Peg-o-Leg's Ramblings

Somewhere in Dublin. Just try to find a street sign – I double-dog dare you.

It was Monday, after 5, and our last day in Ireland.

We zipped along for about 10 miles toward Dublin on one of the few stretches of true highway in Ireland. And, of course, whenever you have true highway, you know that true construction is just around the corner. And it was. So it was crawl and creep and bumper-to-bumper and temporary signs that pointed every which way for M4 and M1 and N1 a bunch of other road names that all looked the same at high speed. We had purchased an actual map of Dublin so we figured we were much better off than when we had driven in the first day. We figured wrong.

We got into the city, but it was damn near impossible to figure out where we were on the map. As mentioned eons ago, there aren’t any street signs, and the street names change every couple of blocks anyway. Even keeping our eyes peeled and knowing kind of where we were, we got lost several times before finally making it back to our hotel.

Our package deal had included 6 nights at a nice Dublin hotel, so we had left half our stuff there while we drove around Ireland. It was, thankfully, all still in the room when we got back. We tossed our luggage on the beds and hurried out to enjoy our last night in Ireland.

By now we knew where we were going without a map – back to Grafton Street for some last minute, desperate shopping. But it was around 7, and most of the shops were closed that Monday night.

We found an open music store and bought some compilation CDs of traditional Irish music, which turned out to be lousy. I also picked up a CD for Gwen of a pop Irish singer whom we had heard on the radio that day. Can’t believe I remembered the song lyrics, or that the helpful, multi-pierced, blue-haired young woman who waited on me actually knew whom I meant!

The Trinity College store was closed, so no hoodie as planned for Liz. There was a very brightly lit, everything- green tourist store that was open until 8, so we ducked in and picked up a few things before they kicked us out.

Starving by now, we wandered down the dark, narrow streets looking for a place for dinner. We settled on Italian.

Dinner was yummy, and so was the waiter.

I know, I know! Our last night in Ireland should be all about black pudding and mutton, but I didn’t put up too much of a fight when Lib suggested this dimly lit, sophisticated little place. We got a table by the window, dropped our packages on the floor, and our tired bottoms into the chairs and ordered some wine.

Remember that commercial that has the girl friends reminiscing over their instant coffee about the hunky waiter they met on their trip “What was his name? Oh yes” they cry in unison, “Jean Luc!” And they elbow one another while giggling suggestively, all the while keeping their cups of instant coffee prominently displayed?

Well that’s the kind of waiter we had. Except his name wasn’t Jean Luc since our hunk was from Spain, not France. I can’t remember his name, actually. Was it Jesus Luc? He was a charming, dark haired Latin lover type – very interesting, which was surprising. Usually someone who is blessed with model-like looks doesn’t bother to develop any other attributes like humor or charm – they don’t need to. He told how he had lived in many countries, usually those that speak English or Spanish. He liked to move every couple of years so he could experience as much of the world as possible. He had lived in New York, and had traveled across the US to California.

We split a salad and an entrée – I don’t remember what, but it was good. Then we gathered our bags and headed out into the night in search of craic, with a fond look back at Gorge Luc, or whatever.

So you may see Lib and I elbowing one another over our flavored coffees and simpering “what was that waiter’s name?” Except neither of us remembers it, so that’s the end of that commercial.

Any tourist to Dublin has to visit the Temple Bar area – that’s where the nightlife is. Or so we heard. So we moseyed down with only a few references to the map. There were taverns, bars, clubs and pubs all jammed together. The joint was jumping and it was past 9 on a Monday! We found a pub with a singer and somehow snagged a couple of stools right next to the guy. After getting a pint o Smithwicks for Lib and a snifter of Irish Mist for me, we were all set up.

The singer was probably in his late 50s. He played the guitar and sang a mix of Irish and American songs, some Bob Dylan, some traditional. He was really good. One song was a combination of 2 songs that included “Hey Sinner Man” – remember that from Camp Oak Hills? At the break I told him I knew that song. He wasn’t impressed. We asked for Danny Boy and he said, “I won’t play that shite!” In retrospect he sounds like a jerk, but he was kind of funny, and the man could sing.

We were quite a distance away from our hotel by now – more than a mile. I figured that we could take the bus back. They stopped running around 11:30, however, so we had to get going. So after a few beverages we picked up purses, packages and coats and headed out into the inky night.

I was pretty sure I knew what number bus would take us close to the hotel. The only problem was, I didn’t know where to pick it up. So we started walking south and east, looking at every bus stop for the right number. We weren’t having any luck. I thought the street by Trinity College had all the bus stops so we headed over there. By this time, we both had to go to the bathroom, rather urgently. We walked south on College St. Still no luck. Then we headed north. That was the opposite of the direction we needed to go, but I figured one of the many bus stops HAD to be ours.

We figured we could find a pub and use the bathroom, and we would miss the last bus. Or keep walking to try to find the correct bus stop and hold on until the hotel. The choice was taken out of our hands, however, because there weren’t any pubs or open businesses anywhere in sight. Just miles of dark streets, punctuated by thousands of bus stops, none of them the one we needed. There were only a few people on the quiet street – Dublin had closed up for the night.

