Our last day in Ireland, and many miles still to travel as we are on the West most Coast and need to sleep literally on the East most Coast tonight back in Dublin.
Started out the morning joining the other guests of our B & B over breakfast, an interesting exercise, as we were the only non-German-Touring-Bus members in the room. Seated at tables family-style (whether you know the other people or not) is usually quite fun, until you are literally faced with the knowledge that neither you or them can so much as ask to pass the tea from one side of the table to the other. It is at this point you think to yourself how completely useless those years of Spanish and French in High School are to you -- when the ONE time you actually go somewhere, all you meet are tons of non-latin-based speaking peoples.
…Enter in: charades. Best icebreaker ever. You know that once you get a giant German man chuckling over his sausages and his wife is drawing things in the air with her butter knife, it’ll at least make a good story when you get home.
Though broken English, clattering of German, and some exaggerated facial expressions, we swapped “where are you froms,” and managed to guess that they hailed from just south of Holland in a town whose name, no kidding, sounds like it’s spelt with 82 letters. They were both retired from years of civil service (facial expression denoting angst) and were happy to be free to roam about now, thank you very much (facial expression denoting relief.) They were enjoying their trip fine, (facial expression denoting pleasant contentment) but it did seem to be raining a lot (facial expression denoting surprise), they don’t get much at home, and by the way…how do you like your new President? (Facial expression denoting total blankness.)
(For this we did a double take to make sure we understood the mime and broken English correctly, as the transition was so exceedingly sudden.)
Our President? Well, only 100 days in…hard to say really. Doing fine we guessed.
…To which we then were moved onto our Congress, (facial expression denoting hilariousness) our Legislation, (facial expression denoting the ridiculous) our laws for immigrants (facial expression denoting bad ideas)…and were nearly squirming in our seats by breakfast’s completion (and final grilling.) Going from sign language to a liberal education in broken English (which we could only partly understand) on why we Americans suck at doing things (politically speaking): not the greatest way to start the day. But I will surprise perhaps all of you when I say, we parted ways with handshakes and smiles and no combatant comments on our end.
…After all…they had Hitler. I’m thinkin’ if you take THAT pot calling the kettle black seriously, you’re really just not having any fun in show business, people.
Next: Continued with the sights of Cong. Breakfast (and our morning politics) out of the way now, we moved onto Ashford Castle (built in 1228), a giant mother of a stone edifice complete with a moat (now grown in with lawn) and miles and miles of touring grounds which your ten Euro will allow.
Like most every huge property of any value, the estate traveled back and forth in ownership hands amongst the Normans and monied Irish families (including ye old Guinness’) until it was finally made a hotel in 1915 with fishing in the River Cong, tennis courts, falconry, Equestrian center, and clay pigeon and archery area. By 1951, John Ford’s “Quiet Man” stars were shacking up for their film shoot, (which would open Ashford’s commercial appeal considerably), until 1970, when changing hands again, the castle got a complete restoration and added a golf course, and lake cruiser clipper to the bargain… making it now, one of the Top 50 Resort Places in Europe.
…So yeah, the rooms are cheap. The low end starts at 138 Euro (that’s $193)…and the suites’ll set you back 425 ($595)… of course no one but paying guests of the five star hotel may peruse the inner halls, but the outer gardens are open to the poor bastards of you and me alike. And so, with a map in hand we were off to see the wizard…so to speak.
By this time a liberal dumping of rain was making us jealous of the locals in their wellies splunking about for their morning jaunts, because yes, the castle still has tenants living on it’s land.
The gardens of Ashford actually *do* necessitate a map to get around them, as miles of manicured lawns will turn this way to forest-like trails, and that way to walled gardens, or the archery fields or the horse paddocks and the last thing you want is to end up getting shot at or…you know…so yeah. We began with Mrs. Huggard’s walk (the Huggard having been one of many owners in the Castle history), by going *under* the rock walls of the castle and popping out the other side towards the sea. Traveling a blooming pathway we opened out into the Carpet Gardens: tons of sod in manicured little squares…well, like a carpet…bloomed out with flowers in a series of flat terraces with staircases leading sometimes up to one, and down to another. This continues for some time until you are thrust out to a rock wall and the Walled Gardens (I know, really original with the names, huh?) This was first thought to be a no-go for sightseeing as the tunnel leading in was totally flooded, but we found an ulterior rout going back up through a few of the Carpet Gardens which at the tallest terrace is actually the same height as the top of the walls of the Walled Gardens. This, wall (completely strudy, but only about 6 inches wide) I decided was a good idea to scale, for picture talking purposes…so there we are with views down into the Walled Gardens taken by an idiot on a stone balance beam about 15 feet in the air.
Next: Visitation of a cork tree…and yes it does look like cork…the bark I mean, and moving onto the Ireland School of Falconry and to a few more location shoots for “The Quiet Man.” The main houses used in the shoot, lived in still today, hold placemarkers of note as you walk on down the road a bit further, and by taking a wrong turn, pop out inside the Walled Gardens (apparently from the back side.) Another country road, more stone terraces, and eventually we found our way back to the castle.
Taking a back road back into Cong, we viewed another movie landmark: Parish of St. Mary, and bob back to say a last goodbye to what turned out to be one of our favorite places visited in all of Ireland.
A happy coincidence in our last drive through town, found the Quiet Man Museum now open, so we dove in through the rain, an rambled the thatched cottage and all it’s goodnesses before finally beginning the long roadtrip east.
Passing along these roads now, brought I to some of the oldest “country” we had seen to date. Road signs were no longer given in both language, only the Irish, and by Dan Iver we seeing the ancient rock walled pastures that everyone thinks about when they think of Ireland. (Incidentally, they are used to rest ground with their herds…you keep your stock in a block now, when time to let the land rest, literally make a walkway through the wall by opening it rock-by-rock and once the animals have moved, put the wall back together again.)
Moving then through Cornamond, Lough Corrib, Maum, and Maam’s Cross, we hit the peat bogs, with slices literally cut out in chunks here and there, because yes, this far old-country, they still use it to stoke their fires. Just beyond this, we found the final place marker of “The Quiet Man”: a small rock bridge (officially “Leam Bridge”) used in the film, completing our film-nerd-happiness, before launching off again through Oughterart, where we stopped at the tourist center for maps and a bite to eat, then a long pull through Roscahill, Moycullen, Oranmore, Craughwell, Loughrea, Kilreelkil, and Aughrim. Took some pictures of Clonfert Cathedral (founded in 563) and St. Michael’s Church (1858) in Ballinisloe, then pushed on through Athlonem, Fardrum, and Kinnegad before reaching Dublin, early evening.
Dublin. Our first sight on Irish soil, surely the most tourist-based we had frequented and only a few spare hours to cram as much as possible in. By now, the Museums were closed, so this would be a drive-n-walk-by kinda tour, with the still totally confusing signless streets and one-way markers switching lanes for no particular reason throughout.
So to: The Dublin City Gallery, House of Sir John Pentland, and Charles Throp, the James Joyce Center, and Gate Theatre, The Dublin Spire (nicknamed “The Spike,”) The General Post Office, Daniel O’Connell Monument, James Joyce Monument, The Irish Times building, Ashfield House Hotel, the Custom House, Talbot Memorial Bridge, the O’Connell Bridge, Trinity College, and there on the corner…Oscar Wilde’s House.
Now owned by the American Collage of Dublin (sic), the house is no longer a touring Museum as the rooms are all being used in study…a thing I am sure Oscar would rather have than people poking their noses in all the time, but seriously less fun in the interim. Across from this: Archbishop Park. In fact Oscar’s house joines a foursided line-up of posh residences facing the park on all sides, and in this park (facing Oscar’s house) is Oscar himself: lifesized, in marble, reclining on a huge piece *of* marble, being…well…fabulous. At first turning the corner toward it, the thing actually scares the hell out of you at first, being lifes-sized, totally blended into the flowers and trees and just *there*…smarmy smile, pinky ring and all. I touched his shoe for luck. I don’t know if this does anything, but why the hell not?
Next: Rounding back to our parked car, past the Maternity Hospital (the oldest one *in* Ireland), we wound our way back “home” to the Ardmore (Hotel), and slept the sleep of the exhausted.
…This is the point where you look at the ticker on the car (and the odometer on the phone) and realize: we have “done” Ireland probably like no one has before or will since. In only seven days we have driven over 860 miles and walked 41, seeing over 100 towns, 18 churches, 5 castles 3 manor houses and 5 major gardens. 1,158 pictures later, we’ve got a pocketful of memories and I hope, will go back soon!
Enter: London.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Travel Log - Day Six 5/16
Killarney Continued. Passed through town to Muckross and Muckross House, another huge Manor Estate, popular because Queen Victoria stayed here in 1861, and her rooms are largely left untouched, down to the wall paper, furniture and draperies. This was the first Estate to really distinguish for us the “Gosford Park” sensibility of “above and below stairs” mentality. In fact, they could have filmed the movie here, the set-up so exactly mirrors that portrayed in the film.
Wanting an early start to the day, we arrived before the regular tours began, but the ladies in the main office wouldn’t have us come all the way and not see it, so slipped us in with a pamphlet run-of-the-house and a private German tour just beginning one room ahead. We stayed at the back as the tour was given, keeping always one room behind and getting the run of every room as all the others were clumped ahead.
Muckross House was completed in 1843 for Henry Arthur Herbert and his wife, was purchased in 1899 by Lord Ardilaun (of the Guinness family) who rented parts of it out to wealthy parties for stalking and fishing, and in 1911 William Bowers Bourn, an American, purchased the estate as a Wedding present for his daughter. Three years after she died, in 1932, her husband and parents gifted the estate and gardens with all interiors as they stood, to the people of Ireland, becoming its first National Park.
Hunting is very prevalent in the décor, as stags heads (and skull-based antlers) are hung from the Entrance Hall, the Main Hall and Upper Landing…28 of them in fact. Beginning with the Entrance Hall, above the marble mantle hangs the giant antlers of a Great Irish Elk, a species that has been extinct for over 10,000 years, and reaches as wide and tall as the fireplace itself. The Dining Room stands virtually untouched since Queen Victoria visited it, has deep red velvet-flocked wallpaper, a full collection of silver meat dishes and soup tureens on the two sideboards, a dining table 6.5 feet wide and 19.5 feet long, with Irish Chippendale chairs, each with woven horsehair seat. The draperies were woven especially for the Queen’s visit, and the surrounding paintings of decedents and owners of Muckross.
The Library is walled with oak shelves and books from encyclopedias to Senate records of the period and novels. Also on the walls: a line drawing by John Singer Sargent, portraits of the Bournes, another marble fireplace, engravings of Killarney scenery by Jonathan Fisher in 1770, and furnishings including an ornate writing desk.
The Drawing Room, Welsh marble fireplace with brass fixtures, Chinese needle work boxes and a games table inlaid with mother of pearl, prelaid for Chess, Backgammon and Cribbage , two Venetian cut-glass mirrors, original designed wallpaper by William Morris, and windows facing out into the sunken garden.
