In the spring of 1999-perhaps with the thought of capping the millennium-we decided to go on a two-week excursion to Ireland sponsored by the University Research Expedition Program, based at UC Davis. As grandmothers, we did not wish to become either "predator" or "prey," nor did we wish to attempt scuba diving or mountaineering. The Temple Chiaråin archeological dig on the Aran Islands, off the western coast of Ireland, sounded perfect. We figured that the middle expedition would be optimal-we would not have to dig the pit-and we would not be required to fill it in. We were so wise. We arrived in Shannon, bedraggled and exhausted, having survived a trip fraught with cancellations, delays and overbooking. The next day we took a bus to the coast where we were to meet other members of the dig in Galway. After meeting our contacts, we boarded another bus, which took us north to catch the ferry at Rossaveal for the 45-minute "cruise" to InisMor, the largest of the three Aran Islands. Landing at the pier at Kilronan, the main village on InisMor, we were met by Oliver and his minivan. We tossed our luggage on board and chugged up the hill to Tony Flaherty's house where we met the rest of the crew. Half of the crew were from the states and the other half (the professional archeologists or "dig-bums" as they referred to themselves) were Irish. It was exactly this cultural mix that made the trip perfect. Our Irish crew members gave us an insight to the area, the customs and the language that we would never have been privy to as American tourists. We enter the Temple Chiaråin The temple was about a mile and a half downhill. The first morning off we tramped, clad in layers of clothing, backpacks and ponchos. Ferns, wild statice and other flowers crowded the cracks of the stone walls that bordered all the property and roads. We finally climbed through a narrow stile in the wall and were at the Temple Chiaråin. Sinead, the project director, gave us a tour of the temple grounds and told us what it was that we were trying to uncover. Monks had built the temple and lived there as early as the third century A.D. After a five-minute tutorial on how to dig, we gathered up our dustpans, small whisk brooms and trowels, and began "sweeping" at the 13th-century level-a quarter of an inch at a time. At first, anything other than dirt seemed a major find. In no time at all, we became experts at distinguishing rat jaws from fish spines, and limpet shells from periwinkle shells. It seemed these wee sea creatures were the mainstay of the monks' diet. "Half-ten" (10:30 a.m.) was break time. The whole crew would head to a broken-down enclosure with walls of rubble and no roof. Sinead had a car and transported not only supplies and equipment back and forth, but also thermoses of hot coffee and tea ... and wonderful cookies called "Hob-Nobs." At break we got to swap stories, talk politics, tell jokes and plan the evening. We had the eerie feeling people had been using the site in the same way since the 12th century. After eight hours on one's knees sweeping dirt into buckets ... walk home was uphill. We learned that whoever volunteered to do the cooking that evening got a ride in Sinead's car from the dig site to the one and only supermarket on the island at the end of the day. The cook then selected the groceries and got a ride up the hill to Tony's house. We immediately shot our hands into the air the next day. Enough of underdone brown rice and overdone stir-fry-we made homemade scones, Irish stew, grilled fish, roasted pork and cakes. While this scheme didn't work every night ... it bought us many a ride up the hill. An introduction to Irish music and Guinness The second night we joined the group at the nearest pub-Joe Watty's-where we were introduced to traditional Irish music, pints of Guinness ... and Baileys. I didn't know so many people could crowd into one room. The mood was mellow, the music good and the night still young. And the road home was uphill. The time on our expedition flew by. Lynne unearthed a pottery shard at the dig. Someone found a blue bead and a bronze pin used to hold a cloak together. Sheila became the master of limpet and periwinkle shells. Sheila also discovered she did not have the temperament of an archeologist. She was much too impatient. If she saw a bone, she wanted to immediately dig it out...and not at the rate of a quarter inch at a time. Tuesday evening found us all at Tigh Fitz-a pub on the south side of the island. Locals gathered there to do Irish set-dancing-the forerunner of American square dancing-on steroids. On an island of only 600 inhabitants, you recognized the grocery checker as one of the dancers, and the museum curator as another. It was mainly women who danced. At Lynne's inquiry, the women explained that it was simply "ladies' night out." They also occasionally took vacations separately from their husbands, putting their "fiver in the jar" until they had saved enough money to take a trip to the mainland. Another evening, the entire crew made reservations at a vegetarian restaurant located at the youth hostel. The owner/chef was Joel (with the accent on the second syllable)-a fellow all the way from Jamaica. He was like the soup-Nazi in "Seinfeld." We were not allowed to advance to the buffet until he invited our table to do so. The cuisine was spectacular. The following Saturday the American crew hired our original minivan driver, Oliver, to give us a guided tour of the island. We passed houses with thatched roofs, saw a Roman gravesite at the Temple of Seven Churches, discovered live limpets and periwinkles in the tide pools, and hiked up a mile and a half to Dun Aonghasa, a semicircular, dry-stone fortress located on the northwest side of the island. The site has been occupied since 800 B.C. The fortress was built right on the edge of 300-foot cliffs that dropped straight down to the ocean. Surrounding the fort were massive razor-sharp spikes of limestone that formed a barricade against invaders. A wistful departure from InisMor Oliver came to take us to the ferry on Wednesday morning. As the dock receded into the background, we almost wept. There were still things to see on the island. Returning from the rural atmosphere of InisMor, with its country lanes and pony-traps, to the hubbub of London was nothing less than a painful culture shock. It would have been better to ease into being back home, but we were both at work on Monday morning with tales to tell. While we were on the island, we decided that we really wanted to chuck it all and open a laundromat in Kilronan, sit on the stoop, and stare out at the ocean. We think we might be on to something ... but in the meantime we are putting our "fivers in the jar" for another trip.