“Weren’t you scared?” you ask, like that toady in those great old Commander McBragg cartoons. But we weren’t scared. Not us. Maybe it was because we felt a kinship with the sleeping city. Maybe we too wrapped up in our emotional goodbyes to even think of danger? Well, kinda. But mostly we had to pee so badly, we couldn’t think of anything else.

Every step was agony; every fiber of our beings concentrated like a laser beam on not soiling ourselves. Poor Lib was crying yellow tears. With real Christian charity I did not comment on the wisdom (or lack thereof) of certain persons downing way too many pints at the pub. I wasn’t much better off myself. It looked like we might wrap up our magical visit to the olde country by baptizing the streets of Dublin.

We found the right bus stop with minutes to spare. The old #71 came out of the mist like a hero out of a legend, riding up to rescue us two damsels in (bladder) distress. We caught the last bus of the night. Our ordeal was not over, however, as we keenly felt every bump. But the good old #71 was swift and true. I recognized the stop just 2 blocks before our hotel and we hopped out and walked as quickly as possible toward the welcoming lights, discussing tactics. Was there a public restroom in the lobby, did Lib remember? Would we have to go all the way up to our room on the 4th floor? Could we make it down that long corridor?

As we turned into the driveway, we saw there was a bus stop right in front of the building. I hadn’t noticed that one before. Sorry! Lib only beat me half-heartedly with her shopping bags, as she didn’t want to slow the pace.

Delicacy prevents me from going into much detail. Suffice it to say we made it in time. (Note to Burlington Hotel: Have you considered the wisdom of placing restrooms at the FRONT of the lobby, instead of way in the BACK, down a twisting hall by the conference rooms? I mean, really!)

Back in the room we got showered, packed and hopped into bed because our flight left before 9 in the morning. We lay in our twin beds talking about our experiences until we forced ourselves to get to sleep.

The next day we were up early and in our little rental car with the dawn. We hadn’t much time and had to assume the worst about Dublin traffic. We had conferred with the concierge on the best way to get to the airport, had studied the maps and were pretty confident we knew where we were going. The road ran parallel with one of the canals and there was a swan swimming in one. Traffic was already heavy and we were stopped by a traffic light every block or so. We decided to take the tunnel that ran from Dublin Harbor, under the city and out most of the way to the airport. It was a little hairy over by the docks with the big trucks and roundabouts every block, but what a difference a week makes! We were as cool as natives by now – Lib navigating and me driving. We made it around the airport and back to the Hertz lot without mishap. We zipped through the car check-in process and were seated on the Hertz minibus to the airport with time to spare.

What happened next was all my fault. As the little bus bumped over the potholes and around the construction cones on the way to the terminal (is every airport always under construction??), I thought: “That was easy! No mix-ups or delays, no car accidents on the way to the airport, no huge traffic delays. We’re going to get there with plenty of time to relax and have some breakfast, maybe look around the duty free shops.” I may even have said that aloud! Of course, you can’t thumb your nose at The Fates like that without paying. My arrogance jinxed everything.

We were dropped off at the curb, tipped our driver and wheeled our bags into the terminal. As she walked, Lib was looking through her stuff with increasing urgency. She stopped dead on the sidewalk at the door

“I don’t have my bag”. Lib pronounced with white-faced calm.

She actually had quite a few bags, as far as I could see, but what she meant was a small, thin, black envelope of a bag that she had worn round her neck for the whole trip. Not important except that it held her money, her credit cards, and her PASSPORT!

The important thing was to remain calm.

Actually, the really important thing was to FIND THE FRIGGIN’ BAG!

We wheeled up to the Hertz counter where 3 young men were trying to hustle customers. We explained our plight to one guy who put a call in to the lot office. He gave a description of the bag and the car we had just dropped off. I remembered that an idiot light had gone on that last day so the inspector was planning to send it in to the shop.

I went for a cup of coffee and we hung around the Hertz desk, trying not to think of the chances that the car had been sent off-site to be repaired, that the bag was somewhere in the car, that nobody had stolen it and the contents. One possible outcome would be that she would get her bag and passport back, but we might miss our flight. Would we end up like that Tom Hanks movie where he lives in the airport? I was wondering what sisterly loyalty required of me – should I stay here with Lib? Or was it every girl for herself, and come and visit me when you get back to the states?

Apparently The Travel Fates just wanted to have a spot of fun with us, not really mess us up, because after only about ½ hour, the helpful young counterman dashed out to the minibus platform and returned, Lib’s bag in hand. Everything was there! We weren’t going to miss our flight!

Lib gushed her thanks “I could just kiss you!” Now, this may have been merely an expression, but I don’t think so. Lib was, by this time, a bundle of nerves. And, after a week in country, a good 25% of her body fluids had been replaced with Smithwicks. She was also full of Quiet Man-induced lust hormones and her young rescuer was quite cute.

He smiled charmingly and diplomatically said, “That would be grand, but then all the other blokes would get jealous.” So she gave him a tip instead and we were on our way.

Lib was all for dashing straight to the gate, but I said we had plenty of time, and we still had to deal with the VAT.

As previously mentioned, Ireland seniors get pensions, free heat, phones and such. The unemployed get the dole. And it’s not cheap for the government to buy out the bankrupt Waterford plant so that they can give 250,000 Euros in severance pay to all the workers. To fund all these glorious schemes, they have a sales tax of around 21% (listen up, you Obama lovers) called the VAT.