The Main Hall was where the house Balls were held, more portraits by Sargent, more antlers, and sideboards with the family coat of arms detailed in. Set against the underside of the stairs is a stove, the stand on top used to keep visitors drinks warm. Metal vents on either side of the door leading to the billiard room were used to circulate heat from the boiler room, in the basement, to the Main Hall and staircases.
The Billiard Room holds a Victorian Billiard table that weighs 3 tons, cue rests, score boards and game rules are displayed around the walls, which are covered in hand painted Chinese silk of exotic flowers and birds, installed when the Queen visited as it was to be her own private dining room during her stay.
The Stairs and Upper Landing are floor-to-ceiling along one wall of etched and frosted glasswork windows of old English crystal, allowing light into the hall, more antlers on the landing and portraits with sideboards.
The Gentleman’s Dressing Room, adjoins the west bedroom, where the valet arranged his master clothes and assisted with dressing. A hip bath (about 50% the size of a normal bathtub) was easier on the help, as all water had to be heated and hauled up from the basement scullery. Also, mahogany wash basin, and changing screen. Moving next into the West Bedroom, which is where important guests of the house were put (with the exception of the Queen.) A canopy bed, the bell-pull for servants, mahogany wardrobe lines with satin, with window facing out to the lake. The adjoining West Bathroom, had running water installed by 1876, marble and porcelain fixturing.
The South Bedroom, formerly Maud’s room, now fitted with child-sized furniture which her children used, and dolls dating from 1870, the rooms leading out from this including the nursery quarter, and a special staircase designed at half the height scale, for the ease of their entry.
The Boudoir, ivory and gold leaf, with a full length harp, sewing bales, tiled and brass fireplace and other fixtures, which was part of the suite of rooms offered to the Queen on her visit, along with the adjoining Dressing Room, which is hung with her and Albert’s portraits, and the Queens Bedroom, with it’s hand block wallpaper, polish limestone chimney piece, oval gilt mirror, the half tester bed in mahogany, the bed and window drapes of pink and gold silk, a wardrobe, and writing desk.
Below stairs: The Basement. The largest room is Servant’s dining hall, the corridor leading to it, lined with 34 bells, each located in a different room in the house, and each which rang in a different tone to tell the servants which room they were being summoned to. Also, a wine cellar with 24 pits labeled for use, under lock and key, then next the Kitchen, where no one from above stairs was permitted but the lady of the house. A full wall served the iron stove and ovens framed in plain white porcelain tile work, walls of copper cookware, a large wood table center with cutting blocks, knives, and warming tables of iron along another end. Moving into winding hallways and the canning cellar, with huge copper sinks, leading into servants living quarters, now museum space reserved for the wildlife and history of the area.
Next on: the Gardens: a Walled Garden at center, a Maud Bourn Vincent memorial, and the Rock garden.
Obviously, several hours spent there. Hit up the giftshop for a book on the house and its history, waited while Mom got chatted up by a flirtin’ Irishman, and off we went again, back through Killarney, and onto Farrahfore, Castleisland, Abbeyfeale, Templeglantene, Inchabaun, Newcastle West, Rathkeale, and Croagh to Adare.
Adare is called “Ireland’s pretties village,” and they can pretty much own that claim. This is the capital of thatched-roof housing (least from where we stand), and has been as such since 1200 AD (the town, not the thatched roofs, though those are several hundred years old and some still privately owned.) We hit up the Visitor’s Center, and set out to see the Village Fountain, the Trinitarian Friary (1230), Parochial House (1872), St. Nicholas Church, Dunraven Arms Hotel (1792), Augustian Priory (1315), Dove Cot, and the Thatched Roofed Houses (one of which we ate at: The Blue Door, and experienced the “Bap”…like a hearty hamburger bun sandwich.)
Then it was off through Patrickswell, Limerick (and the first look at the River Shannon), onto Bunratty and it’s castle and folk park. It’s like a medieval working village in there…a time warp you wouldn’t believe. First of all the Castle, you wouldn’t believe, it is so gigantic that you really need to see a picture of a person beside it to get the idea. For its age, it is by far in the best condition of the castles, and in fact you could live and work and eat there still, and some people do.
Built in 1425, it’s adjoining village estate is part of the working museum…the thatched cottages are fitted per theme of the worker’s job duties and people are actually doing them, the same way they would have then, each with it’s own peat fire burning in the fireplace. A woman was churning butter, men stalking with their hounds, they have fishing huts and farms set up, all of which you can just wander around and look at before entering the castle itself.
A million circular stone steps reach the turrets you can climb up to for views, they have kitchens and dungeons, and a Great Hall where they still host medieval feasts and roast up half a cow and you have to wear a slicker to eat dinner. They have Private Chapels, ancient paintings and armor, Robing rooms, Battlements, Main Guards, Basements, and about 15 or 20 other rooms we either didn’t have time to see, or just couldn’t climb any more damn stairs for. Serious insanity of awesomeness and easily a full-day’s worth of wonder for the history buff.
Next: Newmarket-on-Fergus, Clarecastle, Crusheen, Gort, Ardrahan, Kilcolgan, Clarinbridge, Cloonboo, Castlequarter, Headford, Glencorris and finally into Cong.
Now, Cong is a very big deal for us, mostly for film nerdish reasons that this tiny village was where the 1951 John Ford movie, “The Quiet Man” was filmed. Every Irish actor in the world (and their families) all worked on this film here, and we just wanted to walk in their footsteps a bit, because really now, who doesn’t love that movie who has seen it?
Passed Pat Cohan’s pub on way to find a B & B, ours (aptly named) “White O’ Morn,” just across the street from “Danagher’s” ( B & B pub.) Then, with the last hours of daylight left us, it was off to explore our immediate surroundings: that is the Courthouse (1853), the Cong River, and Cong Abbey.
The Abbey was founded in the 7th century, burned down in the 12th century and was rebuilt around 1135. A few surrounding walls and part of the courtyard are still present, along with the attached graveyard, many of the graves just giant plates of stone on the ground, are engraved but worn from weather and walking traffic so you can rarely make out who they are. More recent nineteenth and twentieth century headstone are readable still, and the church just adjoining still holds mass (of which we got caught up in the traffic of twice…not that there are more than oh 30 people present, but these roads are not made for cars…you get 12 of them scrunched in there and it’s impossible to get out.)
The Abbey itself is almost alive with some kind of “presence.” It’s the first “building” I’ve been in where I actually got almost creeped out in. A nervous energy about the place…can’t really explain it, but once out of it and into the courtyard, that feeling dies away, as you go out into the Monk’s walk and wander where they did. This is another place where the age of the trees and their size was amazing…not caught at all in a photograph, unless you get the idea from the pictures inside the courtyard facing out to them. A hug puff takes up nearly the whole frame in the background: that is one tree. One. There were maybe seven or eight of them like that. Just enormous.
Behind this, the Cong river itself, high, high tide, and the Monk’s bridge and their fishing house which led further onto nature walks in their originally forged pathways. We climbed to the top of the Abbey tower for some pictures, before jaunting back across the street for some eats, down the road from “The Quiet Man Coffee Shop,” to The Crow’s Nest pub, where we ate super yummy sirloin, and watched the UK Irish lose the Guinness Cup to England. Then: Home to sleep.
~
Pia, our Proprietress, is German. This is only important to note as by my bed is a book titled: “Glennkill.” (See pictures.) The book, being in German, I have no idea the theme of, my only clue is the cover: A green pasture, dotted with cartoonish drawn sheep…all of them white, but one black one. And a spatter of blood just under the title name, but nowhere near any sheep at all. I don’t know why, but I think it’s a comedy.
Wanting an early start to the day, we arrived before the regular tours began, but the ladies in the main office wouldn’t have us come all the way and not see it, so slipped us in with a pamphlet run-of-the-house and a private German tour just beginning one room ahead. We stayed at the back as the tour was given, keeping always one room behind and getting the run of every room as all the others were clumped ahead.
Muckross House was completed in 1843 for Henry Arthur Herbert and his wife, was purchased in 1899 by Lord Ardilaun (of the Guinness family) who rented parts of it out to wealthy parties for stalking and fishing, and in 1911 William Bowers Bourn, an American, purchased the estate as a Wedding present for his daughter. Three years after she died, in 1932, her husband and parents gifted the estate and gardens with all interiors as they stood, to the people of Ireland, becoming its first National Park.
Hunting is very prevalent in the décor, as stags heads (and skull-based antlers) are hung from the Entrance Hall, the Main Hall and Upper Landing…28 of them in fact. Beginning with the Entrance Hall, above the marble mantle hangs the giant antlers of a Great Irish Elk, a species that has been extinct for over 10,000 years, and reaches as wide and tall as the fireplace itself. The Dining Room stands virtually untouched since Queen Victoria visited it, has deep red velvet-flocked wallpaper, a full collection of silver meat dishes and soup tureens on the two sideboards, a dining table 6.5 feet wide and 19.5 feet long, with Irish Chippendale chairs, each with woven horsehair seat. The draperies were woven especially for the Queen’s visit, and the surrounding paintings of decedents and owners of Muckross.
The Library is walled with oak shelves and books from encyclopedias to Senate records of the period and novels. Also on the walls: a line drawing by John Singer Sargent, portraits of the Bournes, another marble fireplace, engravings of Killarney scenery by Jonathan Fisher in 1770, and furnishings including an ornate writing desk.
The Drawing Room, Welsh marble fireplace with brass fixtures, Chinese needle work boxes and a games table inlaid with mother of pearl, prelaid for Chess, Backgammon and Cribbage , two Venetian cut-glass mirrors, original designed wallpaper by William Morris, and windows facing out into the sunken garden.
The Main Hall was where the house Balls were held, more portraits by Sargent, more antlers, and sideboards with the family coat of arms detailed in. Set against the underside of the stairs is a stove, the stand on top used to keep visitors drinks warm. Metal vents on either side of the door leading to the billiard room were used to circulate heat from the boiler room, in the basement, to the Main Hall and staircases.
The Billiard Room holds a Victorian Billiard table that weighs 3 tons, cue rests, score boards and game rules are displayed around the walls, which are covered in hand painted Chinese silk of exotic flowers and birds, installed when the Queen visited as it was to be her own private dining room during her stay.
The Stairs and Upper Landing are floor-to-ceiling along one wall of etched and frosted glasswork windows of old English crystal, allowing light into the hall, more antlers on the landing and portraits with sideboards.
The Gentleman’s Dressing Room, adjoins the west bedroom, where the valet arranged his master clothes and assisted with dressing. A hip bath (about 50% the size of a normal bathtub) was easier on the help, as all water had to be heated and hauled up from the basement scullery. Also, mahogany wash basin, and changing screen. Moving next into the West Bedroom, which is where important guests of the house were put (with the exception of the Queen.) A canopy bed, the bell-pull for servants, mahogany wardrobe lines with satin, with window facing out to the lake. The adjoining West Bathroom, had running water installed by 1876, marble and porcelain fixturing.
The South Bedroom, formerly Maud’s room, now fitted with child-sized furniture which her children used, and dolls dating from 1870, the rooms leading out from this including the nursery quarter, and a special staircase designed at half the height scale, for the ease of their entry.
