Monday September 5, 1994
Here I am listening to Irish flute tunes in the JFK Aer Lingus gate area. The day started out as usual: in a rush. I woke up at 7:00 am (more correctly: was woken up by an incessant alarm), and the errands began. My first task: walk around the house and try to shoot the squirrel that lives in the attic (more correctly again: the squirrel that lives in the attic and wakes me up at 6:00 am with its use of my attic indoor track, running back and forth making click click clack clack noises; I’m either going to kill it, move it, or teach it tap dancing and charge admission). Rambo Price didn’t find the squirrel, though, so it will click clack yet another day.
The jeep needed its oil changed. I’m probably the only person east of the Mississippi who changes the oil in his car on the morning that he is running “almost late” for a flight. But that’s the kind of stuff that keeps a car running beyond the 200,000 mile milestone, so what the heck.
I then started kicking into “run around the house” mode. Going down my list, picking up, cleaning, up, and out the door. My bank ATM told me I was “beyond my daily cash advance limit”, so that meant I was going to Ireland with 200 US dollars and some credit cards. The American express and bank offices were all closed on Saturday, so my traveler’s-checks-alternate-plan was to get traveler’s checks in Ireland, but National Airport provided the services instead. After driving from my Lexington Park house to my Crystal City apartment, running around even faster doing all my organizing and packing, and calling Mom and Dad and Grandmom and Granddad, I flew off grunting under a heavy load to the Metro subway.
Actual arrival time was a half hour after my intended arrival time, but that’s what a time cushion is for, isn’t it? After checking in and flashing my passport (for the first time!), I inquired about traveler’s checks. There was some kind of Mutual of Omaha traveler services office there, which was good since the American Express machine that spits out traveler’s checks was busted and closed down. It was a buck per $100 of checks. Fine, sign me up. And sign and sing I did. Paying, bureaucrating, and signing took a good while. In fact, such a good while that Jon Wilcox and I walked up to the gate at 2:47 pm. Three minutes extra for our 2:50 flight! The attendants were practically pushing us down the stairs and out onto the tarmac, “gotta go gotta go”. So off we went in the American Airlines prop plane to JFK. We accidentally forgot to bring our office work and house chores with us, though. We were very sad about that, of course.
I’m on a bona fide Aer Lingus 747! Jon, of course, is schmoozing with the female stock analyst sitting to his right. He’s on my right, and an Atlantic-viewing window is to my left. I’ve got my new small backpack under the seat in front, stuffed with snacks, gadgets, camera, toiletries, books, and pocket stuff (wallet, penknife, moisturizer, etc.). We’ll go on the assumption that my big gray suitcase was appropriately manhandled and loaded down below between the hyperactive peeing dog and ticking IRA package.
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Jon’s own entry here:
“0655 Hours
Tuesday 06 Sept
I am looking out the window at the most beautiful sunrise I have ever seen. We are cruising at 550 knots and at 33000′, and the air is a little bumpy but everything else is OK. So far, it has been a very pleasant flight, with the exception of trying to squeeze 6’2” into a very small space to sit and sleep. The flight attendant was nice enough to allow me to go up and sit for a while (her name is Margaret) in the cockpit, and they don’t have much space up there either, so I don’t feel so bad. A very pleasant people, they seem to be very big on tea here. Every few minutes, “Would you like some tea?” or simply “tea?” if they are in a hurry, and always with those quaint accents that make them sound so very sophisticated. I am enjoying myself already, for I have an accent of my own! Scott was actually able to sleep some last night, how I don’t know, and has awakened feeling (or rather looking) fresh and ready. We just got our first glimpse of the Irish countryside on our descent. It looks interesting. Scott just saw his first car, driving on the wrong side of the road, of course, and we are both getting really excited. I think we are going to have a great time!”
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Tuesday September 6, 1994
I just ordered a free range breast of chicken and salad here at Ben’s Bistro in Cahersiveen. I was going to also order the Ballywogan drink until the waitress said it was just mineral water. I had some Kerry spring water at the Kilgorlin market earlier today, and it tasted like bad tap water. So, the Ballywogan will have to wait around for another customer.
Jon’s sitting diagonally across from me at our table by the window overlooking the town’s main street. After having gotten only about 45 minutes of sleep Monday night on the plane and a full day of hiking the Cliffs of Moher, I was too tired to get any bit interested in writing. I wrote four postcards, and my heavy eyelids said that was quite enough.
We finally flew low over Irish farmland bordered by old stone fences and hedgerows. By law, every North American flight into Ireland is required to land at Shannon, even though it doesn’t make economic sense (it only did years ago when planes really had to make their first stop possible so they could refuel; modern jets go much further but the Shannon economy and politics are too strongly intertwined). Shannon was a better starting point for us than Dublin anyhow, since I especially wanted to explore the coastal areas of southwest Ireland.
We stood in the gray Irish rain waiting for the Alamo rental shuttle. All the cars were small and “un-American”: almost none were from the Big Three and few were models that ever get imported to American dealers. We did get an unusual exception, though, as our rental was a Ford Fiesta. But it’s probably not made in America, anyhow. Small care are necessities here, and the US doesn’t have much to offer in that area. The cars are more easily affordable, get better gas mileage (important considering the high gas prices), and, most important to Jon and I, they fit onto Irish roads.
Ah, Irish roads. Imagine cruising at 90 kph down a road bounded by ancient stone walls higher than the roof of the car and thick hedges or trees clipped back flush to the vertical edge of the ragged, potholed pavement. Now squish the width of the road down to a little more than a single US highway lane. Then the truck comes toward you at 90 kph, its right wheels over the middle of the road. As the truck approaches, the truck drifts somewhat over to its left (as it should) and heads straight at a steady speed. You have two options: 1) if a stone wall is to your left, you put your mirror within inches of the jagged rocks and hold the steering wheel tight and straight, or 2) if the hedges and trees are to your left, you drift left until the wheels hop up and down on the edge’s crumbling pavement and branches bend down the side of your car and whip into the passenger window. Side mirrors pass within about a foot of one another and the vehicles pass. Bicyclists, walkers, cars parked in the road, sheep, cows, dogs, drivers not paying attention straddling lands… they each make the drive interesting. And everything mentioned above happens very frequently. Some roads have only enough space for one car at all, requiring someone to give way and back up to a spot where they can pull off into the brush or a driveway. Add a bunch of curves to these roads which only afford a view about 20 feet ahead and you have a better feel for it. Add a general disregard for speed limits and you have an Organized National Roadway Automobile Pinball System. Driving through some town main streets is like a slow speed slalom: the roads fall off steeply to the sides, cars are double parked, “jaywalking” probably does not exist as even a word in Ireland because it’s considered the proper and only way to get around, and farmers use their tractors just like others use cars to get in and around town.
Jon and I headed up northwest from Shannan through Ennis and Ennistymon to the Cliffs of Moher near Derreen, getting accustomed to left hand driving and gear shifting as we went. The driving transition is not difficult, except that rotaries, yield areas, and looking both ways for oncoming traffic are not intuitively obvious without some conscious thought. Jon and I have a mantra we recite whenever we pull out onto the road or turn around for a missed road: “drive left drive left drive left”. I even shorthanded it once by saying “DL3”. The navigator / passenger has been assigned three additional responsibilities besides navigating and sitting: 1) reach for things in the back seat, 2) taking off the parking brake, and 3) watching for right hand driving lapses.