Here’s how it works. If you live in a European Union country, you have to pay the tax on just about every good sold and service rendered. But that wouldn’t be fair to us Americans, because we’re not going to reap the harvest of EU socialism. So, in the interest of trade parity, we’re entitled to a refund on the tax we paid on goods (just goods, not food and services) that we’re taking out of the country. Several stores told us to keep our receipts and apply for the refund at the airport.

How hard could it be?

VAT stands for Very Annoying to Tourists.

Turns out there are several vendors who handle the VAT refunds. And they are not interchangeable. You have to identify, locate and deal with the specific vendor who handles the particular receipt you have. It was kind of like a treasure hunt, except without all the fun!

We found the first desk pretty handily, and the line wasn’t long. We were clutching fists-full of receipts but this place only handled one of mine. I filled out a form and got my refund of a whopping 3.23 euros. We didn’t know where to go next. The woman behind the counter had no idea where in the airport we had to go to get refunds for the other receipts. Yeah. Right. We discovered one kiosk two doors down from her, but apparently she had never noticed it before while working there EVERY DAY.

The next place had a long, long line so we skipped over it. We found the next vendor who didn’t have an actual counter with a body, surly or otherwise. They used a couple of little machines that looked like arcade games that electronically scan your receipts and credit your charge card. We approached this line to find out 2 of the 3 machines were out of service. There was another long line for the only working machine. It appeared “working” was a relative term, given the language emanating from the mouth of the person trying to get his refund processed.

By now Lib was tugging my arm out of my socket. “We have to get going – they said to allow plenty of time for customs and check in!”

“OK, OK” I consented with bad grace as we picked up the pace toward the international part of the terminal. I tried to slow down to at least catch a glimpse of the wonderful perfumes and luscious chocolates in the duty-free shops, but Lib seemed to resent even this bit of moseying, towing me like a tug with a barge. But, as occasionally happens, she was right.

We came around the corner to a huge, snaking line for customs forms. We found the tail of the snake and joined the queue. By this time there were about 40 minutes until our flight and the line didn’t seem to be moving very fast. But we got the forms completed, and were heading down the stairs with 15 minutes to spare. I was kidding Lib about worrying too much when we got to the bottom of the stairs.

Have you ever been to Disney World? You know how there’s a long line for Splash Mountain, but it doesn’t look too bad and it’s moving, so you join in? And its only after you’ve already traveled through miles of the line, and you’ve got 20 minutes invested in the process, that you turn a corner and discover that was just the antechamber of the line. The esophagus, if you will. Now you’re entering the belly of the beast, and there’s a whole gut full of line, folded back on itself like a huge, heaving mass of intestines. And the powerful muscles push you through, helpless as you make your way, oh so slowly, to your goal. There’s no way out except forward now. And you pray you don’t encounter an obstruction – a polyp in the process.

Apparently the same guy who designed the deceptive line system at Disney World had a hand in the Dublin Airport. Because we rounded a corner at the bottom of the stairs, expecting to come out at our gate, only to see the REAL line for customs. The Big Kahuna of lines. And there were no fun animatronics telling the story of Brer Rabbit to while away the time while you waited. We were so screwed. There was no way we were getting through this in time.

We slowly wended our way through the line. A bored looking woman in a Continental uniform called several names from a list of soon-to-be-departing flights, including ours. We raised our hands thankfully, sure we were going to be plucked from the line to make our flight. But she barely glanced at us; just checked our names off her list and went back out of the mass of humanity.

The guy at the customs booth was American, which I guess makes sense because we were applying to come back into the country. He passed us through and it was time to pull an O.J. Simpson. As in that commercial where he runs through the airport, not the part where he murders his wife.

We arrived, breathless, at the gate, the last passengers but for one desperate man waiting for his wife. The same sour-faced Continental employee who had tagged us in line was standing by the door and she said, in tones of utter indifference “Well, it looks like you’re going to make it after all.”

Yes! We had passed through the line, through the colon and had finally reached the asshole!

We got strapped safely into our miniscule economy class seats and smiled at one another, exhausted but happy. I’m so thankful that Lib had the inspiration to take this trip, and the determination to talk me into going with her. She was a wonderful travel companion. I couldn’t think of anyone with whom I would rather share the adventure.

The plan banked over the coast and we watched the lovely mountains of Connemara give way to the shore and then the ocean as we headed back to America. But little bits of our souls will always be there, among the rocks and green hills of our ancestral home.

Slan!

Peg

Maynooth College

Maynooth College

Sorry I haven’t written in a while. When last we left our intrepid travelers, they were enjoying a light lunch and conversation with an Athlone teacher.

After leaving the café, we navigated the narrow streets of Athlone, trying to get back to the main road. We passed a St. Vincent DePaul thrift store and, of course, just had to stop. I was thinking of how Frank McCourt had shopped at St. Vincent DePaul, and maybe his ma had been in this very store! Never mind that this was the wrong town. Once again, there were no priceless Irish antiques in the cramped, narrow store.

Lib went in search of a bathroom in the neighborhood as I finished my shopping. As I walked back to the car I heard a strange clinking sound. After about a block I looked around and discovered several baby outfits on hangers, hanging off my gigantic purse! They must have gotten snagged as I turned around in the narrow space.