The Boudoir, ivory and gold leaf, with a full length harp, sewing bales, tiled and brass fireplace and other fixtures, which was part of the suite of rooms offered to the Queen on her visit, along with the adjoining Dressing Room, which is hung with her and Albert’s portraits, and the Queens Bedroom, with it’s hand block wallpaper, polish limestone chimney piece, oval gilt mirror, the half tester bed in mahogany, the bed and window drapes of pink and gold silk, a wardrobe, and writing desk.
Below stairs: The Basement. The largest room is Servant’s dining hall, the corridor leading to it, lined with 34 bells, each located in a different room in the house, and each which rang in a different tone to tell the servants which room they were being summoned to. Also, a wine cellar with 24 pits labeled for use, under lock and key, then next the Kitchen, where no one from above stairs was permitted but the lady of the house. A full wall served the iron stove and ovens framed in plain white porcelain tile work, walls of copper cookware, a large wood table center with cutting blocks, knives, and warming tables of iron along another end. Moving into winding hallways and the canning cellar, with huge copper sinks, leading into servants living quarters, now museum space reserved for the wildlife and history of the area.
Next on: the Gardens: a Walled Garden at center, a Maud Bourn Vincent memorial, and the Rock garden.
Obviously, several hours spent there. Hit up the giftshop for a book on the house and its history, waited while Mom got chatted up by a flirtin’ Irishman, and off we went again, back through Killarney, and onto Farrahfore, Castleisland, Abbeyfeale, Templeglantene, Inchabaun, Newcastle West, Rathkeale, and Croagh to Adare.
Adare is called “Ireland’s pretties village,” and they can pretty much own that claim. This is the capital of thatched-roof housing (least from where we stand), and has been as such since 1200 AD (the town, not the thatched roofs, though those are several hundred years old and some still privately owned.) We hit up the Visitor’s Center, and set out to see the Village Fountain, the Trinitarian Friary (1230), Parochial House (1872), St. Nicholas Church, Dunraven Arms Hotel (1792), Augustian Priory (1315), Dove Cot, and the Thatched Roofed Houses (one of which we ate at: The Blue Door, and experienced the “Bap”…like a hearty hamburger bun sandwich.)
Then it was off through Patrickswell, Limerick (and the first look at the River Shannon), onto Bunratty and it’s castle and folk park. It’s like a medieval working village in there…a time warp you wouldn’t believe. First of all the Castle, you wouldn’t believe, it is so gigantic that you really need to see a picture of a person beside it to get the idea. For its age, it is by far in the best condition of the castles, and in fact you could live and work and eat there still, and some people do.
Built in 1425, it’s adjoining village estate is part of the working museum…the thatched cottages are fitted per theme of the worker’s job duties and people are actually doing them, the same way they would have then, each with it’s own peat fire burning in the fireplace. A woman was churning butter, men stalking with their hounds, they have fishing huts and farms set up, all of which you can just wander around and look at before entering the castle itself.
A million circular stone steps reach the turrets you can climb up to for views, they have kitchens and dungeons, and a Great Hall where they still host medieval feasts and roast up half a cow and you have to wear a slicker to eat dinner. They have Private Chapels, ancient paintings and armor, Robing rooms, Battlements, Main Guards, Basements, and about 15 or 20 other rooms we either didn’t have time to see, or just couldn’t climb any more damn stairs for. Serious insanity of awesomeness and easily a full-day’s worth of wonder for the history buff.
Next: Newmarket-on-Fergus, Clarecastle, Crusheen, Gort, Ardrahan, Kilcolgan, Clarinbridge, Cloonboo, Castlequarter, Headford, Glencorris and finally into Cong.
Now, Cong is a very big deal for us, mostly for film nerdish reasons that this tiny village was where the 1951 John Ford movie, “The Quiet Man” was filmed. Every Irish actor in the world (and their families) all worked on this film here, and we just wanted to walk in their footsteps a bit, because really now, who doesn’t love that movie who has seen it?
Passed Pat Cohan’s pub on way to find a B & B, ours (aptly named) “White O’ Morn,” just across the street from “Danagher’s” ( B & B pub.) Then, with the last hours of daylight left us, it was off to explore our immediate surroundings: that is the Courthouse (1853), the Cong River, and Cong Abbey.
The Abbey was founded in the 7th century, burned down in the 12th century and was rebuilt around 1135. A few surrounding walls and part of the courtyard are still present, along with the attached graveyard, many of the graves just giant plates of stone on the ground, are engraved but worn from weather and walking traffic so you can rarely make out who they are. More recent nineteenth and twentieth century headstone are readable still, and the church just adjoining still holds mass (of which we got caught up in the traffic of twice…not that there are more than oh 30 people present, but these roads are not made for cars…you get 12 of them scrunched in there and it’s impossible to get out.)
The Abbey itself is almost alive with some kind of “presence.” It’s the first “building” I’ve been in where I actually got almost creeped out in. A nervous energy about the place…can’t really explain it, but once out of it and into the courtyard, that feeling dies away, as you go out into the Monk’s walk and wander where they did. This is another place where the age of the trees and their size was amazing…not caught at all in a photograph, unless you get the idea from the pictures inside the courtyard facing out to them. A hug puff takes up nearly the whole frame in the background: that is one tree. One. There were maybe seven or eight of them like that. Just enormous.
Behind this, the Cong river itself, high, high tide, and the Monk’s bridge and their fishing house which led further onto nature walks in their originally forged pathways. We climbed to the top of the Abbey tower for some pictures, before jaunting back across the street for some eats, down the road from “The Quiet Man Coffee Shop,” to The Crow’s Nest pub, where we ate super yummy sirloin, and watched the UK Irish lose the Guinness Cup to England. Then: Home to sleep.
~
Pia, our Proprietress, is German. This is only important to note as by my bed is a book titled: “Glennkill.” (See pictures.) The book, being in German, I have no idea the theme of, my only clue is the cover: A green pasture, dotted with cartoonish drawn sheep…all of them white, but one black one. And a spatter of blood just under the title name, but nowhere near any sheep at all. I don’t know why, but I think it’s a comedy.
Travel Log – Day Five 5/15
Up this morning to a Full Irish Breakfast. This consists of scones, bacon that looks of regular slabs of ham but tastes of normal bacon, plus sausage (a sweeter variety here, takes some getting used to), toasted bread (yes bread *and* scones…remember “biscuits” are their cookies, and “scones” are their biscuits) and baked beans (strange, but true), warm tomatoes, and over easy eggs with juice and black tea or coffee. Tucked in heavily as have been light-headed the last few days paying attention to diet rules. One cannot go 14 hour days and eat like that. Hardiness is needed so f***-all the diet, from here on out!
Note: Am thinking the whole Irish-potato thing went out with the famine. No one has served any kind of potato in any form but a stew or as fries (they are “fries” here too…not English “chips”)…but what they *do* eat a lot of is tomatoes. I mean with every single meal. They like them warmed and/or fried for breakfast, in salads, sandwiches, relishes…they poach them, stew them, bake them. I have eaten about two full tomatoes a day as a side-note to the food I’ve actually ordered. I like them as much as the next person, but my question is: why?
Today, visited first major Estate House (as-was.) This means it’s the kinda thing you see tours of on TV, inside and out, gardens and fully decore’d rooms, and still in use today with the family living on the third floor. It is called Bantry House, yes located in Bantry off Bantry Bay just a short jaunt from our B & B.
The original house called Blackrock, was purchased in the17th century and added onto in 1820 by the first Early of Bantry. His son, the Viscount Berehaven, who travelled extensively, was responsible for bringing in the varied collections of paintings, tapestries and furniture into the house including 17th and 18th century furnishings, a painting by Rubens taking up an entire wall of the dining room, Tapestries in the Gobelins Drawing Room given by Louise-Phillippe to Marie Antoinette, a set of 12 embellished silk and gold threaded portraits of the Court of Louis XIV in the Rose Drawing Room, and portraits of the family to current owners in the Library.
…The gardens were terraced and extensive. There are seven terraces and surrounding gardens including several trails leading to the stable yard, and up to the outer gardens which are now put to use growing fresh herbs and vegetables for the guests who stay there, but from layout can be seen was once a collection of walled gardens leading to the furthest end orchard, where trees are still in bloom today. It has its own creek stream leading out into the bay, and overlooks it directly from a drop off-terrace front-of-the manor, while behind through the library doors you can see the wisteria garden and three sets of tiers leading to length grass yards allowing entrance to the back of the stables.
The place is gigantic (as you can see), and is the first look at post-medieval wealth in Ireland for us. Amazed at how large the societal gap between this and the average town houses we have passed so far. The wealthy were very wealthy, the poor, were poor, and no in-between…at least in Historic South-Western Ireland.
Next: Moved onto Ballylickey and it’s bay past the Barra Boy Mountains (all rock, no green here), and into Glengarriff and the Ring of Beara.
The Ring of Beara is a small coastal peninsula jetting off into the sea, which returns inland for a bit before moving onto the giant Ring of Kerry. Being well into nearly a day behind where we wanted to be by this date, we opted for Beara instead per suggestion of a friend who had done it as well, bonus points to this being that it is often overlooked on tourist excursion in favor of the larger ring, so we’d have the country basically to ourselves. And they weren’t lying.
Beara’s scenery offers the full range of what we had seen to date of topography and added in amazing rock-cliff coasts besides. (Note: which turned out to be the only way we saw that type of scenery, as later we had to abandon our trip along the Cliffs of Moore for time reasons, yet again.)
…First we passed Garnish and Seal Islands, and Seal Harbor, moved through Trafask, the Caia Mountains and the Strand, Adrigole to Hungry Hill, which has this amazing formation to the rock that looks like an ancient ocean waterbed or volcanic lava, through Rossmackowen and onto Castletownbere and the ancient Stone Circle Derrintaggart West. This stone circle (the only one in the end, we were able to see) was built sometime between 1500 and 500 BC, and then to the Ring Fort Teernahillane (built the same time as the circle), the land on which is now noted as “reclaimed bogland,”…meaning that at one time, this *was* all seabed land: a series of mountains and hills we have driven along for over an hour now.
Note: We are in “Old Country” now, the signs no longer post in English and Gaelic, just the Gaelic. Thank goodness our maps note both.
Next, we move through Cathermore and it’s “Period” old-country sheep, goats and cows, to Allihies, Urhin, Eyeries, Ardgroom, Lauraugh, Tuosist and end the ring at Kenmare where we hit up the Tourist Center for restrooming (there was literally nothing out there but nature for hours and hours), then onto Molls Gap and into the Killarney National Park, which I’ve come to conclude is basically the same thing as the rest of Ireland, but no one owns the land, so you can camp there. Meaning: the scenery is exactly the same, in view of preservation it isn’t really necessary. Ireland ain’t goin’ anywhere, and looks (in the back country) exactly how you imagine it would and always has.