Irish radio provided some entertainment. One station is entirely Gaelic, so it was basically unintelligible. Others had lots of old American music. Weather reports were even more haphazard than American ones, essentially stating it would probably be raining and sunny and in-between and maybe none of the above. Since rain is so prevalent here, sunny times are referred to as “bright spells” like we would say “occasional rain”.
The Cliffs of Moher were beautiful and powerful. I’m glad we bypassed the Bunratty Castle & Folk Park tourist trap and went to the cliffs instead. They loom hundreds of feet into the air, straight out of the crashing Atlantic. Laying on my stomach at several points, I peered over rock ledges and looked down as the sea gulls do as they ride the fast updrafts from ocean winds hitting against the cliff walls. The ledges protruded out away from the cliff’s entire length, so only rocks and frothing waves were directly below. The coastline undulated in smooth arcs, jutting in and out from the mainland.
Jon and I hiked around to an old stone observation tower. It looked interesting from the outside, but I was attacked by postcards and Kodak logos as I entered its ground level. The commercialization turned us off and we saved the 50p admission required to go up to its observation level. Hiking around the cliff tops on a path just wide enough to put two feet side by side, we went along cow pastures to another point of view to get its perspective on the world. At one point, we were being rained on by occasional drops of water, yet there were no clouds above us. One ledge revealed its source: a small spring trickled from the ground and over the precipice. The Atlantic winds were so strong up the cliff face that the spring water was blown vertically upward high into the air as soon as it passed the ledge’s lip, transforming itself from groundwater into surreal anti-gravity rain.
After returning to the visitor’s center for a drink and a snack, we hiked a considerably longer distance the other way along the cliff edges. The trail was similar: coming to within a few feet of the cliff face and bounded on the landward side by old rock sheets and fencing, placed there to prevent cows from taking the plunge. On one section, the trail had less than one foot of loose sod between where we had to walk and the ocean 700 feet below. At the end of the trail, past the sign which said “No trespassing. Violators will be prosputed.” (sic), we came to a crumbling square-based stone tower. The fireplaces and windows were still there, but the floors were long gone. Surprisingly, some wooden structure in the roof was still intact, possibly added during a later era.
After returning to our car, we headed south along the coast to Kilkee, Kilrush, and to the car ferry at Killimer where we crossed the River Shannon. Our destination was a bed & breakfast, any bed & breakfast, near the next town of at least some size, Listowel. We found The Haven, and got the showers and postcards to people back home quickly done and out of the way. It had been 36 hours or so without sleep, so sleep was top priority. We both disappeared into unconsciousness and slept soundly (Jon’s snoring only woke me once).
Wednesday September 7, 1994
This morning, we woke to another cloudy but bright and non-raining day. Our first real rain didn’t start until later this evening. Breakfast was what I have been told will essentially be the same at every Irish B&B: cornflakes and milk, tea, brown bread, toast, eggs, sausage, and bacon. That’s OK once in a while, but I won’t be doing that full menu every day. Our road diet isn’t that great to begin with.
Our early day was spent meandering through the rural countryside: traveling to Tralee and Kilorglin and on to the Ring of Kerry. I resisted the temptation to check out another bona fide Irish tourist trap: the Kerry Bog Village. It even had a sign out front proclaiming like a carnival huckster that you could “See The Bog Pony!” Yippee! I instead took a detour around the single-laned back roads that circled Caragh Lake, a lake surrounded by high, steep hills and a few houses with stone fences and sheep. We took a stop over at a pretty old bridge crossing a rocky creek near Lickeen Wood. I hopped from rock to rock taking photographs, and Jon hopped from rock to rock, at least until he fell in and had to change his pants, socks, and boots.
After reconnecting with the Ring, we passed through Glenbeigh and went on to Kells. Near Kells we saw a sign which said “Strand” and had a stylized castle symbol beside it. Jon really wanted to see a castle, so we went off looking for the Strand Castle. After wandering around on the classic one lane back roads for a while, we asked an elderly Englishman, who was out taking a stroll by Dingle Bay with his wife, for directions. He gave us a friendly history of Ireland, but he also answered our question: a strand is a beach, and there ain’t no Strand Castle! So the smiling tourist Americans drove off back to the Ring of Kerry. We at least knew that existed.
At Ben’s Bistro in Cahersiveen, we met two traveling women who had come in from out of the rain off their bikes. One was from Australia and the other was from England. They were both very enjoyable people and we talked at length. After an hour or so, they went off into the rain to return their rented bikes and we continued on in our Ford Fiesta.
Kilpeacan Cross Roads and Waterville came next, followed by Ballybrack, Caherdaniel, Westcove, and Castlecove. Since it was getting late in the day and gradually darker under the gray rain clouds, we just stopped at overlooks here and there. Jon had to pee so bad once that he let loose on a trail to an overlook behind a church. Jon broke new ground in Violating religious, trail, tourist, and locals etiquette on that one. Given that Jon is a religious person, I asked him if maybe he would want to pee somewhere else. He said “God gave me a penis, so I’m going to use it and pee!”
Our final destination was another B&B. The first one was booked, but the second one was open with no boarders. A gracious old lady greeted as at the farmhouse and gave us a walking tour of the house and its facilities. The electrical system was outmoded, the shower had mildew and a spider. Wallpaper was nailed up to the wall at its edges, and the sheets were thin and cheap, but the lady was nice and house had charm, so we stayed for the night (for 25 pounds total, with the current exchange rate at about 1.60 dollars per pound; The Haven had cost 26 pounds). Unlike America, B&Bs are cheaper than hotels and less fancy, trendy, and gentrified. B&Bs are seemingly everywhere, and almost all are just rooms set aside in regular Irish homes. In the “off-tourist-season” (i.e., not July or August), finding lodging is quick and easy and doesn’t require any reservations.
Thursday September 8, 1994
We woke from a good night’s sleep in our room on the second floor. It rained last night and the thinly insulated ceiling transmitted the soothing sounds of pattering rain. I only enjoyed the sounds briefly because of my new tactic for keeping out roommate sounds: yellow foam ear plugs. It also helps with creaking stairs, flushing toilets, and loud TVs in these B&Bs.
Our hostess was waiting for us downstairs with the same exact crap: cornflakes, toast, 1 egg, ham/bacon, and sausage (which I have yet to eat; it seems like a good though somewhat arbitrary line to draw between the “less bad” and “really bad” foods). The dining room was old and worn. We asked her about the old portrait photos tacked around on the walls and above the fire mantelpiece. She told us some about her family and _ after finishing our breakfast and joining her out on the enclosed porch – we learned about the stone-fenced fields below and the morning view to the Kenmare River.
Our hostess was somewhat embarrassed about getting her photo taken with Jon and I on each side, but she was used to it from tourists. We bid her a happy goodbye and wished her well on her hoped-for trip to see an American relative next year, her first trip to the States.