I rushed back to the shop, giggling like an idiot. I was envisioning the perfect end to our trip, with me in the Athlone jail for stealing $2 worth of baby clothes from a charity store. I explained to the clerk what had happened as I hung up the clothes. I was embarrassed and red in the face, laughing and breathless as I joked about the American thief and the baby clothes. The old, toothless hag behind the counter just looked at me, expressionless. It occurred to me as I left that I might have finally found the one person in Ireland who spoke Irish, instead of English.

By now it was mid-afternoon and we had to make serious time. We were on an N road all the way east and then got on the M4, a proper highway, into Dublin.

About 15 miles west of Dublin we saw the signs for Maynooth.

“Maynooth College! We have to stop!” Lib urged.

Damn. We had to get back to Dublin. I wanted to get Trinity College sweatshirts for the girls, and we wanted to attend services at the cathedral, have a great dinner and find some music and craic at the pubs, all in a few short hours. We’d meant to stop by Maynooth some time in our journey, but it had slipped our minds. Now it was our last night in Ireland.

Lib pressed and I dithered for the approximately ½ mile between the sign and the exit. Then, as if of its own volition, the rented Honda swung into the left exit lane toward Maynooth. We were committed.

I should mention here that I was the only one who drove. I’m not quite sure how that happened. We paid extra to have both of us listed on the rental car. It was just chance that I drove that first, terrifying day. After I got more experience, it seemed foolhardy to repeat that break-in period with someone new. It really is a tough place to drive, if I do say so myself.

I remember in ancient times I was visiting back home when a fresh-faced, 15 year old, permit-wielding Lib squeeled that I was old enough to accompany her out to get some driving practice. I was a bit nervous, but figured if Mom and Dad could stand it, so could I. Now I know where those snowy-white strands of hair came from on their venerable heads.

Lib talked and gestured while driving so close to the cars parked on my side, that I held my breath in an attempt to make the car thinner so we wouldn’t crash.

Like a war veteran, I still sometimes have flash-back dreams of that day, and I wake in a cold sweat, screaming. But me doing all the driving had absolutely nothing to do with that experience. I have the utmost faith in Lib’s driving abilities. She’ll drive the next country.

Maynooth is really 2 colleges now; the National University of Ireland at Maynooth, a public college, and St. Patrick’s College. When it was founded in 1795, it was an academy “for the better education of persons professing the popish or Roman Catholic religion”, and became the largest seminary in the world. That’s what interested us.

We didn’t know much about our illustrious Irish ancestor, Terrence Corrigan. But family lore says that sometime before 1850, he was educated at this college.

Family legend has it, our great-great-whomever walked these halls.

The campus is beautiful. We strolled around the grounds and went into the old buildings. Our jaws dropped at the little chapel with its ornate carved woodwork and stained glass windows. The school records were destroyed in a fire many years ago so we can’t be sure, but our intuition said that Terrence had walked on this same ground. If you squinted your eyes you could almost see him crossing the green in his school robes, debating theory with friends as they hurried to class.

I wanted to get college sweatshirts for the girls, and it turned out to be a mile hike to the student bookstore. We made the trek to find a tiny place packed with kids between classes. The selection was lousy – the only hoodies were for kids. Add to that the surly indifference of the student employees and we felt right at home!

We took lots of pictures, but it was 5pm and we had to go. We hopped back into the car and went quick like a bunny onto the highway back to Dublin.

A bunny that just lies there and doesn’t move. Unless you nudge it with your toe. A poor, dead bunny.

First of all, it took about 15 minutes to go the 1-1/2 blocks to get off campus. Apparently academic zeal and the thirst for truth clocks out at 5 pm on the dot, because everyone in the vicinity was trying to leave the campus. Then we were off campus and on the street at a stop sign, trying to turn right into the left lane by the highway entrance. We couldn’t move. I had steam coming out of my ears before we finally got a tiny break in the traffic after only 20 minutes so we could squeal out and continue on our (formerly) merry way toward Dublin and our last night “in country”.

Slan,

Peg

On the road again.

We needed to get all the way across Ireland on that Monday, and wanted to leave time for shopping, church, dinner and pubbing in Dublin. We were stuck with the small, R roads so we couldn’t make great time. We had to be disciplined about the serendipity today.

Central Ireland isn’t as much of a tourist destination as the coasts, and we could understand why. There wasn’t much going on. The land was flatter, the homes neat but not impressive. There were a lot of little Fiat trucks zipping up and down the road, impatiently waiting to pass us. It seemed like an ordinary Monday morning, anywhere, with everyone going about their business.

Lib found our favorite station on the radio. I think all the radio and TV stations are nationalized. There weren’t a lot of choices, but we had good luck. We had discovered Rte Lyric early on in our Irish adventure. It’s like our NPR, except they play a more eclectic mix – classics, jazz and traditional music. A couple of days earlier we caught a program of songs from the movies and sang along as we motored.

(I discovered the station online and am listening to it as I type this. It is strange to hear the traffic reports describing roads that we were on!)

Today, however, Lib stumbled upon an Irish language station and was kind enough to let me listen to it for a while. We had no idea what the program entailed. It was just 3 people talking in Irish. I strained to pick out the few words I knew and taught a few of them to Lib. The most common word was “agus”, which means “and”.