Be that as it may, we could use a sizable walk by that time, so took the opportunity at one of their stop stations, happily leading to another huge and ongoing spiral of stone steps to infinity and the Torc Waterfall. Their forest floors are very Washingtonian with ferns and moss…very rainforest-like and not trek-able outside their cleared areas set aside to do so. This is the first time we’ve seen fir trees, not nearly to the sizes ours get, but their other trees we’ve noticed, tend to grow out more than up. Ancient buggers with thick trunks that branch out and out and out, with the most complicated root systems I’ve ever seen. Case in fact: check out the pics of their rhododendron bushes. They aren’t bushes at all, but forests of trees. Gigantic one-plant systems that are taller than two story houses, with bloom clusters twice the size of my head. Kinda eerie actually, but amazing too.
Continued through Killarney Forest, passed the Black Valley and Upper Lake and into Killarney itself, at last.
All I knew about Killarney before this, was that according to Bing Crosby, Christmas rocks there. It is actually a quite happening touristaville. Still, holding all the old-worldness, but I am not kidding when I say that every second house is a B & B, and the doors in between are pubs. We chose ours off the beaten path a bit: (Woodlawn House), before venturing out to see a bit of what Killarney had to offer.
First up: St. Mary’s Church of Ireland, (not to be confused with St. Mary’s Cathedral just down the street, Catholic.) There is (we now know) at least one St. Mary’s and one Castletown in every county of Ireland, very popular. The first we can gather why, obviously, not so much the second. But there you are.
St. Mary’s Church of Ireland is just a kid: built in 1870 along the English Gothic style, while the Cathedral’s cornerstone was first laid in 1842. A sabbatical of work was held on the Cathedral for five years during the Potato Famine due to shortage of funds, but by 1853 at a total cost of 20,000 pounds, the building was completed along the Lancet arched Gothic style.
Next: St. Brendan’s College, est. 1860, Mercy Convent, and onto Ross Castle on Ross Bay, part of Lough Leane.
Ross Castle, built in the 15th century by the O’Donoghue chieftains, was in 1652 one of the last strongholds in the region to surrender to Cromwell. It overlooks the lake, and 7th century monastery and a 12th century oratory on Innisfallen Island, and is an incredible up-close view of castle history. As the wind started whipping up at dusk, the rowing boats came in, great (and extremely heavy) all-wooden monsters, one of which we were asked to help haul out of the water. It took eight people just to keep the boat bottom from touching land, where we eventually settled it in a boat house where they give tours of the Island and its Monastery during regular hours.
Finally: moved back into town and ate at the pub, “Pot o’ Gold” (I ain’t kidding), had a well earned pint of Guinness, n’ hobbled home exhausted.
Note: Am thinking the whole Irish-potato thing went out with the famine. No one has served any kind of potato in any form but a stew or as fries (they are “fries” here too…not English “chips”)…but what they *do* eat a lot of is tomatoes. I mean with every single meal. They like them warmed and/or fried for breakfast, in salads, sandwiches, relishes…they poach them, stew them, bake them. I have eaten about two full tomatoes a day as a side-note to the food I’ve actually ordered. I like them as much as the next person, but my question is: why?
Today, visited first major Estate House (as-was.) This means it’s the kinda thing you see tours of on TV, inside and out, gardens and fully decore’d rooms, and still in use today with the family living on the third floor. It is called Bantry House, yes located in Bantry off Bantry Bay just a short jaunt from our B & B.
The original house called Blackrock, was purchased in the17th century and added onto in 1820 by the first Early of Bantry. His son, the Viscount Berehaven, who travelled extensively, was responsible for bringing in the varied collections of paintings, tapestries and furniture into the house including 17th and 18th century furnishings, a painting by Rubens taking up an entire wall of the dining room, Tapestries in the Gobelins Drawing Room given by Louise-Phillippe to Marie Antoinette, a set of 12 embellished silk and gold threaded portraits of the Court of Louis XIV in the Rose Drawing Room, and portraits of the family to current owners in the Library.
…The gardens were terraced and extensive. There are seven terraces and surrounding gardens including several trails leading to the stable yard, and up to the outer gardens which are now put to use growing fresh herbs and vegetables for the guests who stay there, but from layout can be seen was once a collection of walled gardens leading to the furthest end orchard, where trees are still in bloom today. It has its own creek stream leading out into the bay, and overlooks it directly from a drop off-terrace front-of-the manor, while behind through the library doors you can see the wisteria garden and three sets of tiers leading to length grass yards allowing entrance to the back of the stables.
The place is gigantic (as you can see), and is the first look at post-medieval wealth in Ireland for us. Amazed at how large the societal gap between this and the average town houses we have passed so far. The wealthy were very wealthy, the poor, were poor, and no in-between…at least in Historic South-Western Ireland.
Next: Moved onto Ballylickey and it’s bay past the Barra Boy Mountains (all rock, no green here), and into Glengarriff and the Ring of Beara.
The Ring of Beara is a small coastal peninsula jetting off into the sea, which returns inland for a bit before moving onto the giant Ring of Kerry. Being well into nearly a day behind where we wanted to be by this date, we opted for Beara instead per suggestion of a friend who had done it as well, bonus points to this being that it is often overlooked on tourist excursion in favor of the larger ring, so we’d have the country basically to ourselves. And they weren’t lying.
Beara’s scenery offers the full range of what we had seen to date of topography and added in amazing rock-cliff coasts besides. (Note: which turned out to be the only way we saw that type of scenery, as later we had to abandon our trip along the Cliffs of Moore for time reasons, yet again.)
…First we passed Garnish and Seal Islands, and Seal Harbor, moved through Trafask, the Caia Mountains and the Strand, Adrigole to Hungry Hill, which has this amazing formation to the rock that looks like an ancient ocean waterbed or volcanic lava, through Rossmackowen and onto Castletownbere and the ancient Stone Circle Derrintaggart West. This stone circle (the only one in the end, we were able to see) was built sometime between 1500 and 500 BC, and then to the Ring Fort Teernahillane (built the same time as the circle), the land on which is now noted as “reclaimed bogland,”…meaning that at one time, this *was* all seabed land: a series of mountains and hills we have driven along for over an hour now.
Note: We are in “Old Country” now, the signs no longer post in English and Gaelic, just the Gaelic. Thank goodness our maps note both.
Next, we move through Cathermore and it’s “Period” old-country sheep, goats and cows, to Allihies, Urhin, Eyeries, Ardgroom, Lauraugh, Tuosist and end the ring at Kenmare where we hit up the Tourist Center for restrooming (there was literally nothing out there but nature for hours and hours), then onto Molls Gap and into the Killarney National Park, which I’ve come to conclude is basically the same thing as the rest of Ireland, but no one owns the land, so you can camp there. Meaning: the scenery is exactly the same, in view of preservation it isn’t really necessary. Ireland ain’t goin’ anywhere, and looks (in the back country) exactly how you imagine it would and always has.
Be that as it may, we could use a sizable walk by that time, so took the opportunity at one of their stop stations, happily leading to another huge and ongoing spiral of stone steps to infinity and the Torc Waterfall. Their forest floors are very Washingtonian with ferns and moss…very rainforest-like and not trek-able outside their cleared areas set aside to do so. This is the first time we’ve seen fir trees, not nearly to the sizes ours get, but their other trees we’ve noticed, tend to grow out more than up. Ancient buggers with thick trunks that branch out and out and out, with the most complicated root systems I’ve ever seen. Case in fact: check out the pics of their rhododendron bushes. They aren’t bushes at all, but forests of trees. Gigantic one-plant systems that are taller than two story houses, with bloom clusters twice the size of my head. Kinda eerie actually, but amazing too.
Continued through Killarney Forest, passed the Black Valley and Upper Lake and into Killarney itself, at last.
All I knew about Killarney before this, was that according to Bing Crosby, Christmas rocks there. It is actually a quite happening touristaville. Still, holding all the old-worldness, but I am not kidding when I say that every second house is a B & B, and the doors in between are pubs. We chose ours off the beaten path a bit: (Woodlawn House), before venturing out to see a bit of what Killarney had to offer.
First up: St. Mary’s Church of Ireland, (not to be confused with St. Mary’s Cathedral just down the street, Catholic.) There is (we now know) at least one St. Mary’s and one Castletown in every county of Ireland, very popular. The first we can gather why, obviously, not so much the second. But there you are.
St. Mary’s Church of Ireland is just a kid: built in 1870 along the English Gothic style, while the Cathedral’s cornerstone was first laid in 1842. A sabbatical of work was held on the Cathedral for five years during the Potato Famine due to shortage of funds, but by 1853 at a total cost of 20,000 pounds, the building was completed along the Lancet arched Gothic style.
Next: St. Brendan’s College, est. 1860, Mercy Convent, and onto Ross Castle on Ross Bay, part of Lough Leane.
Ross Castle, built in the 15th century by the O’Donoghue chieftains, was in 1652 one of the last strongholds in the region to surrender to Cromwell. It overlooks the lake, and 7th century monastery and a 12th century oratory on Innisfallen Island, and is an incredible up-close view of castle history. As the wind started whipping up at dusk, the rowing boats came in, great (and extremely heavy) all-wooden monsters, one of which we were asked to help haul out of the water. It took eight people just to keep the boat bottom from touching land, where we eventually settled it in a boat house where they give tours of the Island and its Monastery during regular hours.
Finally: moved back into town and ate at the pub, “Pot o’ Gold” (I ain’t kidding), had a well earned pint of Guinness, n’ hobbled home exhausted.
Strange But Truisms:
* Everyone is super environment friendly here. It makes for some interesting adjustments. The toilets, for example, flush for *nearly* one full second, and well…without getting totally gross about it, Mrs. Johnson requires more than that. Also, the lights in hotel rooms only stay on when the room key card is inserted into this little slot, there is no light bulb that shines brighter than 45 watts, you’re supposed to “throw the towel on the floor” if you want an actual new clean one in the morning, there are no sheets on the beds at all…just coverlets the size of postage stamps, and they don’t really “do” stoplights…the world and (their freeways) revolve (literally) around roundabouts. Giant fuckers. And a whole freakin’ lot of ‘em. Imagine: if you will, I-5 with a round-about every five or ten miles.
* Rent-a-Toilets. They are real things. And don’t think of like Hunnybuckets…these things are an experience best compared to peeing in an automatic carwash. First off: they plant them in the middle of City Center, for God and everyone to witness…these huge monstrosities about the size of a Winnebago. You enter 25 cents, and this huge mechanized rotation cylinder opens slowly…like the door of a spaceship, and you step in, wait for it to slowly close, then press a button to lock it. Next: do your business. But that is all. Just do the business, don’t take care of it, in fact, you *can’t*…there is no physical way to flush the toilet, in fact, there is a sign over the sink telling you that your Rent-a-Toilet will be doing that *for* you…later. Don’t bother reaching for soap or water faucets either, there aren’t any. You are just supposed to hold you hands in mid air where they tell you to, water spouts out, soap falls in your hands and after about five seconds everything shuts off, and just as you look for the towels (that aren’t there), a hand drier set at mock 80 zooms air at you in such fast speeds that the skin on your hand looks like it’s entering hyperspace. Finally, everything shuts off, and you are aloud to do the only thing since peeing: you press the button to let yourself out. Open glides the strange door, out you step, and the next person waiting in line is told by the screen to “Wait for cleaning cycle,” at which time the entire hub seals shut and you hear flushing and swishing and brushing the equivalent of a major car wash. About thirty seconds later, the light goes green, and the Rent-a-Toilet is back in commission. Really, it’s kinda terrifying and weirdly-awesome at the same time.
