We called it our “St. Pat’s pick.” We’d been circling ads, and on that March 17, we found it.Colleagues had been telling David “look in Winchester, lots of Tufts people,” but we hadn’t seen anything we could afford. We were living in a tiny apartment over a garage in Medford for $90 a month, and tony Winchester seemed out of reach. But this was a three-family house, which meant rents that would contribute to our mortgage.The agent met us on a cold Sunday and no doubt thought she was wasting her time. We looked pretty ragtag. As we followed her to the property, our old Volkswagen Bug ran out of gas. David hopped out of the car to flag down the realtor, the long fringe on his brown suede jacket flowing. I was next, eight months pregnant, long hair in a hippie headband, struggling to get out of the bucket seat.The house wasn’t pretty: worn gray asbestos-shingle siding, chipped maroon trim, and one of those drooping aluminum awnings. Parking was a challenge, too, one car behind another.

We bought it, though, and took the third floor. It was the smallest unit, but it was empty and we wanted the rent from the larger ones. The apartment was freezing. We had to move our daughter’s crib to the big warm bathroom, next to the claw-foot tub. When the steam radiators came on, they hissed comfortingly at first, like the shushing of the baby-noise machine not yet invented. But the hissing fast became loud pings, then even louder bangs, finally reaching a jump-upright-in-bed crescendo. (Ahh, maybe that’s why she’s never been a good sleeper.)We learned to garden that first spring by watching our neighbor Angelo Bruno over the fence from our third-floor window. He never knew that we put our tomatoes in the ground on his schedule and made the same little hillocks for the zucchini. We planted four rows of corn and dutifully followed the recommendation of Mother Earth News to pick the ears only when we had the water boiling. After a few years, we desperately wanted the large two-bedroom unit on the first floor, but even though the tenants, Melanie and Bill, nudged a new baby out the door seemingly every spring, they weren’t moving anytime soon.

The economy was terrible. Before packing all the kids up for the trip to Johnnie’s Foodmaster in their hook-over-the-seat back car seats, Melanie would yell up to me: “Pork chops 99 cents!” She really didn’t need to yell; you could hear everything in that house. That’s how we knew Bill was a Bruins fan. His “Arrrgh, ya bastids!” would roar up from their living room along the cavernous front stairwell whenever Boston lost.Diy Airbrush Cleaning StationBut Bill and Melanie eventually did buy a home, and we moved downstairs, staying a few more years. Spring Air Ozone PurifierWe worked on all of the units, scraping off several layers of wallpaper, removing suspended panels that revealed amazing high ceilings, refinishing the oak floors, adding a furnace, and enlarging the parking area. Vertical Blinds Parts Toronto

The ensuing increase in rent money helped us buy the single-family home in Winchester we saw listed one March — again around St Patrick’s Day.We’ve been in it now for 40 years.Climbing to the top of a wet and foggy Croagh Patrick on Monday qualified this morning’s hike from the beach at Strandhill to the summit of Knocknarea Mountain a cake walk. Even with the the rain pouring down for the last bit of today’s journey, the hike had country roads most of the way and a decent path all the way to the top!There was one personal highlight from the climb… I met Kim and her family from upstate New York. She’s a regular follower of the blog. Imagine my surprise when she asked, “Are you Corey?” She’s promised to send us pictures from their trip… I’ll be sure to post them when they arrive.Although the climb wasn’t strenuous, I figured I earned a bit of pampering. So when I returned to Strandhill, I peeled out of my dripping wet clothes and slid into a steaming hot bath of seaweed and sea water at Voya Seaweed Baths.

The place looks like a modern spa, but the tradition in Sligo goes back well over 100 years when most seaside towns boasted the healing benefits of their bath houses.My bath began with ten minutes in the private shower/steam room to open my pores, followed by a long soak in the old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub. The sea water in the tub felt slimy at first, and I opted for scooping up the long strands of seaweed and laying them across my chest rather than sitting on the pile of leafy Atlantic greens.Once I got over the peculiarity of the whole scene, I quickly began to relax. The staff would say that was the treatment’s “detoxifying” characteristics taking affect. I just called it peaceful.Gotta say, this is one experience I wouldn’t have considered if the women at the Sligo Tourist Office hadn’t talked so highly of it. Plus, I had it in my head that it was one of those things for a “girls day out.” Imagine my surprise when I spotted more men at the bath this afternoon than women.

It’s clearly popular with athletes, people with joint and muscle problems, day spa goers and curious tourists like myself.So there you have it… an Irish seaweed bath. It’s €25, so it’s much less expensive than spa treatments elsewhere, and it’s a very interesting experience indeed. I should also note they have a whole line of spa experiences and skincare products. I’ve got some video I’ll share from the bath, but it’ll take a bit to edit. Also want to thank Neil from Voya for taking the time to chat with me… he also picked up the tab on my bath as well – thanks for that.Here’s are some pics from Sligo…Show All ItemsStep 1: This Idea is Not NewShow All Items Let me start by saying that this idea is not new.  First shown in 1961 in Holly Golightly's apartment in the film "Breakfast at Tiffany's", it was then re-created by Jared and Jill Morrison of Ruff House Art for Phillip Morris of all folks a few years ago.  This was followed by a New York Times article covering the concept of a claw foot bath tub couch (when I first got turned on to the idea) which then prompted several bespoke retailers to try and recreate the work.