Lib and I both started shouting out like demented myna birds whenever we heard this.

“Agus!” Then one minute later “Agus!”.

I never realized how often people begin their sentences with “and”.

“Let’s see what else is on, ok?” Lib suggested after about 20 minutes.

“Wait a minute – did that woman say “rodagin”?” I asked, excitedly turning up the volume. “That means “something”. Yes, I’m almost certain that was what she said!”

It was only 15 minutes later when Lib AGAIN wanted to change the channel.

“That was fun. You sure DO know quite a few words. But since we don’t know what they’re saying, and this is our last day in Ireland, maybe we can…” Lib started in again, but I turned up the volume so I didn’t catch the rest of the tirade.

I thought the program was enthralling, but Lib soon started to get insistent. Apparently she has a short little attention span.

“Can’t we listen to something else?” Lib asked plaintively. “Anything else? Maybe static?”

“Just a sec. Was that “agus tu fein”? That means “and yourself?”. If someone asked how you were doing, you would would reply “agus tu fein”, kind of like “how about you?”. That would be a familiar response, not something you’d use in a formal situation. At least I think that was what he said. But we know he said “agus”. We certainly recognize that word!” I laughed merrily.

After about only an hour and a half of our fun game of “Guess What That Random Word Means”, Lib had grown quiet. I looked over to discover she had changed into a white kimono. She was reciting a death poem and had the tanto (ceremonial knife) poised above her abdomen for the first cut of ritual harakiri.

So I changed the channel.

So we listened to Irish pop for a while.

Athlone is a pretty good sized city about 80 miles west of Dublin. We decided to stop there to see this wonderful, huge medieval abbey with a whole bunch of ruins of churches and stuff. I’m paraphrasing the guidebook. Except I got confused about what ruin we were seeking. We ended up in downtown Athlone parked by a crumbling castle tower that was only about 50 feet across. I didn’t think this was worthy of all the guidebook praise. There didn’t even appear to be a way to get in. We parked anyway and looked around the shops.

Downtown Athlone was busy and, except for the bit of moldering castle,
pretty much what you’d expect of a city on a workday. We chanced on a hunting and fishing store. This was a lucky find as I found the perfect gift for Bill. It was a moss green, waterproof suede hat with ear flaps that tuck up inside when not needed. Almost as good as the hat was the receipt that accompanied it: “Scully Guns & Tackle, Suppliers of Guns, Fishing Tackle, Outdoor Clothing, Boots & Wellies. With Compliments, Athlone”.

We were feeling a mite peckish so the proprietor of the shop recommended a cafe down the block. The little place was filled with the lunchtime crowd and there wasn’t a free table. The energetic redheaded girl who was to be our waitress asked a lone lady if she would mind sharing, and we sat down at her table.

The food was fresh and unusual. I had a goat cheese and red pepper sandwich and it was really good. After a first, brief thank-you smile as we sat down, we had ignored our fellow diner and she read a book. Towards the end of the meal a chance comment starting us talking.

She was a teacher at a local public school – was her name Bridget? She taught Catholic history and dogma. We were really surprised when she said she had the students pray the rosary, and that it was a regular class with tests and credit and everything. In a public school!

We got to talking about politics and we finally found the first person in Ireland who was not wild about our new president, Barack Obama. Bridget was staunchly pro-life and very involved in Ireland’s so far successful bid to keep abortion from being legalized. She was aware of Mr. Obama’s record of having voted to deny life-saving measures be performed on babies who survived abortions.

She clarified that the ruins we were looking for were Clonmacnoise, the foremost monastic site in Ireland. It was about 13 miles south of town. A few months earlier, Bridget and a group of like-minded friends had gone to Clonmacnoise and had a prayer service among the ruins of one of the churches. One of the guides came rushing up, demanding that they stop.

“This is a historical site.” said the guide. “It isn’t appropriate that you do that here.”

“This was a church.” replied Bridget “The whole place was built for people to glorify God.”

There was more argument, but the guide couldn’t get them to leave. We talked about secularism which doesn’t creep, but shoves its way into all society, even here in Ireland.

Bridget had to get back to school and we had to get on the road. We really wanted to see Clonmacnoise, to bravely say a prayer in the ruins like our new friend, but it was afternoon already and we had far to go and much to do.

We pushed on east, but missing Clonmacnoise was the thing I regretted most.

Love,
Peg

Not one of these guys was in the tavern the night we were there. Phooey.

Do you remember the movie The Quiet Man? It starred John Wayne as an ex-boxer from America who moves to a little Irish town. He meets up with Maureen O’Hara and the sparks fly. Well, most of that movie was filmed in the town of Cong, our destination for Sunday night.

By the way, our cousin Mary said Maureen O’Hara still lives in a mansion on the water by Galway or thereabouts.

We got into town after dark and drove around the roughly 2 x 6 block downtown several times before we settled on a B&B. Lib went in to negotiate the rates, while I negotiated the parking. I think we were the only guests in the whole place. The room was cold, and the landlord hurried to get a space heater going to warm it up. It also smelled of new carpet, so we opened the windows despite the cold.

The inn had its own pub attached. Our genial host said they served food until 8, and would have traditional music later. It all sounded great to us!