* Tiny roads make large cars. Remember back when I made fun of our Rent-a-car lady calling our Toyota sedan “large?” Laugh’s on me. It *is* large! The damn thing is a *boat* when you see the width of these roadways we are dealing with. It is true fact that people must park straddling the sidewalk curb (bus, truck, car…you name it) and still, two lanes of traffic must pass along, in what is less than what equals one lane at home. Small roads… like *small* small. Not only that, but the average speed posted in which to do this converts to 77 miles an hour. That’s “average,” from time to time you will see signs posted for “Calming Traffic,” which translates to only about 50 MPH. The Irish really only have two speeds: fast and faster. We are often passed by what must clock at 90 MPH on a routine basis. Does this mean they are blessed with some hyper ability to navigate these roads that we are not? No. Routinely (apparently), people die on these road all the time. In fact they remind you of it every so often when approaching major cities: “Welcome to Waterford: Did you know 72 people died in traffic accidents here last year?” Followed directly by a “Traffic Calming” sign. I am not even lying. In fact have already seen an accident while here…traffic crawling until we finally saw the reason: a completely gutted car, pointed the wrong way on the wrong side of the freeway. Completely torched. Conclusion: it literally hit so hard it blew up, over the barrier and landed on the other side. There was about half of said car’s fossil left behind.
* The build of an Irish Town. Every major road goes right through these towns whittling from two-lane almost-roadways to a very small one. These roads are the original ones that the towns were built on, no bigger than a horse and buggy in most areas, and the buildings line these roads in soft curves (not strait street lines) and are actually only one building with each successive roof a bit higher than the next, and painted to delineate “your house from mine.” A soft green house with a painted line border adjoins a soft peach house and so on…like a connection of old time apartments, (no gaps in between), lining the road all the way out of town. The curve of the buildings are reoccurrence town to town to town to the point that it must be for a specific purpose more than just “design,” but can’t figure out what it is. (Note: also noticed this often in London, particularly in Kensington and the older suburbs.)
* Rent-a-Toilets. They are real things. And don’t think of like Hunnybuckets…these things are an experience best compared to peeing in an automatic carwash. First off: they plant them in the middle of City Center, for God and everyone to witness…these huge monstrosities about the size of a Winnebago. You enter 25 cents, and this huge mechanized rotation cylinder opens slowly…like the door of a spaceship, and you step in, wait for it to slowly close, then press a button to lock it. Next: do your business. But that is all. Just do the business, don’t take care of it, in fact, you *can’t*…there is no physical way to flush the toilet, in fact, there is a sign over the sink telling you that your Rent-a-Toilet will be doing that *for* you…later. Don’t bother reaching for soap or water faucets either, there aren’t any. You are just supposed to hold you hands in mid air where they tell you to, water spouts out, soap falls in your hands and after about five seconds everything shuts off, and just as you look for the towels (that aren’t there), a hand drier set at mock 80 zooms air at you in such fast speeds that the skin on your hand looks like it’s entering hyperspace. Finally, everything shuts off, and you are aloud to do the only thing since peeing: you press the button to let yourself out. Open glides the strange door, out you step, and the next person waiting in line is told by the screen to “Wait for cleaning cycle,” at which time the entire hub seals shut and you hear flushing and swishing and brushing the equivalent of a major car wash. About thirty seconds later, the light goes green, and the Rent-a-Toilet is back in commission. Really, it’s kinda terrifying and weirdly-awesome at the same time.
* Tiny roads make large cars. Remember back when I made fun of our Rent-a-car lady calling our Toyota sedan “large?” Laugh’s on me. It *is* large! The damn thing is a *boat* when you see the width of these roadways we are dealing with. It is true fact that people must park straddling the sidewalk curb (bus, truck, car…you name it) and still, two lanes of traffic must pass along, in what is less than what equals one lane at home. Small roads… like *small* small. Not only that, but the average speed posted in which to do this converts to 77 miles an hour. That’s “average,” from time to time you will see signs posted for “Calming Traffic,” which translates to only about 50 MPH. The Irish really only have two speeds: fast and faster. We are often passed by what must clock at 90 MPH on a routine basis. Does this mean they are blessed with some hyper ability to navigate these roads that we are not? No. Routinely (apparently), people die on these road all the time. In fact they remind you of it every so often when approaching major cities: “Welcome to Waterford: Did you know 72 people died in traffic accidents here last year?” Followed directly by a “Traffic Calming” sign. I am not even lying. In fact have already seen an accident while here…traffic crawling until we finally saw the reason: a completely gutted car, pointed the wrong way on the wrong side of the freeway. Completely torched. Conclusion: it literally hit so hard it blew up, over the barrier and landed on the other side. There was about half of said car’s fossil left behind.
* The build of an Irish Town. Every major road goes right through these towns whittling from two-lane almost-roadways to a very small one. These roads are the original ones that the towns were built on, no bigger than a horse and buggy in most areas, and the buildings line these roads in soft curves (not strait street lines) and are actually only one building with each successive roof a bit higher than the next, and painted to delineate “your house from mine.” A soft green house with a painted line border adjoins a soft peach house and so on…like a connection of old time apartments, (no gaps in between), lining the road all the way out of town. The curve of the buildings are reoccurrence town to town to town to the point that it must be for a specific purpose more than just “design,” but can’t figure out what it is. (Note: also noticed this often in London, particularly in Kensington and the older suburbs.)
Travel Log – Day Five 5/15
Starting off behind schedule, but trying not to care as this *is* “Vacation,” we settle in for a bit of sight-seeing in Waterford. Walked along the Quay (which is a mile long from Grattan to Adelphi), and crossed up from the Clock Tower (built for Vincent Wallace), towards City Center again, passing the Cathedral of the Most Holy Trinity, which looks odd just sorta standing there so HUGE in the middle of an otherwise shop-front filled street.
…Moving on, we took in Black Friar’s Abbey which was built during King Henry III’s rein. The only remains now are the chancel of the church and the belfry, and a huge collection receptacle in the adjoining square painted with little monks holding collection plates, is set for abbey maintenance funds.
Next: Lady Jane House, (which looks to be some type of 1800’s WMCA), St. Francis (an old Church converted to a Hospital), and Christ Church Cathedral (which is the only neo-classical Georgian Cathedral in Ireland), just across the street from our first “Famous Person Lived Here” marker: The house of William Vincent Wallace (Irish composer and musician) and Charles Keane (English Actor/Mgr, best known for Shakes revivals)…same house, though not at the same time.
From there, took in the Waterford Badminton Club (another church converted for other purposes), walked along St. Michael’s St. (the main drag of the square), Paddy Power (the actual name of the chain of “bookies” for horse racing and sport), noted it’s voting time again as *everywhere* is plastered with Sinn Fein, and Fine Gael political posters), and took in St. John’s Church, Yeats College, and the Catholic Young Men’s Society before hitting up the tourist center for more maps and packing it all back into the car again via the Waterford Crystal Visitor’s Center.
Waterford Crystal has just recently undergone a lot of strike and financial troubles, and was just bought-out by an American company (who we can only hope will uphold the craftsmanship and workers there today.) The pieces on displace are stunning beyond a photographs ability to pick up, and the film selections of the workshops with the artisans at work blows your mind. Every single etch and divot of crystal, and every piece hand-blown and inspected multiple times before the Waterford seahorse seal of approval stamp is given. Now yuh know why one glass can cost $120…because it has to match the *other* ones, as a set, each made by different people, from liquid glass blob through etching to final polishing. Favorite pieces include the life-sized Post Box, Grandfather clock, Celtic Harp, and 11 cluster chandelier hanging from the second to first floor over the cash registers. (See pictures section.)
Finally tore ourselves away and moved on through to our first thatched roof cottage and Kilmeadon, Carrickfergus, Lemybrien, Dungarvan, and Grange to Youghal (pronounced Yawl.)
Youghal is a coastal town at the estuary of the river Blackwater and has an “old town” structure as well as a “Resort” end. You can take a wild guess which end we took interest in. The great thing about these “modern” old towns is that they are careful to preserve the historic sides and let the newer ones crop up either elsewhere or blend them into the look and style of the old so they don’t clash. Here, they clearly separated the two out completely. It has been around since before the 8th century, like everywhere else in coastal Ireland was raided by the Vikings, and was taken back by the Clans.
…It was the hometown of Sir Walter Raleigh for short periods of time during the 17 years he held land in Ireland (part of the 40,000 acres allotted him by Queen Elizabeth I in 1579, 1588-1589 of which he was Mayor), and it was he, it is said, in Youghal, who planted the first potatoes in Ireland. The poet Edmund Spenser had also been gifted land here.
Famous things to see in town include: The Red House (example of Dutch architecture completed in 1703), Clock Gate, Tynte’s Castle (a late 15th century tower house), and Youghal Bay. Ate at the Coachouse Restaurant (located in the ground floor of the Old Imperial.)
Then: moved on through Killeagh, Castle Martyr, Carrigtohill, and Fota to Cobh (pronounced Cove.)
Cobh is a famous port town for several reasons being, One: It is where Annie Moore, the first ever immigrant to be processed in Ellis Island came from, Two: It is the closest site where the Lusitania was sunk and where the graves of it’s crew are buried (a monument facing out to the sea marks a memorial) and Three: It was the last Port of Call of the Titanic before her maiden voyage began. A museum was once here, now only the shell of it remains as the actual memorabilia are traveling with the Smithsonian tours now.
Cobh also hosts St. Colman’s Cathedral, founded in 560 AD, which contains the largest Carillon in Ireland with 47 bells. It is a gigantic fortress, a neo-Gothic cathedral by architects Pugin and Ashlin, took 47 years to build (beginning in 1868), and the largest of it’s bells is 200 feet above the ground weighing 3.5 tons. The Cathedral organ, by Telford and Telford, contains 2,468 pipes and it is a regular venue of recitals by choirs from around the world.
From here, hit up the “Rent-a-Toilet” (see Strange But Truisms Section later), and moved on through Cork to Blarney, where everything was closed by now, so only got pictures of the very top of the castle (it’s gated now because people kept taking chunks of it away with them), Church of the Resurrection, and the Woolen Mills, before returning back through Cork (where my family ported from), and Halfway, Innishannon, Bandon, Pedlar’s Cross, Ballinsascarthy, Clonakilty, Lisbaird, Rosscarbery, Conhaugh, Leap, Skibberdeen, and into Bantry, where we slept for the night at our first B & B, Dromcloc House, a working Dairy farm by-the-sea.