On to nearby Staige Stone Fort. It was set up in a lush green valley a few miles inland from the Ring of Kerry road and the visible Kenmare River. It’s a round stone wall with an open door now, all that remains of a fort which could defend itself and see advancing enemies from the high valley hills on three sides and down the open grass fields in the valley. Jon and I walked around the “Don’t stand on the walls” sign to stand on the walls. If it was planted for the purposes of historical preservation, I would have obeyed the signs, but I think and hope that it may have just been planted there for “protecting the public safety” reasons.
There wasn’t any explanation sign there to give us any of its history, but my book on Ireland said it was possibly 1600 years old and may have been a communal place of refuge or even a royal residence at one time. Jon and I climbed around the 18 foot high walls (reached by a series of stone steps formed into the wall structure). The walls are up to 13 feet thick except for a small dark room in the wall that we ducked into. I jumped from spot to spot around the fort’s perimeter while Gregarious Jon walked around and talked to some people.
Jon has been calling me “Mr. Preparation” because he can’t believe how long it takes me to get my stuff together when we hop out of the car. He just stuffs his automatic camera in his coat pocket and is ready to go, whereas I take 15 minutes getting my camera and doodads stuffed into my fanny pack, get the tripod situated, clean my glasses, find the pen that I misplaced, change my jacket, etc. But, hey, I have actually used the flashlight, penknife, and bungee cords! So there! 🙂
Then on to Sneem, with a brief stop at an artist’s shop. It must have gotten us in the buying mood because we had to go to the Bureau de Change twice to get our traveler’s checks changed to pounds for buying Aran sweaters and going to buy a scone. Sneem is full of tourist trap shops, and we were not there long. However, I had to do a U-turn when I saw a sign that said “The Way The Faeries Went.” Jon couldn’t believe that I actually wanted to turn around, and he had homophobic jokes flying everywhere. It turned out to be some modern rock sculpture garden made to look old and mysterious. It was, oh by the way, also connected to a camping area one could stay at.
We rode through the rest of the Ring of Kerry’s pretty coastal landscape via Tahilla, Templenoe, and Reen. We had lunch in Kenmare, and we also found out how difficult getting around unmarked roads can be when the locals know the traffic flows and foreign tourists (i.e., Jon) are driving against traffic down one way streets. Kenmare also had another cheesy tourist thing: a mini-museum set up around a reproduction of the Book of Kells. We walked in and walked out before they got our 2 quid (pounds).
Jon and I then detoured off the beaten track into the Beara Peninsula. This jut of land is surrounded by the Kenmare River, Atlantic, and Bantry Bay, and it is about 30 miles long as the crow flies (definitely not as measured by way of the twisting roads). It is stark and remote, with rocky landscapes of windswept hills and sparse farms separated by distances and hills to form communities that are loose in terms of physical structure but strong in terms of personal support and needs.
Somewhere between Coornagillagh and Ardea, we took a side road trip up into the hills to the Inchiquin Falls that fell across a huge, black rock face from multiple levels down zigzag routes along the cliff face. A fairly short though steep hike took us up to a windswept lake (Cumendilure Lake) formed by an amphitheater bowl of high cliffs on which white specs of grazing sheep could be seen precariously holding their footing.
Somewhere around Lauragh, we stopped and walked through the old weed-infested Kilmakillogue Burial Grounds. The tangle mat of weeds covered headstones underfoot, while tall stone Celtic crosses leaned over in the yellow setting sun. A roofless, ivy-covered mausoleum building gave Jon the creeps. The steps leading down to crypts are only a two deep hole now, mostly buried in dirt and debris. Outside, a stone table-crypt held the remains of an Irish chieftain.
The town of Ardgroom was next. It consists of two open pubs, a small grocery store, a B&B, a deserted and crumbling store and hall owned by a local alcoholic named Liam, a church being renovated, a line of brightly colored row homes, (most of which were long vacant, with the “windows” painted onto boarded-up plywood openings), and about 30 people. We met Brenda at the open store (owned by her parents, and where she was raised with her 11 siblings), ate at one of the pubs, and were given a walking tour of the church by the craftsmen who are replacing the stained glass windows. It would be safe to say that we will likely know Ardgroom better than any town on this trip.
Brenda, a 24 year old masters student with wild blond hair that made her appear to have stuck her finger in an electric socket, was sitting outside her parents’ store with her feet propped up, reading a newspaper. I struck up a conversation and Jon later went back (he had the balls, I was too shy) to ask her to join us for dinner at the pub. We talked for hours about Ireland, America, Ardgroom life, politics and thoughts, goals, how to drink Guinness (which tasted disgusting by itself but was very good the next evening when us tourists who lacked the “acquired taste” had the bartenders add some black currant), and differences in speech and slang. Regarding the latter, we even started a list of American and Irish equivalents:
trad-gig = traditional Irish music session
nicked = stolen
kip = a good night’s sleep
get crack = have a good time
1 stone = 14 pounds
get your kit off = take your clothes off
That last one, of course, led to the “dirty words” part of our cultural exchange. We continued the tradition of learning these words first; that’s a known fact for any beginning student of a foreign language. This list was actually created between both Thursday (with Brenda) and Friday (at Brenda’s flat with her housemates):
beair = girl
sham or fiend = guy
he’s some bowsie = he’s a bad boy
he’s a langer = he’s an asshole
you are driving me fucking nuts or up the fucking wall are popular expressions (as well as “brilliant!”)
shagging / to shag = to fuck
lamping = having sex or beating someone up
clocking = hitting or whacking
to get a buzzer = to get a hard-on
off your head, rat-assed, bollixed, wiped, hoisted, wrecked, or flying = shit-faced drunk
in the nip = naked
wank = dick / penis
dicksplash or wankstain = spappy / spew / semen
Brenda also taught us some basic Gaelic, including Dhá Dhrou (Ardgroom), Brenda ní Úrdail (Brenda Harrington), and Scott Aindreas Price (Scott Andrew Price, where both Scott and Price are too classic-English to be converted). She invited us to her flat in Cork, behind the blue door between The Jolly Chop Shop (hair cutters) and Jerry The Shoemaker’s shop.
While waiting for Brenda and making contorted faces over our Guinness, we met Willy Early and Phillip. Willy was an energetic 63 year old with snow white hair and beard, while Phillip was a more laid back and conservative looking man (at least until he got rat-assed later and became more talkative and sociable). Willy was the artist and Phillip the carpenter/craftsman in Willy’s stained glass shop located southwest of Dublin. The combination of talent and lack of competition makes them in demand, and they have had commissions as far away as San Francisco. Willy and Phillip were also staying in the O’Brien’s B&B, the same one we were, and they invited us to come down to the local church the next morning. They were installing a sample window in the Church of the Resurrection so that its parishioners could stop by and see an example of their work. Parishioners would then contribute to a specific window that lined the church and get a plaque commemorating themselves or a deceased loved one.