Picture courtesy Pinterest.

After being cooped up in the car for hours, Lib and I decided to stretch our legs and tour the little town by moonlight. We passed by the Quiet Man Museum and saw that it wasn’t yet open for the season. Drat! We had specifically come to Cong to soak up the John Wayne history!

Lib was especially keen to visit Cong, as she thinks John Wayne embodies all the qualities one would look for in a “bohunk Irishman”. I pointed out that John Wayne was American in the film. She told me to stuff it, or words to that effect.

We passed by 2 pubs/inns. One had a few patrons inside, the other just some teens smoking on the porch. That place had closed up by our second time around. I would have to say Cong was pretty dead.

Right across from the museum was a cemetery, which was sufficiently creepy at night to satisfy any thrill seeker. We took advantage of the quiet to call Mom, seeing as how it was Mother’s Day in Ireland. We figured the brownie points couldn’t hurt.

Back to the pub by 8, I approached the young man behind the bar to order some sandwiches. There was a family party in one room, 3 people watching TV in another room, and about 6 people at the bar. I had a devil of a time getting the barkeep’s attention, even with the place nearly empty. When he did notice me, it was to inform that the kitchen was now closed. Drat again! We ordered some liquid dinner and sat down to await the music.

About 15 minutes later, the landlord came in bringing dinner for the family party. So they hadn’t run out of food! He said yes, the kitchen was open, and brought some sandwiches. Apparently a miscommunication with the surly 18 year old bartender, who looked like his son. Wonder what the legal age is to bartend in Ireland?

The food was ordinary and nobody talked to us. The musicians weren’t anywhere in sight. Our host said they would be starting later, whenever that was. There didn’t seem to be any craic to be had at this establishment, so we decided to turn in early. This was the only time all week we ended up back in our room by 10.

I don’t know if Sundays are quiet in the hinterlands, or if it was just because it was Mother’s Day. The scenery had been breathtaking, but our experiences with people were pretty dull that day.

Once we had our jammies on, we discovered Muriel’s Wedding on the telly – I love that movie! Especially the part where Muriel and her friend lip sync to the Abba song “Waterloo” wearing full costumes. I want to do that!

We have GOT to have karaoke night at our family reunion this summer. Does anyone have one of those machines with all the tapes? Can you rent them for a night? Would there be anywhere on the beach/near the condos where we could do this in private?

We woke up early the next morning and went down for breakfast. Apparently we were too early, because our host was nowhere to be found. In fact, there didn’t seem to be another soul in the place. I rang a bell and he rushed in 5 minutes later, out of breath. He reminded me that we had ordered breakfast for 9, not 8, but when we apologized said it would be no trouble to get something together.

Cong is on the eastern-most edge of the Gaeltacht, which is the Irish speaking area. I figured I would never get another chance to speak Irish so hear goes. I took a deep breath and said “Bovalum rodagin a ihu.” That’s not how its spelled, but roughly how it sounds to say “I would like something to eat.” Our host looked blankly at me and said “what’s that you say about Obama?” Turns out he was from eastern Ireland. Didn’t speak any Irish.

I relinquished my quest for an Irish speaking Irishman, and stuck to English from then on. I went to the breakfast table a sadder, but wiser girl.

I was all for packing up our Honda and hitting the road. The museum was closed and the only store open for the season didn’t open until 10. But Libbier heads prevailed and we set out to see a little of Cong by daylight.

Augustine Abbey

I’m glad we took the time. There are some charming thatched cottages in town. On the other side of the still-used cemetery were the ruins of a medieval abbey, which we missed in the dark. We learned later that this was the Augustine Abbey, which dated from the early 13th century. This was just another ancient treasure in someones backyard. Many of the stone carvings were still intact on the outer walls of the building; stone faces looked down at us from atop garden doorways.

We wandered down to a little river in a fine mist. This was the first even faintly rainy day we had encountered, but we didn’t need the umbrellas. There was a little stone hut erected over the river. It had arched windows like a little church, and a trapdoor in the stone floor. The roof was long gone. A sign said the monks would sit in the fishing house, cozy with a fire burning in the grate, and fish from the trapdoor in the floor. Sweet little set-up!

We crossed over the river into a lovely nature preserve. There were several paths leading away. We took the one less traveled by, and that made all the difference. We were stalking a couple of swans we had spied in the brush. They wouldn’t cooperate and get back in the water to swim majestically for our cameras. It was very cool, green and peaceful in the woods. We had finally gotten our Irish nature hike!

We learned later that we were probably on the grounds of Ashford Castle. Just a little walk down the path would have led us to “not-to-be-missed Ashford Castle, a massive, flamboyantly turreted and crenellated castle built in 1870 for the Guinness family..incorporating an earlier 1228 structure..now one of Ireland’s most luxurious castle-hotels.” But we missed it. We didn’t know it was there until we were back here.

By this time the souvenir shop across from our inn had opened. The shopkeeper was a chatty little lady (perhaps from Cork?) and we spent some time looking at the woolens and Connemara marble. Since it’s all rocks and mountains, it makes sense that the main export from the west is a lovely marble in myriad shades of green. We got pendants and coasters and I splurged on a bud vase for myself.