…Arriving by ten in the evening, our proprietress, still up visiting with relatives who had come in, was in her early seventies and had a lovely lilt and friendly manner as she boiled us some tea n’ scones and popped up to our room to turn our electric blankets on. The gale gusts sound as if you are right on the open ocean there, but it is actually an inlet…one of the many…and is surrounded with farm land that surprisingly though a diary farm, the sea winds favor us with fresh air instead of what first comes to mind.
Next: sleep. As of tonight, we have walked over 30 miles and driven 462. Our fourth day in Ireland.
…Moving on, we took in Black Friar’s Abbey which was built during King Henry III’s rein. The only remains now are the chancel of the church and the belfry, and a huge collection receptacle in the adjoining square painted with little monks holding collection plates, is set for abbey maintenance funds.
Next: Lady Jane House, (which looks to be some type of 1800’s WMCA), St. Francis (an old Church converted to a Hospital), and Christ Church Cathedral (which is the only neo-classical Georgian Cathedral in Ireland), just across the street from our first “Famous Person Lived Here” marker: The house of William Vincent Wallace (Irish composer and musician) and Charles Keane (English Actor/Mgr, best known for Shakes revivals)…same house, though not at the same time.
From there, took in the Waterford Badminton Club (another church converted for other purposes), walked along St. Michael’s St. (the main drag of the square), Paddy Power (the actual name of the chain of “bookies” for horse racing and sport), noted it’s voting time again as *everywhere* is plastered with Sinn Fein, and Fine Gael political posters), and took in St. John’s Church, Yeats College, and the Catholic Young Men’s Society before hitting up the tourist center for more maps and packing it all back into the car again via the Waterford Crystal Visitor’s Center.
Waterford Crystal has just recently undergone a lot of strike and financial troubles, and was just bought-out by an American company (who we can only hope will uphold the craftsmanship and workers there today.) The pieces on displace are stunning beyond a photographs ability to pick up, and the film selections of the workshops with the artisans at work blows your mind. Every single etch and divot of crystal, and every piece hand-blown and inspected multiple times before the Waterford seahorse seal of approval stamp is given. Now yuh know why one glass can cost $120…because it has to match the *other* ones, as a set, each made by different people, from liquid glass blob through etching to final polishing. Favorite pieces include the life-sized Post Box, Grandfather clock, Celtic Harp, and 11 cluster chandelier hanging from the second to first floor over the cash registers. (See pictures section.)
Finally tore ourselves away and moved on through to our first thatched roof cottage and Kilmeadon, Carrickfergus, Lemybrien, Dungarvan, and Grange to Youghal (pronounced Yawl.)
Youghal is a coastal town at the estuary of the river Blackwater and has an “old town” structure as well as a “Resort” end. You can take a wild guess which end we took interest in. The great thing about these “modern” old towns is that they are careful to preserve the historic sides and let the newer ones crop up either elsewhere or blend them into the look and style of the old so they don’t clash. Here, they clearly separated the two out completely. It has been around since before the 8th century, like everywhere else in coastal Ireland was raided by the Vikings, and was taken back by the Clans.
…It was the hometown of Sir Walter Raleigh for short periods of time during the 17 years he held land in Ireland (part of the 40,000 acres allotted him by Queen Elizabeth I in 1579, 1588-1589 of which he was Mayor), and it was he, it is said, in Youghal, who planted the first potatoes in Ireland. The poet Edmund Spenser had also been gifted land here.
Famous things to see in town include: The Red House (example of Dutch architecture completed in 1703), Clock Gate, Tynte’s Castle (a late 15th century tower house), and Youghal Bay. Ate at the Coachouse Restaurant (located in the ground floor of the Old Imperial.)
Then: moved on through Killeagh, Castle Martyr, Carrigtohill, and Fota to Cobh (pronounced Cove.)
Cobh is a famous port town for several reasons being, One: It is where Annie Moore, the first ever immigrant to be processed in Ellis Island came from, Two: It is the closest site where the Lusitania was sunk and where the graves of it’s crew are buried (a monument facing out to the sea marks a memorial) and Three: It was the last Port of Call of the Titanic before her maiden voyage began. A museum was once here, now only the shell of it remains as the actual memorabilia are traveling with the Smithsonian tours now.
Cobh also hosts St. Colman’s Cathedral, founded in 560 AD, which contains the largest Carillon in Ireland with 47 bells. It is a gigantic fortress, a neo-Gothic cathedral by architects Pugin and Ashlin, took 47 years to build (beginning in 1868), and the largest of it’s bells is 200 feet above the ground weighing 3.5 tons. The Cathedral organ, by Telford and Telford, contains 2,468 pipes and it is a regular venue of recitals by choirs from around the world.
From here, hit up the “Rent-a-Toilet” (see Strange But Truisms Section later), and moved on through Cork to Blarney, where everything was closed by now, so only got pictures of the very top of the castle (it’s gated now because people kept taking chunks of it away with them), Church of the Resurrection, and the Woolen Mills, before returning back through Cork (where my family ported from), and Halfway, Innishannon, Bandon, Pedlar’s Cross, Ballinsascarthy, Clonakilty, Lisbaird, Rosscarbery, Conhaugh, Leap, Skibberdeen, and into Bantry, where we slept for the night at our first B & B, Dromcloc House, a working Dairy farm by-the-sea.
…Arriving by ten in the evening, our proprietress, still up visiting with relatives who had come in, was in her early seventies and had a lovely lilt and friendly manner as she boiled us some tea n’ scones and popped up to our room to turn our electric blankets on. The gale gusts sound as if you are right on the open ocean there, but it is actually an inlet…one of the many…and is surrounded with farm land that surprisingly though a diary farm, the sea winds favor us with fresh air instead of what first comes to mind.
Next: sleep. As of tonight, we have walked over 30 miles and driven 462. Our fourth day in Ireland.
Travel Log – Day Four 5/14
Today: Exit Dublin, along east coast to Wicklow, Avoca, Carlow, New Ross, Enniscothy, Wexford…move southeast to Waterford, Ardmore and Cobh (where we will be spending the night.) Road trip begins!
~
Enroute southbound M50 towards Wexford, passed through Enniskerry via Powerscourt Castle, which boasts one of the most famous gardens in Europe. (also it’s own golf course and nursery.) The castle is huge beyond any real description, and seems more like a Manor House in build as there are no turrets, but it bleeds out to the sides in additional wings and looks like something Mr. Darcy would own…if he had a hell of a lot more money. The inside, (still naked of plaster walls, exposing the stone) puts itself to work by dividing into dozens of little high-end shops, room-to-room, a restaurant, a café (with one *brilliant* pastry chef, let me tell you), and a side wing reserved for the house’s museum. This is how you pay the mortgage, baby. Much of the stone work revealed along the corridors is of the original castle built in 1116, which after a fire gutted it, was directly incorporated into the plans of the new castle erected by the 6th Viscount of Powerscourt in 1743. New add-ons included ball rooms, state rooms, (a zillion of *other* rooms) and an international garden plan that made the castle, during the Viscount’s lifetime, the most sought-after property in Ireland.
…We ate lunch at the café, *looked* at the pastries, took in the wee ones dressed in fresh whites in celebration of their first communion, and moved onto the 8 Euro ticket to see the gardens…which are about as unreal in a, “Hey, I think I saw that place on the History Channel once,” kinda way. It takes an hour to walk around the surrounding gardens, and 20 to reach the largest pond at the center of the park via the Perron (an Italianate stairway added to the castle in 1874 of mosaic-like rock) splitting the Italian Garden, guarded by two winged horses with a huge fountain of muscle-bulging King Triton in it’s lily-padded center. This “Triton’s Pond” is also surrounded by a host of Greek looking statuary facing Triton, with mosses and vines growing up the facing around, and the cave below. Moving left of this will take you to the Japanese Gardens and Pepper Pot Tower (built in 1911), to the right you encounter the Rhododendron Field, Dolphin Pond (with fish) and the Pet Cemetery. That’s right: Pet Cemetary…where generations of the family’s loved ones are laid to rest upon the hill including:
* “Eugenie the Jersey Cow. Died aged 17 years, had 12 calves, and produced over 100,000 gallons of milk.”
&
* “Gunner. Favorite Hack. Died Sept. 1913.”
…About 30 others join their ranks in memory.
…Next we move onto the two adjoining walled gardens lining a walkway on both sides about a football field in length of unspoiled green. (Tennis or badminton anyone?) These lead out ultimately through a black iron gate gilded in gold with the family crest topping it (Bamberg Gate), passing you then through to the nursery. Next we moved onto giftshop for a few postcards, then hit the road again, passing Bray, an old church in Glenealy, Rathdrum, and into the Vale (or Valley) of Avoca…a stop on our tour only because a show that mom loves called “Ballykissangel” was filmed there. Apparently this was a big enough deal to have them keep the main pub as was in the show: a main placemarker, “Fitzgeralds,” along with another church, the Garda (Police) Station and tiny bridge leading into town. Met an Australian couple in the pub coming from the opposite route of travel from us and we swapped pointers over a Guinness, bought the Irish Times, and moved on along through Arklow, Gorey, and Camolin with some pics along the way.
Next: Ferns, a tiny village with a lotta history. This is where the Cathedral of St. Edan sits, founded in 596 AD. Yes, 596. (That’s 1,413 years old, P.S.) The St. Edan’s standing now was built in the 13th century, burnt down by the O Byrnes of Wicklow in 1575, and made to rebuild again in 1577. Some of the walls and windows of the original building were incorporated into the new one. They still have services here every Sunday, (which was last “renovated” in 1817.)
…The ruins of St. Mary’s Augustinian Abbey (and an ancient graveyard, where King Dermot MacMurrough was buried in 1171) lie just to the side of the Cathedral (built in the 12th century.) The village was one of the main religious centers in the kingdom of Leinster, the Cathedral built after the village had been taken by the Normans. There are still five surviving windows of the main wall of the Abbey, two on the south wall and original Celtic crosses within the surrounding rock ensconce
…Moving on, we found Ferns Castle, another ruin of the 13th century Hiberno-Norman time, which is the largest of the Towered Keeps ever built (evolving at least a century before any comparable castles were built in England.) Estimate date of build is circ. 1222, by Earl William Marshall the younger, and was captured by the O’Tooles in 1331, and switched hands four more times before it was surrendered to the Cromwellian soldiers in 1649, leading to the demolition of much of the building.
So we move on to Enniscorthy, (The second-largest town in County Wexford dating to 465.) Over the River Slaney, we walked across their ancient bridge for a bit of air before poking on through Clonroche to New Ross, where the historic three-mast tall ship the Dunbrody is anchored.
The main immigrant transport between Ireland, the U.S. and Australia during the Great Potato Famine, The Dunbrody was given the nickname, along with other transports of the time, of “Coffin Ship” because of the number of deaths along the journeys. This replica model is set as a touring museum today, with reenactments et al.
…Next, passing Glenmore we came into Waterford, where we ended our travels for the night beside The Quays (or waterfront), facing the boats docked where the Vikings did, in 914 AD. By 11:00 PM, our luggage was stowed in the Hotel and we took a walk in search of some dinner (we kinda forgot to eat since Powerscourt, while looking at all the neat stuff.)