Friday September 9, 1994
The O’Brien family was very nice to us in their B&B located a couple doors down from the pub. Kay and Sean introduced us to their children and their dog, Arnold Schwarzenegger. We talked for hours between last night, this morning during breakfast, and after Sean returned from tending their fields several miles away (as we stood inside, the cows paraded down Ardgroom’s main street). They have eclectic sources of income: farming, government farm subsidies, a combination of welfare and injury payments for Sean’s injured back, B&B in the summer, and sewing dresses and making garment repairs in the winter.
As we said we would, Jon and I walked down to the church and watched Willy and Philip install their sample window. There were several other workmen there on scaffolding outside, and the interior was gutted for a complete restoration (everything except for the shiny tabernacle behind the altar area). They explained some of the intricacies of the stained glass craft, and reiterated an invitation to join them at their shop southwest of Dublin. Unfortunately, Jon lost the phone number and directions a few days later, so we didn’t see them again.
I went across the street to Brenda’s family’s store and got some more stuff to add to my good and drink repertoire. Even at home, I always get something on a menu if I haven’t had it before and it isn’t overly toxic. Irish variations on simple things like ham and cheese sandwiches, milkshakes, and salads have been interesting. Two of my more interesting drinks so far: Lucozade Orange Barley Sparkling Glucose Drink and Yop Forest Fruit Yogurt Drink. Both sounded disgusting, but were actually pretty good.
We then continued around the Beara Peninsula, cutting off the full circumnavigation to save time in getting to Cork to meet Brenda. So we drove through Gortgariff and Eyeries, stopping near Castletownbere at the Ogham Stone. The Ogham Stone is a monolith on a hillside from ancient times and was erected for not completely known uses. It sits in the middle of a farming family’s sheep fields, and we parked just back from their driveway to get there. A sign asked for a pound admission, but the lady standing there talking to neighbors said “Oh, don’t mind that. The last people who went said they got their boots wet, so there’s no charge today.” I’d like to see that happen in America…
As we stood there, Sean O’Brien pulled up in his car and we made a surprised greeting. He announced “Does anyone know a Jonathan P. Wilcox” in his Irish brogue, knowing full well who Jon was. Sean handed over the gold college ring Jon left in the O’Brien’s bathroom. Sean had driven around the peninsula, hadn’t found us, so he decided to try the Ogham Stone. I’d like to see that happen in American, too…
The Beara Peninsula continued on in its stark, windswept way until we reached the mainland again at Glengariff. It was then just a matter of making of making miles around the southwest coast through Bantry, Skilbereen, Clonakilty, Bandon, and on to Cork.
Cork was a culture shock. It was a bustling city with criss-crossing streets better suited for horse-drawn carriages than cars. Parking was difficult, and the city streets were extremely narrow. So much so that cars had to take turns from both directions getting around obstacles or other times had to come within an inch or two of the cars’ side mirrors as two wheels were up over the curb in the sidewalk. And, oh by the way, you then had to avoid the pedestrians, too. Because of this narrowness, many of the “main roads” are one way travel only, which made our getting around only that much more difficult. There were places we could almost see, yet couldn’t get our car to the place without some seriously convoluted route-making.
Finally, 67 Barrack Street.. Brenda arrived in her brother’s car just as we arrived at her front door. We had a great time hanging out in her living room with Brenda and her housemates Fiona (an attractive, long straight haired thin woman) and Alison (a bulkier but also attractive woman with a ponytail and lots of freckles). As we found to be the case for many people in Ireland, Brenda and Fiona chain smoked constantly. The hardest part was convincing Jon to chill out and relax instead of being on a schedule. My expression that I repeat to him when he gets uptight is “be flexible”.
The housemates paid 25 quid per week, and they had a fourth housemate which we didn’t meet. That comes to only $160 a month combined, but of course wages and employment were low there. 67 Barrack Street was well lived in: the tub looked like a farm animal’s water trough since it hadn’t been cleaned in so long that the white porcelain was stained black and gray. I thought someone had accidentally left some poopoo in the toilet until I looked closer to see that it was only scum buildup. And the carpeting and kitchen was covered in dirt, dirty dishes, cigarette ashes, and such. But a bed’s a bed and we had a good night’s sleep (a kip, remember?) there later that night.
The trio of housemates got dressed up in their black leather jackets, pants, boots, and such after Jon and I took Brenda and Fiona to a local vegetarian restaurant as a thank you for their hospitality. They then took us to The Phoenix, a local pub packed with a fog of smoke and a herd of “alternative lifestyle” folks. I talked to several to their friends and had an especially good time with Conor and Aedin (who gave me her cousin’s address in Brussels and said the cousin would take me in if we wanted to stay with him a while).
It was then on to Gorby’s, a funky progressive dance club, until 2 in the morning. I got quite hoisted drinking Guinness with black currant and Bulmer’s alcohol apple cider. We had a great time dancing for hours in the lights and smoke machines to the beat of 60s, 70s, and 80s music. The hip Cork scene loved music from The Rolling Stones, Beatles, Eric Clapton, Earth Wind & Fire, Blondie, and their kin.
A party then migrated back to 67 Barrack Street where about 15 people hung out with loud music for about an hour more. Jon went to sleep upstairs around 3:30, but he got a rather unexpected attempt at an evening tuck in when one of the housemates called him into her room. She greeted him in fully naked recline, with comely eyes and nothing particularly subtle about what she wanted, saying she wanted to shag. He declined the offer with a quick kiss, using his best international diplomacy. Meanwhile, I hung out with Fiona and Fergy until about 5:45, talking about this and that. Fergy told me a great local knowledge. He knows some guys who have worked at Blarney Castle. Apparently, after hours, the guys who work there climb up to the top of the castle and take a piss on the Blarney Stone! Yup, the same Blarney Stone that tourists pay to lay down on their backs and kiss with their lips.
Saturday September 10, 1994
Saturday morning came quick. But Jon and I had already convinced the housemate trio to join us in a trip to Blarney Castle. Practically none of the Irish we talked to had ever even gone there, yet alone kissed the pissed-on Blarney Stone. Even though it was incredibly touristy, we dragged them along and we all had a good time… except for a brief period for Brenda, when her fear of heights got the best of her on the easily defendable-from-above steep spiral stairways that had no railings and were more like climbing slick rock ladders than stairs.
The castle’s size and layout were impressive, with large stone halls, winding passageways, and “murder holes” for hiding soldiers above in the ceilings of hallways, a chapel, bedrooms, and even dungeons. In one of the unlit dungeons I saw a hole in the wall. I got out my mini-flashlight and crouched down low to see inside. It went on so I went in. I crawled through the roughly hewn tunnel, occasionally responding to “What do you see?” yells from Fiona back in the dungeon. After crawling about 100 feet, it dead-ended into a small area about 12 feet tall. Who knows what it was for, but it was a nice spooky finale to the walk around the castle. Kissing the Blarney Stone was no big deal. Lining up in the tourist herd line and kissing the smooth stone was downright corny, in fact. Aliens from outer space looking down on this ritual would have scratched their heads for a long time. But it was the one thing that when everybody in the US asked me “so, did you kiss the Blarney Stone?” I could answer “yes”.