But it was time to settle our bill and hit the road. This was our last, full day in Ireland. 😦 We had lots to do and see, and miles to go before we power shopped in Dublin. (I was having a Robert Frost kind of day.) Time was a wasting!

Love,
Peg

I left my heart…in Connemara!

Dear Friends,

Sunday was another nice day, dry and in the 50s. We got up early despite being out half the night, and our landlady, Moira, laid out the usual, substantial spread.

The night before we had asked her the schedule for the Catholic church in town. Since many of the the pictures we’d studied in the family gallery in the front hall were taken in what was obviously a Catholic church, we figured she’d know. It turns out the one church in town had mass only at 7pm on Saturday and 11am on Sunday.

We were planning to head northwest into the Connemara region. This was our only day to cover all the west, as well as the town of Cong. If we waited until after 12 to get going, we would never get through it. There was no way I was going to drive around in the mountains after dark. So, hoping that God would understand, we paid our bill, loaded up the car and took off, unchurched. We resolved to go to St. Patrick’s in Dublin on Monday for Evensong, and said a prayer as we drove back down the dusty lane out of Kinvarra.

Galway is something like the 3rd largest city in Ireland. It’s also one of the most bohemian, artsy cities. Its on the edge of the Gaeltacht, which is the Irish speaking, wilder western side of Ireland. Galway is known for celebrating art and traditional music.

Or so we heard. We didn’t actually go there. All we experienced of Galway was their traffic as we tried to get around the outskirts of the city. That part wasn’t very bohemian. It had all the charm of driving around suburban shopping malls, and driving on the wrong side of the road had ceased to thrill.

Heading northwest on N59 was not promising for the first 15 miles or so out of Galway. The scenery consisted of houses and other buildings, close to each other and to the 2 lane road. There was a lot of traffic. Everyone seemed to be out for a Sunday drive.

Just past a golf course we spotted one of the distinctive brown signs that heralds a tourist-worthy location of some sort. As previously mentioned, these signs don’t always show the distance to the site. If they do, you have to be very clever, and schooled in higher mathematics, to realize that while 10 kilometers might not sound very far, it actually translates into 1312.69 miles. Or something like that. We had wasted hours on the way to Cork trying to find some elusive Abbey that apparently vanished into the mist like Brigadoon as soon as we got off the highway. Did we dare try another?

Serendipity! we cried. We turned around and drove down the side lane.

We were approaching Aughanure Castle. According to our guidebook, it was a well preserved example of an Irish tower house. It was built in 1500 by the O’Flahertys, whose family motto was “Fortune Favours the Strong”. In 1546 the O’Flahertys’ daughter married the son of the O’Malley family, motto “Powerful by Land and By Sea”. What the guidebooks don’t mention is the daughter had previously been wooed by the noble son of the house of O’Fallon, motto “Can’t We All Just Get Along?”. We’ll never know why Percival “Chicken Heart” O’Fallon was rejected.

What’s the meaning of life?

In just a few miles the increasingly narrow, overgrown track emptied into a deserted parking lot. Like many sites we wanted to see, it wasn’t open for the season yet. But we got out of the car anyway, and walked down a long, winding path to the door of the castle. It was locked so we couldn’t get in, but it was a really peaceful, pretty area. I got a great shot of Lib sitting on a stone wall, contemplating our rich, Irish heritage and its impact on our lives today. Or else she was thinking about lunch. Not sure which.

Connemara isn’t a town or county, just a region in the west of County Galway. Clifden is the biggest town in the area. Its at the west end on the Atlantic coast so we chose that as our destination. We figured if we liked it, we’d spend the night. If not, we’d head back east to Cong, another place we didn’t want to miss.

Back on the road the houses and traffic started to thin out. We saw lots of signs for a 10k race that was being run that day, and feared we would have to detour. But luck was with us. The runners were always somewhere else. The sun came out and it was a beautiful day. The farther west we went, the more charmed we were.

Connemara was my favorite part of Ireland. The land isn’t good for much in the way of farming because it is mountainous and rather barren. Here, the sheep run free. We could see them high up on the mountain sides, as well as up close and personal as they wandered onto the roadway. They were long-haired and had numbers painted on them with bright blue or pink paint. Wonder how the paint goes over at mating time? Is it like makeup – does it make them more attractive to other sheep? If a ewe has too much paint, do the rams think she’s cheap and easy? That would be a good science fair project for someone.

As expected, the road here was narrow and twisting. We came around one particularly sharp corner and I was captivated by the view. We stopped to stretch our legs, mindful of the abundant sheep droppings. It looked like the Easter Bunny hid all of his leftover black jelly beans around here.

My kids don’t like the black jelly beans – the licorice flavor – but I do. They end up abandoned in the bottom of the kids’ baskets, under the paper grass. I finish them off as part of the ritual of putting all the Easter stuff away until next year.

Against a backdrop of mountains, there was a little lake. In the center of the lake was a little island, studded with fir trees. It was perfectly lovely. I wanted to build a little house on the little island in the middle of the little lake and live in the shadow of the tall mountains. But we got in the car and drove on, coming at last to Clifden around 1.

That Sunday happened to be Mother’s Day in Ireland. Which might explain why the charming harbor town of Clifden had apparently rolled itself up for the day. The downtown was a pretty good size, filled with interesting shops and restaurants. Unfortunately, only a handful are open.