…Directed to City Center (just up a piece from the water), we passed many a pub, but none selling anything but liquor for a good…oh mile or more, which then starving and a more than a little tired, we settled on the first place we could find that *did* sell food that late: chicken n’ fries from “Hillbilly’s.” Yes, we traveled all the way to Waterford Ireland to eat Hillbilly chicken, which is enough for a good round of one-liners that I’m too tired to try and reach for at the moment.
…Finally hailing a taxi home, we ate (yes at midnight), and now it is 1:22 AM and our alarm is set for 7:30. I’m going to bed, big day ahead…starting with Waterford.
~
Enroute southbound M50 towards Wexford, passed through Enniskerry via Powerscourt Castle, which boasts one of the most famous gardens in Europe. (also it’s own golf course and nursery.) The castle is huge beyond any real description, and seems more like a Manor House in build as there are no turrets, but it bleeds out to the sides in additional wings and looks like something Mr. Darcy would own…if he had a hell of a lot more money. The inside, (still naked of plaster walls, exposing the stone) puts itself to work by dividing into dozens of little high-end shops, room-to-room, a restaurant, a café (with one *brilliant* pastry chef, let me tell you), and a side wing reserved for the house’s museum. This is how you pay the mortgage, baby. Much of the stone work revealed along the corridors is of the original castle built in 1116, which after a fire gutted it, was directly incorporated into the plans of the new castle erected by the 6th Viscount of Powerscourt in 1743. New add-ons included ball rooms, state rooms, (a zillion of *other* rooms) and an international garden plan that made the castle, during the Viscount’s lifetime, the most sought-after property in Ireland.
…We ate lunch at the café, *looked* at the pastries, took in the wee ones dressed in fresh whites in celebration of their first communion, and moved onto the 8 Euro ticket to see the gardens…which are about as unreal in a, “Hey, I think I saw that place on the History Channel once,” kinda way. It takes an hour to walk around the surrounding gardens, and 20 to reach the largest pond at the center of the park via the Perron (an Italianate stairway added to the castle in 1874 of mosaic-like rock) splitting the Italian Garden, guarded by two winged horses with a huge fountain of muscle-bulging King Triton in it’s lily-padded center. This “Triton’s Pond” is also surrounded by a host of Greek looking statuary facing Triton, with mosses and vines growing up the facing around, and the cave below. Moving left of this will take you to the Japanese Gardens and Pepper Pot Tower (built in 1911), to the right you encounter the Rhododendron Field, Dolphin Pond (with fish) and the Pet Cemetery. That’s right: Pet Cemetary…where generations of the family’s loved ones are laid to rest upon the hill including:
* “Eugenie the Jersey Cow. Died aged 17 years, had 12 calves, and produced over 100,000 gallons of milk.”
&
* “Gunner. Favorite Hack. Died Sept. 1913.”
…About 30 others join their ranks in memory.
…Next we move onto the two adjoining walled gardens lining a walkway on both sides about a football field in length of unspoiled green. (Tennis or badminton anyone?) These lead out ultimately through a black iron gate gilded in gold with the family crest topping it (Bamberg Gate), passing you then through to the nursery. Next we moved onto giftshop for a few postcards, then hit the road again, passing Bray, an old church in Glenealy, Rathdrum, and into the Vale (or Valley) of Avoca…a stop on our tour only because a show that mom loves called “Ballykissangel” was filmed there. Apparently this was a big enough deal to have them keep the main pub as was in the show: a main placemarker, “Fitzgeralds,” along with another church, the Garda (Police) Station and tiny bridge leading into town. Met an Australian couple in the pub coming from the opposite route of travel from us and we swapped pointers over a Guinness, bought the Irish Times, and moved on along through Arklow, Gorey, and Camolin with some pics along the way.
Next: Ferns, a tiny village with a lotta history. This is where the Cathedral of St. Edan sits, founded in 596 AD. Yes, 596. (That’s 1,413 years old, P.S.) The St. Edan’s standing now was built in the 13th century, burnt down by the O Byrnes of Wicklow in 1575, and made to rebuild again in 1577. Some of the walls and windows of the original building were incorporated into the new one. They still have services here every Sunday, (which was last “renovated” in 1817.)
…The ruins of St. Mary’s Augustinian Abbey (and an ancient graveyard, where King Dermot MacMurrough was buried in 1171) lie just to the side of the Cathedral (built in the 12th century.) The village was one of the main religious centers in the kingdom of Leinster, the Cathedral built after the village had been taken by the Normans. There are still five surviving windows of the main wall of the Abbey, two on the south wall and original Celtic crosses within the surrounding rock ensconce
…Moving on, we found Ferns Castle, another ruin of the 13th century Hiberno-Norman time, which is the largest of the Towered Keeps ever built (evolving at least a century before any comparable castles were built in England.) Estimate date of build is circ. 1222, by Earl William Marshall the younger, and was captured by the O’Tooles in 1331, and switched hands four more times before it was surrendered to the Cromwellian soldiers in 1649, leading to the demolition of much of the building.
So we move on to Enniscorthy, (The second-largest town in County Wexford dating to 465.) Over the River Slaney, we walked across their ancient bridge for a bit of air before poking on through Clonroche to New Ross, where the historic three-mast tall ship the Dunbrody is anchored.
The main immigrant transport between Ireland, the U.S. and Australia during the Great Potato Famine, The Dunbrody was given the nickname, along with other transports of the time, of “Coffin Ship” because of the number of deaths along the journeys. This replica model is set as a touring museum today, with reenactments et al.
…Next, passing Glenmore we came into Waterford, where we ended our travels for the night beside The Quays (or waterfront), facing the boats docked where the Vikings did, in 914 AD. By 11:00 PM, our luggage was stowed in the Hotel and we took a walk in search of some dinner (we kinda forgot to eat since Powerscourt, while looking at all the neat stuff.)
…Directed to City Center (just up a piece from the water), we passed many a pub, but none selling anything but liquor for a good…oh mile or more, which then starving and a more than a little tired, we settled on the first place we could find that *did* sell food that late: chicken n’ fries from “Hillbilly’s.” Yes, we traveled all the way to Waterford Ireland to eat Hillbilly chicken, which is enough for a good round of one-liners that I’m too tired to try and reach for at the moment.
…Finally hailing a taxi home, we ate (yes at midnight), and now it is 1:22 AM and our alarm is set for 7:30. I’m going to bed, big day ahead…starting with Waterford.
Travel Log– Day Three 5/13
Slept at last!! Got most confusing directions to local pub from desk clerk last night. Supposedly, take the 140 bus “that way” to Duke St., “or nearby,” and walk ten minutes or so “along the way.” About 45 minutes, 5 Euro, 40 later we made it back to the hotel to say, “Uh no, no Duke Steet even near the place. “Ah,” says she, “I forgot to tell yuh to switch busses to the 85 or such.” And actually it was supposed to be the *other* “that way” as well. We found (in the end) another pub going the opposite direct of where she told us to (by car this time) and settled in for our first *real* Guinness over Irish Stew (our first real food since Minneapolis.)
…“The Pale,” was it’s name, so obviously off the beaten track as to be completely tourist free (but for us) and where us being there proved a happy novelty to them as well. After all…we *do* talk funny. So, we just sat there on the pub’s little attic floor looking out onto the street where this giant church that is older than our *country,* was just…you know…sitting there, and slowly the attic began to fill in with wee men toking fiddle, banjo, and guitar cases. Thinking that surely this was too good to be true, we waited a bit, and after each had had a bit of a gab and his allotted “first round,” they took out the instruments and started to tune them. An eventual group of 8 (with occasional guest appearances by their mates sitting at nearby tables), then commenced to get their jig on. For real. Just local fellas hanging out like they usually do, singin’ and playin’ songs with joking jibes at one another in between. Needless to say: FUN. A couple hours worth, in fact…until the drive back home and even *more* confusing directions that began literally:
HIMSELF: You’ll see that bend in the road, the one after the shopping set on the left? Don’t take that bend. Weave ‘round to the right and a left…the road isn’t marked but you’ll know when, and there’s that statue of…now what was it now? I can’t remember… (calling back inside the pub)…Augh, Jamie! What’s the name of that statue, the one by that one turn, now?
JAMIE: (materializing from the Pub) The Saint Francis or the Saint Matthew?
HIMSELF: Nogh, nogh…the one! The one wit the ting.
JAMIE: Which?
HIMSELF: Is it Saint Joseph, mabby?
JAMIE: (to Mom) And jus’ where is it yuh want to be goin’, love?
HIMSELF: Nogh, now, I’ve got her far as that bend on the left to that shop lot.
JAMIE: Right is to the shop lot. Left is to the road way.
HIMSELF: Nogh, nogh….
JAMIE: You need the shop lot do yuh, love. Well, I’ll tell yuh…yuh wanna take a right up here just a bit after the third pub on the left and…
…You get the picture. And yes, now we know…they actually do this. Anyway, four of them have. So far.
..Which brings me to the commentary of Dublin roads. Only about 25% of them are marked, and it doesn’t seem to matter because everyone here drives by landmark directions anyway. Which is fine, if you happen to *know* which Saint is which, which Petrol station is run by Padric, and which Guinness sign is the big one versus the small one when there’s three in a row on the left. Also, the names change, even while on the straightaway, and every person you ask directions from, look at your finger pointed to the map and wrinkle their nose as if to say, “I doubt highly this is gonna work, but try: …”
…Suffice it to say, we did finally get home, eventually, and slept like the dead. Up at 10:30 (decidedly behind schedule) and have been online mapping everything ever since. Check-out is in 15 minutes, so better go and pack up the kit now.
…“The Pale,” was it’s name, so obviously off the beaten track as to be completely tourist free (but for us) and where us being there proved a happy novelty to them as well. After all…we *do* talk funny. So, we just sat there on the pub’s little attic floor looking out onto the street where this giant church that is older than our *country,* was just…you know…sitting there, and slowly the attic began to fill in with wee men toking fiddle, banjo, and guitar cases. Thinking that surely this was too good to be true, we waited a bit, and after each had had a bit of a gab and his allotted “first round,” they took out the instruments and started to tune them. An eventual group of 8 (with occasional guest appearances by their mates sitting at nearby tables), then commenced to get their jig on. For real. Just local fellas hanging out like they usually do, singin’ and playin’ songs with joking jibes at one another in between. Needless to say: FUN. A couple hours worth, in fact…until the drive back home and even *more* confusing directions that began literally:
HIMSELF: You’ll see that bend in the road, the one after the shopping set on the left? Don’t take that bend. Weave ‘round to the right and a left…the road isn’t marked but you’ll know when, and there’s that statue of…now what was it now? I can’t remember… (calling back inside the pub)…Augh, Jamie! What’s the name of that statue, the one by that one turn, now?
JAMIE: (materializing from the Pub) The Saint Francis or the Saint Matthew?
HIMSELF: Nogh, nogh…the one! The one wit the ting.
JAMIE: Which?
HIMSELF: Is it Saint Joseph, mabby?
JAMIE: (to Mom) And jus’ where is it yuh want to be goin’, love?
HIMSELF: Nogh, now, I’ve got her far as that bend on the left to that shop lot.