After touring the grounds, we all went back into Cork to a very good sandwich restaurant called Long Valley. After my love for ice cream became known, we went to Ginos and I dutifully ate one of their specialties: Death By Chocolate. The group returned to 67 Barracks Street, exchanged hugs and addresses, and Jon and I went off heading west. They invited us to come back this Friday for some more partying before we left the country.
We did a little sightseeing drive around Cork – including St. Finbarr’s Cathedral – and took an accidental left to Fermoy instead of straight toward Youghal. I also accidentally hit a curb on the outside of a roundabout. When I pulled over to check for any damage, Patricia from Fermoy popped out of nowhere behind us and asked for a ride. We obliged, and she recommended an out of the way local pub on the coast in Ring called Mooney’s. It had authentic traditional Irish music sessions by locals on Saturday nights.
After dropping Patricia off in Fermoy and briefly stopping at Lismore Castle in Lismore, we traveled southeast towards Dungarvan and on to Ring. We found a b&b on a side road owned by a “separated” mother (not divorced, since that’s illegal). Her name was Siobhan (pronounced “shivawn”, the equivalent of Joan in English), and her b&b was called Cois Farraige (pronounced “cosh faraguh”, meaning “by the sea”).
After having our stuff put into an unlocked room, we backtracked a mile or so to Moonies. The music hadn’t started yet, so we drove into Dungarvan to get some greasy Irish fast food. The music had started by the time we returned. It was off in a back corner and very few people were actually paying any attention. More were watching the soccer and boxing on TV (including Jon), but I leaned up against the wall with a Guinness and took in the tunes. The music incorporated different combinations of violin, wooden flute, penny whistle, drum, bagpipes, guitar, and vocals among four performers.
I eventually hooked up again with Jon, who was already laughing and goofing around with the brothers Eion and Colin, Katherine, and Brefany. Eion worked at a fish canning factory and wore a knit cap over his dark curly hair; Colin worked as a machinist. Brefany was the 17 year old pretty daughter of the pub’s owner who immaturely acted like she hated Americans yet was very interested in us, wore American clothes, listened to American music, watched American movies, and wanted to “move to America and become a model”. After we closed the pub down, Eion invited Jon and I to join him and his brother at his house for some more drinking and hanging out. Brefany stopped by later when Jon took me back to the b&b since I was getting tired. Eion’s house rivaled 67 Barrack Street in dirt and grime: the front entrance greeted us with a grungy freestanding toilet, the house smelled like his puppy Bull, and old pictures of naked women adorned the refrigerator. Yet cheaply framed pencil drawings of his hung on the walls and his first attempts at watercolors laid on the kitchen table.
Sunday September 11, 1994
We spent early Sunday morning talking to Siobhan over the same classic b&b breakfast that we have received at every other b&b. Jon claimed that she had the noticeable hots for me, and that she kept looking at my butt, but I didn’t notice and we had a fun conversation. She was especially interested in gossipy things and in what we did as a profession. It had been amusing answering the question ‘what do you do for a living?’ Quizzical looks usually followed the “human factors engineer and aerospace physiologist” answer.
Heading out past Dungarvan, we sidetracked to Mahon Falls. The falls cascaded down rocks over a several hundred foot drop, beginning in wet grasslands above where sheep grazed and ending in a river that cut through a valley (where yet more sheep grazed). Upon walking the trail, Jon hooked up with an old man stoned on drugs. He had long dreadlocks that looked like the hair was intertwined with fragments from bird nests, and his clothing was very earthy and dirty. I hooked up with Rain, an ex-social worker from South Africa who worked with poor black children in the townships. Her grandmother was a wealthy and staunch racist who disapproved of Rain’s work, so Rain told she would stop working if her grandmother would give her money to travel. Her racist grandmother didn’t know that Rain would be returning to South Africa after she finished traveling by the next February, though.
Rain and the dreadlocked druggie were traveling around together through Ireland, as were the rest of the group: the druggie’s two wives, a kid from each wife, and an elderly lady in conservative dress. They all traveled together crammed into one small car, and their interconnections were mysterious. The one wife said they had traveled for 10 years throughout North America and only spent $200 on food throughout that entire period. The fine-to-eat things once could find in Safeway dumpsters was apparently amazing, and she got her gear from the trash of camping equipment stores (for example, Jansport backpacks had a lifetime warranty and were thrown away if they were returned with just a broken zipper, and she had a top-of-the-line down sleeping bag because it had a minor tear in it). They were part of a subculture well beyond the touch of social security numbers, taxes, and accountability.
Mahon Falls was very pretty, splashing down under gray clouds. Jon and I bushwhacked our own trail up the steep slopes on the right of the falls to the grassy lands above. Druggie man told us that there was a lake up there, but it must have been an altered reality lake because we just found streams and more sheep.
They were also very adamant about the Mysterious Gravity Spot located by the tree on the right a few hundred yards before the livestock gate. Apparently, if you stopped and put your car in neutral near there, your car would accelerate uphill. They said they had to slam on their brakes when they were passing 40 miles per hour because they were still accelerating. The spot had been “studied by scientists from Japan” and they couldn’t figure it out. We, of course, had to try it. Just in case, you know. We, of course, rolled down the hill by the force of gravity. We, of course, felt only slightly more ridiculous than standing in line to kiss the piss-covered Blarney Stone. Strangely enough, we saw three other cars try the same thing. Local legend producers must have been sitting up in the surrounding hills laughing their asses off.
We were then off toward Dublin again, but we stopped near Thomastown at Jerpoint Abbey. The abbey was partially in ruins, but was complete enough to get a feel for its entire layout and some of its original ornamentation. It was built in the 1100s and still has occasional burials; anyone with an ancestor there had the right to be buried there. According to legend, the body of St. Nicholas (aka Santa Claus) was retrieved during the Crusades and transplanted to a marked grave near the abbey. Jon and I jumped in with a tour group and learned some about the monks’ lives: basically austere, primitive, repetitive, and generally unappealing overall.
We made some miles toward Carlow and ended up staying at some modern generic b&b called Ballygarven. I could tell beforehand that it would likely be uninteresting as soon as we approached: it was big, clean, near the main road, and accepted all kinds of credit cards. Bad signs if one liked unusual b&bs, but Jon wanted to get off the road and into some relaxing. So we stayed overnight. It was just a comfortable place to stay with a hostess who talked to us with one foot out the door trying to get away and back to her personal business. Basically a b&b cut from the Holiday Inn mold.
We ate that night in Carlow at one of the only places still open: the Café Roma mostly-fast-food-joint. I ordered chips (french fries) with curry sauce, salmon salad, hot milk, and lemon delite (lemon Italian ice, with the rind of a real lemon acting as its cup). The lighting was good and the table was large, so we tried to catch up on our journal writing.
Monday September 12, 1994
The next morning we cornered the hostess and her husband in the kitchen, and they actually talked with us. We discussed Northern Ireland, the recent crash of a plane into the White House, the IRA and its lack of being in touch with the majority of Irish people, the nice people in the North, and the North’s politics of power and money.
