oak. Ultimately though, during a marauding monsoon, I find that there is nothing quite so soothing and aromatic as a sip of full-bodied sixteen year old peaty Lagavulin. Best enjoyed with wellies.

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Contemplating the evening’s potential pairings.

The Beekeepers

The Beekeepers realized rapidly that they were daunted by the large, complex honeycombed hive of dust-covered canvas encampments, in this particular full-sized colony of over sixty thousand. Sixty five thousand, four hundred and twenty one of these social insects to be exact, all cross-pollinating twenty four seven, to the likes of Billy Idol in the house. Thump, thump, thump, “hey little sister what have you done?” Ambient keyboard swell, thump, thump, thump, and repeat to coda: Day and night humming raucously into the following sunrise.

Not that we had intended to manage busy bees or to produce conventional honey: We had come masquerading as great European twentieth century explorers, presumably along the crisp white linen lines of Dr. Livingstone. But it was not to be, as the first comment on the coordinated attire from a bumbling, dirty looking Italian-ish thirty something extra from Mad Max was, “buon giorno seniors, where are zee bees?” That stung. And so for the duration of the burn my wingmen and I were the keepers of bees. Fantasy names and titles were apparently the norm at the infamous Burning Man as we realized fairly quickly upon making introductions to fellow burners. “Hi I’m Chris,” with a broad smile and hand extended was reciprocated with, “hi I’m Violet Shooting Star.”

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The workers were super friendly, all sixty-some thousand of them, the costumes were amusingly rich and varied and the art structures and thunderdome-esque mutant vehicles were entirely impressive. For a trio of old WASPs wearing all-white safari suits and pith helmets we seemed to get way more attention than we thought deserved. Why would these fabulous-looking, young, post-apocalyptic honeys swarm the Beekeepers? Not because we looked like the Bee-Gees we guessed, but because of our advanced planning and well-organized, coordinated formation. Any drone can sport a yellow jacket, mohawk, kilt, face-paint, doc martens, safety pins, faux fur and other haberdashery, but three pristine white figures contrasted with anarchy gets the nectar. The challenge next year is to create as much buzz.

The Golden Medusa

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Golden Medusa. 2016. Oil on Canvas. 79cm x 99cm.

Beautiful and repulsive, mysterious and menacing, I find jellyfish to be impossibly constructed and hard to fathom. Even Spongebob fears them. Beached, they look like some large ungodly snotter cast asunder for all to see, like the sad remnants of a rotting, over-ripened combination of mangos, shredded Victoria Secrets undergarments, and torn Safeway plastic bags.

However, just below the surface, gently bobbing in our oceans, these lingeriel leftovers appear to glide deliberatively with the grace of angels. When you look a little deeper into the subject you realize that these gelatinous globs are all individually, ever so slightly, different in color, shade, texture, construction and pattern, which amazes me given that they swarm in the millions like some briny, morphing mushroom pea soup. The variations are diminutive but discernable, and this is from a guy who still can’t tell Matt and Ben apart—my six-foot three twin first cousins once removed.

In this medium-sized oil treatment, the cautious diver is shown respectfully avoiding the deadly touch of the Mastigias papua—the Papauan Jellyfish, or as it is known commonly throughout the Indo-Pacific, the Golden Medusa. In an oblique nod to the artist’s hero and luminary, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, the aquanaut’s hair drifts chaotically in the ocean current, much like the serpent-laden head of the feared Gorgon, Medusa.