JAMIE: Right is to the shop lot. Left is to the road way.
HIMSELF: Nogh, nogh….
JAMIE: You need the shop lot do yuh, love. Well, I’ll tell yuh…yuh wanna take a right up here just a bit after the third pub on the left and…
…You get the picture. And yes, now we know…they actually do this. Anyway, four of them have. So far.
..Which brings me to the commentary of Dublin roads. Only about 25% of them are marked, and it doesn’t seem to matter because everyone here drives by landmark directions anyway. Which is fine, if you happen to *know* which Saint is which, which Petrol station is run by Padric, and which Guinness sign is the big one versus the small one when there’s three in a row on the left. Also, the names change, even while on the straightaway, and every person you ask directions from, look at your finger pointed to the map and wrinkle their nose as if to say, “I doubt highly this is gonna work, but try: …”
…Suffice it to say, we did finally get home, eventually, and slept like the dead. Up at 10:30 (decidedly behind schedule) and have been online mapping everything ever since. Check-out is in 15 minutes, so better go and pack up the kit now.
Travel Log – Day Two 5/12
Technically this is day two, though I still haven’t slept. We are now in our 18th hour of travel, (my 21st hour without sleep), and we have landed at Heathrow. Apparently the Brits still have a bean to pick with the Irish over here…I am guessing this as it took us two hours and ten minutes (a subway, a train, three elevators, two check-out desks and customs) to get to the Aer Lingus wing. My conclusion is: we are actually *walking* there. The bastardized step-child of a wing they put it is has only “generalized” gate numbers (77-86), with no knowledge at *which* gate the plane will pull up to for loading until it’s already done it. Not that this matters at the moment anyway because (of course) it is running late.
~
Now: On plane. Our captain sounds like a leprechaun and they are tag-teaming Gaelic and English for the flight info run-down. This is the third time today (remember, I haven’t slept yet) that I have heard that ER floatation-device-air-hose-dropping-from-the-ceiling speech, and I gotta say, in this dialect I don’t mind it so much. Contacts now glued to my eyes permanently as we commence with our two hour flight. If I can survive the screaming child one row behind me, we will have achieved the height of Buddhist temperance. Next: land, find car rental, learn to stick-shift left-handed, and find hotel…where we will take turns propped up in the closet-of-a-shower we were warned they would sport here. Not that we care at this point. I’d take a bath in an airport *sink* if I had to go one more bloody hour in these clothes.
~
Note: we are in Europe. You can tell this because every third person on this plane is wearing a suit and tie, and another third wear the suit jacket even without the tie…and everyone else are slob tourist Americans. We do sorta stand out in the wrong way. At least, though, we are the “respectful” kind. This means we aren’t “yawling” in loud, round tones (like some people), commentating about how “quaint” everything is. (Journaling doesn’t count.) We’ve already been chatted up by a female version of Barry Fitzgerald about our itinerary in a brogue so thick that even mom has to lean in to catch it.
…Am confident will feel less cranky once I’ve had a wash, a change of clothes, and am sitting over a Guinness…something like 2.5 hours from now. I’m mentally closing down at this point and have decided I’m either too old for 24 hour travel or just need a lot more practice at it. I’m opting for the latter. But *after* a drink and sleep.
~
Dublin! A car, the last automatic they had! They said, “It’s a little large.” It is a sedan. Now: How to drive on the wrong side of the road. It’s more difficult than you’d think when you’re in Dublin. Imagine you woke up and Seattle, with all it’s crap road construction and one-way streets, did a reverse flop on you. It’s like that. And this is on no sleep, moving into hour 23. Go mom, and yay for insurance!
~
Note: Just missed the Gay Theatre Fest Dublin. Sponsored by Absolut Vodka. Their poster child on display: Oscar Wilde. As. It. Should. Be.
~
Twenty four hours, almost to the “T.” We arrive at hotel. Relocation is complete. Now for that shower and our first Guinness in Ireland…at the first local pub we catch!
~
Now: On plane. Our captain sounds like a leprechaun and they are tag-teaming Gaelic and English for the flight info run-down. This is the third time today (remember, I haven’t slept yet) that I have heard that ER floatation-device-air-hose-dropping-from-the-ceiling speech, and I gotta say, in this dialect I don’t mind it so much. Contacts now glued to my eyes permanently as we commence with our two hour flight. If I can survive the screaming child one row behind me, we will have achieved the height of Buddhist temperance. Next: land, find car rental, learn to stick-shift left-handed, and find hotel…where we will take turns propped up in the closet-of-a-shower we were warned they would sport here. Not that we care at this point. I’d take a bath in an airport *sink* if I had to go one more bloody hour in these clothes.
~
Note: we are in Europe. You can tell this because every third person on this plane is wearing a suit and tie, and another third wear the suit jacket even without the tie…and everyone else are slob tourist Americans. We do sorta stand out in the wrong way. At least, though, we are the “respectful” kind. This means we aren’t “yawling” in loud, round tones (like some people), commentating about how “quaint” everything is. (Journaling doesn’t count.) We’ve already been chatted up by a female version of Barry Fitzgerald about our itinerary in a brogue so thick that even mom has to lean in to catch it.
…Am confident will feel less cranky once I’ve had a wash, a change of clothes, and am sitting over a Guinness…something like 2.5 hours from now. I’m mentally closing down at this point and have decided I’m either too old for 24 hour travel or just need a lot more practice at it. I’m opting for the latter. But *after* a drink and sleep.
~
Dublin! A car, the last automatic they had! They said, “It’s a little large.” It is a sedan. Now: How to drive on the wrong side of the road. It’s more difficult than you’d think when you’re in Dublin. Imagine you woke up and Seattle, with all it’s crap road construction and one-way streets, did a reverse flop on you. It’s like that. And this is on no sleep, moving into hour 23. Go mom, and yay for insurance!
~
Note: Just missed the Gay Theatre Fest Dublin. Sponsored by Absolut Vodka. Their poster child on display: Oscar Wilde. As. It. Should. Be.
~
Twenty four hours, almost to the “T.” We arrive at hotel. Relocation is complete. Now for that shower and our first Guinness in Ireland…at the first local pub we catch!
Travel Log – Day One 5/11
Awake since 6:30, flight out and have landed in Minneapolis, St. Paul. The only thing I know about this city is that allegedly, Mary Tyler Moore threw a hat in the air here once. I’m told there is even a statue of it. I can now, however, expand our knowledge a bit more with my first hour of study in the way of some exciting tid-bits about Minnesota from where I stand.
1) It is ten degrees hotter here than at home.
2) They still have as many Starbucks per airport block, only here the Pike Place Blend is considered exotic.
3) Our terminal has it’s own mall with three food courts, six restaurants and a cocktail bar.
4) They like the moose. A-lot. Like, the Canadians plaster that maple leaf on everything from salt packets to f-all, the Minnesotans plaster their moose. We passed five major eight-foot-tall-or-more statues of them just switching gates. You can take pictures of a moose, with a moose, or even of moose’s with a moose..
…So far am disappointed in only one aspect: have heard no one sporting Fargo-esc lingo. Mostly just Asian tourists and boring non-accented west-coasters like us. Hold the faith though! I’ve got hours, and we are gonna go to a sit-downy place for dinner, so I can always pin hopes on our server. Oh look, a moving sidewalk…
~
…Am sitting by a moving sidewalk as people glide by. This surly woman sitting next to us gave us a decided “look” when we dared to plug in at the same outlet post as her for laptop power. Clearly, she is not a Minnesotan. I mean, every movie set here tells us that any self-respecting Minnesotan would just smile and say something like: “Oh gosh, so nice to have these little sharin’ stations for internets, isn’t it? My name is Barb, where you folks from?!”
…This lady didn’t. In fact, judging by “movie types” I’d say she’s from somewhere cold and distant…like Yugoslavia/Croatia or something…you know, a place where there’s been so much civil war that she’s pre-conditioned to hate and distrust everyone immediately assuming you want not to share but to seize power of her outlook plug, put the entire internet café under Marshal Law, and change her nationality name again…for the third time today.
~
For your consideration: the Minnesota Opera did “Faust” in January…followed by “The Barber of Seville.” I’m just gonna leave that one wide open and let you fill in the punch-lines. Next: It has been three hours now, and I have officially heard a flight attendant chatting up a Captain enroute their next flight. At last, the sound I was waiting for. Other than that, a sore disappointment has been the supposed “happy-go-luckiness” of these Midwestern peoples. Maybe it’s just that they suck at Mondays, or maybe they aren’t paid enough, or maybe the movies lie. I dunno. Thank goodness for Ingrid though, she is now the sole living representative of the “swell” and smiley kinda person I’d expect to come from here. Maybe she sucked up all the good parts and pirated them all away. Bring it Heathrow! Am ready to jump these States.
1) It is ten degrees hotter here than at home.
2) They still have as many Starbucks per airport block, only here the Pike Place Blend is considered exotic.
3) Our terminal has it’s own mall with three food courts, six restaurants and a cocktail bar.
4) They like the moose. A-lot. Like, the Canadians plaster that maple leaf on everything from salt packets to f-all, the Minnesotans plaster their moose. We passed five major eight-foot-tall-or-more statues of them just switching gates. You can take pictures of a moose, with a moose, or even of moose’s with a moose..
…So far am disappointed in only one aspect: have heard no one sporting Fargo-esc lingo. Mostly just Asian tourists and boring non-accented west-coasters like us. Hold the faith though! I’ve got hours, and we are gonna go to a sit-downy place for dinner, so I can always pin hopes on our server. Oh look, a moving sidewalk…
~
…Am sitting by a moving sidewalk as people glide by. This surly woman sitting next to us gave us a decided “look” when we dared to plug in at the same outlet post as her for laptop power. Clearly, she is not a Minnesotan. I mean, every movie set here tells us that any self-respecting Minnesotan would just smile and say something like: “Oh gosh, so nice to have these little sharin’ stations for internets, isn’t it? My name is Barb, where you folks from?!”
…This lady didn’t. In fact, judging by “movie types” I’d say she’s from somewhere cold and distant…like Yugoslavia/Croatia or something…you know, a place where there’s been so much civil war that she’s pre-conditioned to hate and distrust everyone immediately assuming you want not to share but to seize power of her outlook plug, put the entire internet café under Marshal Law, and change her nationality name again…for the third time today.
~
For your consideration: the Minnesota Opera did “Faust” in January…followed by “The Barber of Seville.” I’m just gonna leave that one wide open and let you fill in the punch-lines. Next: It has been three hours now, and I have officially heard a flight attendant chatting up a Captain enroute their next flight. At last, the sound I was waiting for. Other than that, a sore disappointment has been the supposed “happy-go-luckiness” of these Midwestern peoples. Maybe it’s just that they suck at Mondays, or maybe they aren’t paid enough, or maybe the movies lie. I dunno. Thank goodness for Ingrid though, she is now the sole living representative of the “swell” and smiley kinda person I’d expect to come from here. Maybe she sucked up all the good parts and pirated them all away. Bring it Heathrow! Am ready to jump these States.
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