Dublin was our next destination, so we again made miles, with a stopover in Naas to get some of our traveler’s checks exchanged. At the bank, Jon met the grandfather of someone he knew in the US Navy.
Dublin reminded me of a city, plain and simple. Cities around the world have grown to be more homogeneous in their industrialism, housing, shops, and commercial districts. I was reminded of areas of DC such as Georgetown, but with a European twist. The streets were wider than those in the rural areas of southern Ireland. Also, there was a considerable amount of building construction, with overarching sky cranes spread across the city horizon. There wasn’t much of immediate interest, though, so we just kept on going. Dublin was supposed to have some nice sections and good historical buildings, but they seemed very organized, packaged, and bland compared to Ireland’s offerings around the countryside.
Jon and I made the decision to crank out some serious miles (for Ireland, that was) and traveled up into Northern Ireland. The connections between Dublin and Belfast was a high speed wide motorway with industrialized and urban stretches. Traffic and planned housing communities provided a direct contrast to the rural remoteness of Ireland’s south.
We were not sure what to expect when crossing the border into northern Ireland. We had heard stories of hassling by border guards and car searches. Both Jon and I got our passports out and ready since we figured we would need them whatever the case. For some unknown reason, Jon had to pee quite frequently on the trip, and he had one of his infamous pee attacks as we were approaching the border. So, we pulled into a gas station. When I asked how far it was to Northern Ireland, the man replied, “Oh, you’re in Northern Ireland. The border was just a couple hundred yards back.” Ok, so the border was not only very open, but we didn’t even know we had crossed it.
However, there was a military checkpoint about 4 miles up the road, but we were just waved through by the traffic guard (standing by the other guard shouldering a grenade launcher). All the guards (and even the police!) carried automatic weapons; most had flak jackets and other gear. The fortified facilities had automatic posts that rose out of the ground to block the roads, if needed, and there were tire shredders in the pavement to prevent cars from going the wrong way.
Some differences between South and North were immediately apparent. Both the cars and the roads were larger and more American-like in the North. There were fences all over the place. And the infamous yellow “Control Zone” signs were in front of all the shops, official buildings, and high traffic areas. Unattended vehicles left parked in control zones were subject to being exploded by a bomb squad (and this has frequently happened, including many innocent cars). I saw an exploded van on the back of a flatbed tow truck. Control zones tended to make parking difficult. It was an unusual sight for an American to see a busy shopping district street where ALL the cars lining the curbs had at least one person sitting inside. As long as someone was in the car, the car was considered “attended” and not subject to a visit from the bomb squad.
From a local’s recommendation, we ate at Strings Restaurant in Banbridge. I finally sampled Irish stew (excellent), and I also had a toasted ham & cheese sandwich, side salad, and chocolate milk shake. Good food, good prices, good recommendation.
Soon began the most difficult search yet: we tried to find the Legananny Dolmen. Dolmens were ancient tombs constructed of three vertical stones with one slab stone capped on top across the other three. They were up to 5000 years old, and Legananny supposedly offered one of the better remaining examples. The dirt mound which covered it had long ago eroded away, leaving only the basic rock structure. Even the locals didn’t know where it was, and this was in there hometown. All I knew about it was its general location on the eastern slopes of Slieve Croob. Finally after speaking with numerous folks, a local truck driver knew approximately were it was located. So Jon and I went winding through back roads and even almost got our car stuck in a rutted pasture road trying to find it. We finally did find it on a farmer’s land with his fence diverted around it. Jon was rather unimpressed with the pile of rocks, especially after our long and convoluted search. I think he was getting too accustomed to mammoth castles; a few rocks stacked out in a field were not his idea of a “great find”. I had very much wanted to see a dolmen, though, and the journey added to the destination.
We then went from the remote Legananny Dolmen extreme to the other extreme of congested and decayed Belfast. American media had painted such a lopsidedly violent picture of the city that we didn’t know what to expect. It was dreary and bombed-out looking, with numerous dilapidated and unused buildings of all kinds. Control zones and “urban clearways” were everywhere as were high fences and barriers. However, the city looked to be thriving during the day with many shops and businesses bustling. The city was fairly devoid of people in the after business hours, though.
Like Dublin, nothing jumped out as being particularly interesting or worth a stopover, so we continued north to Carrickfergus and stood outside the walls of Carrickfergus Castle. The Joymount Arms pub offered Guinness and tables for writing our journals, so we stayed a while. A bit seedy, but just fine for what we needed. We spent the night at the Marina Guest House, which we later dubbed the “DMZ B&B” because of its deserted streets, wandering youths, rundown houses, and police carrying automatic weapons. The beds were very squishy and old; my butt sank all the way through the “mattress” and pressed into the box springs. Fortunately it caused only a slight pain in my back the next day.
Tuesday September 13, 1994
The next morning, we woke to another heart disease special breakfast. It’s good that this was a rare anomaly in my diet. Jon and I headed over a few blocks back to Carrickfergus Castle during its open hours. We learned more there than at any of our other stops because of its good condition, extensive and informative signs, and a well done movie about life at the castle hundreds of years ago. It looked cold, wet, and either monotonous (in peace) or violent (in battle). We spent hours there.
Jon and I started up a conversation with the cashier Rhonda, and Jon invited her to join us for lunch. Rhonda recommended we go to the Dobbins Inn Hotel, where I had a chicken and peaches sandwich. We joked around a lot and volume probably surpassed the sound coming from all the other patrons combined, but no one seemed to mind.
Our next trek: searching for the Round Tower in Antrium. Although it took a bit of asking around, this was much easier than finding the dolmen. Round towers looked like tall thin silos, except that this one was 90 feet tall with rock walls 4 feet thick. They were used by monks in the event of an attack by outsiders; the monks would climb up a ladder into a doorway located about 12 feet above the ground, pull the ladder up after them, and bar the door behind them to hopefully wait out the raid (or less hopefully provide defense from the tower). The door in the tower was open (a locked door had been broken away by vandals), so Jon and I did some low key rock climbing up the side of the tower and got inside. Whatever structure had existed inside was completely gone. Small windows along its sides dimly lit the interior all the way up to its enclosed roof.
Our route took us to the northeast coast through rocky cliffs and lush green stone-walled fields north of Larne on A2. Sections of that coastline are as beautiful as the southeast coast, but with a different flavor of more massive cliffs and more modernized farms. We pulled into Ballycastle and drove past several B&Bs, finally deciding on one run by an elderly widow on Quay Street called Ammiroy House.
Jon was not feeling well, so he slept while I went on a post-rain run around town. The exercise felt good, very good. After checking out the center of town, I ran back to the coast and found a rocky path built into the coastal cliffs along Ballycastle Bay. It offered beautiful, moody panoramas of Rathlin Island. At the path’s apparent end, I climbed down onto the rocks and stood there by the crashing waves, breathing it all in and smiling.