When I was growing up, everything was closed on Sunday. When stores started staying open, Mom said it was terrible that people had to work and couldn’t be with their families, and we shouldn’t shop on that day to send them a message. I always agreed with that. In theory. In practice, it was darn annoying to have allotted a day to shopping, dining and possible pubbing in Clifden only to find everyone was off somewhere with their families instead of being stationed behind their cash registers where they belonged!

But that was just the tip of our disappointment iceberg.

All Richart family members know the old joke about the 2 dogs. But let me refresh your memories.

Indian boy asks his father: “How do we Indians get our names?”

Father says: “When squaw gives birth to child, she looks out flap of tepee. What she sees then, she names child. So your sister is Leaping Doe, your brother is Soaring Eagle. Why do you ask, Two Dogs Fornicating?”

OK, cleaned up for the general audience and definitely not politically correct, but all it takes is Dad to say “Why do you ask, Two Dogs?” to crack us all up. I wonder if the Kennedy’s snickered secretly at a dirty, family joke?

Anyway, during her online research for our trip, Lib had discovered that the harbour town of Clifden was home to a pub named, you guessed it, the Two Dogs Pub. That’s the real reason we took a whole day to drive to Clifden. According to the one person we could find who had ever heard of the Two Dogs, it had closed down some time before. Not even a storefront sign left for our picture-taking pleasure!

We did find a cute shop that sold homemade soaps and candles, and a thrift store with overpriced books. (Note we were able to find thrift stores just about everywhere we went – its a gift!) We walked around the downtown twice trying to settle on a place for lunch. We were kind of cranky and peevish and couldn’t agree on a place. Must have been the crushing Two Dogs disappointment, coupled with a lack of shopping opportunities. The place we ended up in wasn’t anything special, lacking in atmosphere and with really slow, unfriendly service.

By the time we got out of there, it was 4 and we knew we didn’t want to spend the night. We decided to head back east through the Connemara National Park and try to get to Cong before nightfall.

The mountains in Connemara are called the Twelve Pins. Sometimes they loomed in the distance, and sometimes the road took us right up against them. It was partly sunny, partly cloudy and the quality of the late afternoon sun gave an extra sheen to the landscape. We drove by Killary Harbour, a natural fjord, went through the town of Leenaun and miles of twisting roads with lakes here and there.

As mentioned, we were in the Gaeltacht. That is the western section of Ireland where they still speak Irish. All the road signs were in Irish, without the English version right next to it, as in the rest of the country. Irish words don’t necessarily sound anything like their English translation, so it made it “interesting” to try to figure out where we were.

Just 2-1/2 weeks before our trip, I had embarked on a rigorous training program to learn Irish. I ordered 3 different Irish language courses from the inter-library loan program and quickly learned Irish isn’t pronounced the same way its written. So I sent back the book and tapes and bought an MP-3 player. I figured out how it worked (without having to have Gwen do it for me, I’ll have you know!), and downloaded the two CD courses onto it. I listened to the CDs in the car, and the MP-3 player just about everywhere else; doing housework, power walking around the lake, but mostly on the treadmill. I was trying to get in shape for all the wonderful nature hikes we were going to take over the rolling, green hills of Ireland. So picture me at the YMCA most every evening, huffing and puffing on the treadmill, clutching my MP-3 player and muttering to myself in what sounded like gibberish.

While I was doing all this Irish cramming, Bill didn’t bother to hide his amusement. “Everybody speaks English there – you aren’t going to need to know Irish! You’re wasting your time.” But I was determined. So I mastered quite a few phrases, and was even getting into verb tenses and the like. I could handle greetings, ask about streets and roads, order food or drink, introduce myself, etc. Never did find out how to ask for the bathroom, so I recognize my education was not complete.

We didn’t go on any hikes, and I didn’t get to speak Irish with anyone. Nobody knew more than a few phrases most places we had been. Now that we were finally in the one place on earth where they DO speak Irish, we didn’t have time to stop.

We were passing the most breathtaking scenery I’ve ever seen, but couldn’t enjoy it except in brief glances. Lib was trying to take pictures from the window of the car as we hurtled down the road as fast as safety would allow. I was determined that we were not going to be on the twisty, mountain roads when night fell, dealing with Irish-only signs and wandering sheep, and having no idea where we were going. There were no towns of any size between us and Cong, and Lib was determined that our last night in the country could not be pub-less.

Kylemore Abbey

Sometimes we would come around a bend and the view would make us gasp. This was Joyce Country, and I could believe the land had been his muse. The road wound past a placid lake, or lough, and hugged the base of a mountain littered with sheep scattered in ever-diminishing specks up nearly to the top. Around one bend we came suddenly upon Kylemore Abbey and both said “Oh, wow!” like a couple of country hicks. We simply had to stop.

The Abbey is a beautiful, huge mansion snuggled up to the base of a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Its beauty is reflected in the calm waters of the small lake in front of it, and there is a private church further down the shore. It was given to an order of nuns about 100 years ago, and is now used as their Abbey, as well as a girls boarding school. Since it was out of season, the place was closed, but we were able to appreciate it from the parking lot.

After that refreshing pause, we continued on our way, barely able to make out the street signs in the gathering gloom. We finally made it to Cong just as full dark fell.

TaTa For Now,
Peg