After returning to the b&b and showering, Jon and I went to a local restaurant recommended by the b&b’s owner: The Strand Restaurant perched by the bay. We had the best food on the trip so far at the Strand, and my fresh salmon was possibly the best salmon I have ever had anywhere. We talked for a long time, via broken English, with Helmwood from Germany. He was a quiet unassuming man touring Scotland and Ireland alone for three weeks. We talked past the time the restaurant normally closed, but the owner hung around and let us talk. After Helmwood left, we talked a while with the owner about the Northern Ireland political situation. He believed that the IRA was essentially controlled by gangsterism and money, and he would be surprised if the “cease fire” actually held because of all the selfish interests involved. The majority of Irish people didn’t support it and just wanted it all to stop, in his opinion.
Wednesday September 14, 1994
It was a great day for seeing castles and a few famous spots. Our first stop was at Kinbane Castle on Kinbane Head north of Ballycastle. The crumbling remains of the castle were very impressive: high on a windswept rock protected on all sides by sheer height with the sea to one side and a headland to the other. Only one central fortification and the bases of walls remained, but it was an impressive location.
Further around the coast near Ballintoy, the Carrick-a-rede rope bridge was a lot of fun to walk across. Every spring, local salmon fishermen erected a rope bridge across a 66 foot divide that spanned 80 feet above the rocks and water below. There were ropes on each side and two small planks to walk upon. The wind was really whipping, so the bridge shook and buckled as we crossed. One lady turned to me and asked “Are you going to cross that thing? I wouldn’t go across it for a million pounds”. It wasn’t bad as long as one didn’t have a fear of heights and hung tightly onto the ropes. So, of course we dared each other to walk across without holding onto the ropes, which we both did. Once across, we saw where the salmon nets were strung from a cliff out to floating buoy.
Near Currysheskin, we saw Dunseverick Castle up on its protected promontory from a distance. Only a few sections of walls remain now, even though its was once one of Ireland’s most important and politically powerful castles.
The North’s big tourist attraction, The Giant’s Causeway, was interesting and crowded (relatively speaking). The causeway is a very unusual and visually interesting grouping of hexagonal stone vertical columns bunched up against each other flowing from the mainland into the sea. Jon and I hiked along the cliff top trail first and then took the trail down to near sea level, backtracking to main part of the formations.
Upon returning we hooked up with Mary, an attractive, intelligent, and generally delightful woman who worked at the Causeway’s visitor center for The National Trust organization. We had talked to her beforehand and Jon asked her to join us in the coffee shop for some drinks and snacks. She previously worked as a cancer medical researcher and was currently in her fourth year of an advanced medical degree. She was wheelchair-bound, and she explained how she was shot by a gunman in the 1970s when she was 18. The only reason she was shot: she was walking on the Catholic side of the street and the gunmen were Protestant. She was paralyzed ever since. It was a disturbing and quieting experience to see the face of Northern Ireland’s violence sitting at our own table. And her wonderful personality reinforced the senselessness in it all.
Mary also told us about a time when she needed to leave her car parked in a control zone unattended. She informed the police and army of her intention, and they said “Fine. No problem.” When she returned an hour later, the block was cordoned off and a robot explosives device was rolling toward her car to blow it up. She went off yelling at everyone to stop, and the situation was defused (sorry about the pun).
Continuing a little further around the northeast coast to Port Ballintrae, we visited Dunluce Castle. Dunluce had many of its walls at least partially intact, so the size and layouts could be easily perceived. It consisted of two sections: a main fortress on a rock bluff and a second classic castle-like area on the mainland. Both areas were at one time connected by a moveable drawbridge. The castle’s rock promontory was also unusual in that a large cavern opened facing the mainland at a height of about 8 feet. The cavern then steadily expanded through the bluff’s entire length until it was over 60 feet tall as it opened toward the sea. Dunluce was a fun place to explore because of all these unique features.
Since we had no pounds sterling and the banks were closed, we found a nice lady at a supermarket who made an exchange for our Irish punts from the south. We then set to look for food and lodging, driving around Limavady searching for something open for food. The Alexander Arms met our three qualifications: 1) it was open, 2) it was where we were, and 3) it was open. By chance, the upper floors of the restaurant were rooms for a b&b. I ordered plaice (local fish), chips, peas, salad garni, and cheesecake. The cheesecake was my second one here in Ireland, and they both tasted like frothy whipped cream. OK, but American cheesecake had more flavor and pizzazz. We unloaded our gear into room 7, and I finished the evening in the basement pub by finally catching up in this journal.
I just walked upstairs from the pub. There is a live band and a party directly below our room. The music is so loud that the bass is vibrating the soles of my shoes. Great… The walking space in the room is so small between the beds that two legs barely fit between them, and the rest of the room is crammed with chairs and luggage. Not exactly five star b&b here tonight, folks. Even the fire exits are blocked by high stacks of chairs.
Thursday September 15, 1994
At least the Alexander Arms had hot water with decent pressure. Most places around Ireland did not seem to have hot water running to the showers. Instead, they had wall-mounted water heaters on the walls of the showers, which heated the incoming cold water. Separate controls were provided for water pressure and temperature, although I think the only settings were “off” and “pretty close to off”. Since the pressure and flow was generally negligible, hair rinsing was a long drawn out affair.
The standard monotonous breakfasts had finally become completely sickening. I didn’t even touch the sausage or eggs at the prior day’s breakfast, and this day I only ate cornflake cereal and toast with orange juice. There was only so much greasy messy I could be forced to chew on.
Over breakfast, I read in one of my books that Cookstown was “Northern Ireland at its most forbidding”, had regular bomb scares, and the streets were heavily guarded by army posts. So, Jon wanted to go and see the soldiers. Belfast was very tame and he was looking for more. We packed up and headed south from Limavady towards Cookstown. Stopping at a small rural grocery store along the way, the clerk reconfirmed our observations that the US media latched onto the violence and politics of Northern Ireland, thereby creating a distorted image of a war-torn country under steady random battle. We continued on towards Cookstown.
As we approached the town’s main road, we noticed heavy metal swing-away barriers that could be used to block off and secure roadways. Traveling into Cookstown, we were waived through a fortified solid metal guard house protected by fencing. The guard, though heavily armed, wore a beret instead of a helmet because of the proposed peace settlement going on now. Random acts of violence had continued over the prior week, but they had been more subdued and the IRA had (so far) held back from retaliating.
Passing through the checkpoint, which was located directly in the middle of the town’s main business street, we drove through the small town hustle and bustle. We passed the headquarters for the army’s Company C, protected by 20 foot high fences and metal walls. Another checkpoint was located at the other end of the main street. Except for the displays of military presence, little was unusual about the town. No roving patrols or armored vehicles, just shoppers and families with extra tension in the air…
Since we were so far north that morning, we decided to start taking big chunks of driving distances to get us closer to Shannon. Unfortunately, this trip was nearing its planned end; our flight back home was leaving in less than two days. Jon was worried about my habit of cutting time very close in arriving at airports, so he had been very adamant in getting to the Shannon area by the next evening. The owner of the b&b we were in that night told us of some good music at Dirty Nelly’s near Bunratty, so that gave me some extra incentive, too.
We traveled due west and ate lunch at The Pink Elephant café in Omagh. The smoke from a nearby smoker bothered Jon’s eyes, so he went outside to walk around while I finished my sandwich. I was joined by Damien, a local woodworker who was not working today because he could only find about three days of work per week. I had trouble understanding some of his thick Irish way of speaking, but we understood each other well enough to compare notes. Damien was especially in my other travels, American movies, and heavy metal bands.
Our big destination for the day was Devenish Island in Lough Erne north of Enniskillen. We arrived at the docks and were the only people taken over to the island by the ferry operator. In fact, the ferry operator hopped off behind us, tied it up, and continued with some grass mowing around the island’s ruins. Devenish Island had a great deal of historical interest to offer in one place. On it are the ruins of a church, abbey, graveyard, and associated buildings, with the bonus addition of an extremely well preserved and intact round tower. The church and abbey would have been better preserved except that people gradually took the buildings apart stone by stone over the years for their own building materials or ship ballast. They sometimes even took and used gravestones.
From Enniskillen, it was only about 15 miles to the north/south border. This time we were pulled over by a garda (policeman), but he let us go as soon as he heard our American accents and asked where we were going.
We continued due west toward Sligo, detouring to see Glencar Waterfall near Gurfeen. The falls were not nearly as high as the other falls we had seen cascading down cliffs from above, but the falls were extremely pretty and Eden-like. The main length of the falls cascaded straight down into a round pool below, sending up a mild roar and fine mist in the air everywhere.
Continuing west to Ballina, we found an open restaurant. There weren’t many restaurants and even fewer were open around there; pubs seemed to be Ireland’s main industry given their frequency and open doors. In Jordy’s restaurant, I got a “Florida burger”, chips, and a side salad. The salad was again very different from American salads: it had potato salad, cole slaw, beets, corn, and other things mixed in.
We pulled into the Mountain View B&B that night. Since it was dark when we arrived, I hadn’t yet vouched for the veracity of its name. I had a case of the sniffles, so it appeared that Jon relayed his bug to me. However, the symptoms were limited to only a runny nose, so it hadn’t affected my good vacation state of mind.
Friday September 16, 1994
Westport was our base from which to drive around the western coast some more and explore the Connemara region. Breakfast was again limited for healthy diet reasons, so I had cornflakes and, for the first time, beans on toast.
We headed west to make a loop by Croagh Patrick Mountain and through the Sheelfry Hills and Mweelrea Mountains. This took us through Murrisk and Louisburgh, then south through Delphi and Ben Gorm to Leenane. Leenane was the town where the movie “The Field” was filmed, with Richard Harris and John Hurt. The local pub had pictures from the production, and it is still a big thing for the small town that it was filmed there. Leenane was also our entrance to Connemara country.
Connemara was beautiful, with moving patterns of sunlight projecting through breaks in the puffy clouds and sliding across the grass and flower covered faces of steep, sheep-specked hills. Sodden, boggy land was everywhere, with occasional serene lakes or small, self-sustaining forests. Piles of small peat blocks were stacked by farmers to be trucked out later, first cut from the ground and wheelbarrowed away by hand.
Kylemore Abbey, east of Letterfrack, was our first stop. The abbey was a huge, castle-like mansion situated on the tree-lined shores of Kylemore Lough. It was designed and erected in the mid-1800s by a wealthy English businessman who came to the area on his honeymoon and loved it so much that he came back to build and live in his mansion. In the 1920s, it was bought and converted to an abbey for a Benedictine order of nuns. The nuns still lived there, and they ran an exclusive school for girls, as well as a few small shops. A small but incredibly ornate, cathedral-like church had also been built on the grounds. We got to go inside even though it was in the process of being restored.
I wanted to see Rinvyle Castle out on Rinvyle Point near Cashleen, so we sidetracked out there. I didn’t know anything about it beforehand, but I had an urge. The majority of the castle was in ruins but about half of its main fortification stood. The castle had crumbled over the years in an unusual way that was different from all the other ruin castles we saw around Ireland. Most had no ceilings or floors left and crumbled from the wall tops down. Rinvyle, however, was practically cut in half across the diagonal of its square foundation. All of its interior was exposed, and some of the arched ceilings hung out over the open ground 40 feet below. Even the stone spiral staircase was destroyed from below, but somehow the upper steps remained suspended in air, continuing the spiral to the upper floors.
Getting hungry, we stopped at Ireland’s seemingly most unfriendly town: Clifden. I had a nondescript raw salmon sandwich at a deserted pub/restaurant, served nonchalantly by some ladies who were more interested in smoking than serving. Other people in town continued the tradition, so we boogied out of there.
Jon really really wanted us to be near the airport Friday night for our flight out the next afternoon, so we started making miles again. We drove through more of Connemara via Recess and Maam Cross, then south by larger roads through Galway and Ennis to Shannon. We had completed one huge loop of the entire island, including both the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland.
Jon and I easily found Dusty Nelly’s pub by Bunratty Castle, but all the b&bs for miles around were booked. The reason: same as ours. People were staying over near Shannon for flights out to other countries on Saturday (apparently a primary travel day from Shannon). We ended up at a b&b just north of Limerick, where the very professional and competent young children were in charge because their parents had gone out.
During the evening, my cold had gotten unruly, and neither of us were inclined to drive back up to the hustle and bustle of Dirty Nelly’s. So we instead went to an expensive restaurant nearby, Greenhill’s, to get some fatty lamb, rude service, and my plate taken away while I was at the bathroom but not yet finished my meal. Bad service seemed to have been the rule that day. However, our meal experience was enlivened considerably by the man sitting alone at the table next to us. He was a wealthy 75 year old man from Palm Springs who was on vacation alone because his wife’s arthritis was too bad for her to accompany him. He, however, was an extremely active man who took up sculpture when he retired and was selling his pieces for up to $5,000 a piece. We talked about art and photography, his experiences as a Navy engineer in World War II, his travels, our travels, life in general, his daughter who was a Hollywood actress, and all our past and present professions. A nice, enjoyable, fun man.
Saturday September 17, 1994
Our last day in Ireland for this trip, mostly just wrapping up the loose ends of travel: packing, dealing with the rental car, standing in long check-in lines, getting our Value Added Tax (VAT) money returned, exchanging Irish for American money, going through a customs pre-inspection, and getting on the plane in plenty of time.
One very pleasant surprise: Alison from Barrack Street. She was visiting her mother nearby outside of Limerick (just a few miles from last night’s b&b) and she actually came to the airport and tracked us down. Jon had left his travel orders at her flat, and she politely handed them over. What a great final flourish of Irish friendliness! We asked Alison and her mother to join us for coffee and a snack, and we reiterated our “care package” list of American food goodies to send to the Barrack Street trio. We followed through on that later, and they must have been stuffed from all the exotic junk food in that box.
We flew out over the stone-fenced green fields, the lakes, the low rolling hills, and finally the coast to the Atlantic. Jon stuck out a pouting lip and waved goodbye. He was talking about his next trip here ever since we arrived. It was a fun journey through a pretty and friendly country. Ireland’s remoter areas beckon for more thorough exploration someday. After more trips to other parts of the world, I’ll have even more to compare with the beauty and contradictions of Ireland.