Peg-o-Leg's Ramblings

Playin’ the trad.

Dear Friends,

At last report, Lib and I had met our cousin Mary and her partner, Alex, and were on our way to dinner. The restaurant was right on Galway Bay, and the boat used to catch our dinner was tied up in back. An enormous cheer erupted as we walked in the door. The Irish had been friendly most everywhere we went, but this was ridiculous! Then we remembered what day it was – the rugby game. Ireland had won for the first time in over 60 years!

The place was up for grabs. Little kids ran around underfoot while men and women from 20 to 80 raised their glasses to toast the Irish team. Smithwicks, Murphy’s, Guinness and the dreaded Heinekin were all in evidence.

Heinekin seemed to be everywhere in Ireland, and Lib and I couldn’t figure out why. With all the great ale houses in the country, why would they drink beer from Canada, or Germany or wherever? We debated the Heinekin country of origin on more than one occasion, but never bothered to find out for sure. We wanted to snag a Guinness coaster as a souvenir, but most of the pub coasters were from Heinekin. One place had Budweiser coasters! We took it as a personal affront whenever we saw one of their dreaded signs.

I’m not sure why this bothered us. I think we were tourist purists (say that 10 times fast). We wanted everything in the country to fit our preconceived, Hollywood-fed image of Ireland.

The dinner was enjoyable. The fish was excellent, and Alex and our cousin Mary are very interesting people. Mary was very appreciative of the gift Lib had brought.

With only 2 weeks left until our trip, I had casually asked Lib “Does mom have the old Corrigan family photos? Wouldn’t it be great if someone could make copies and put together an album as a gift for Mary?”

Considering that Lib was several blocks away from said photos at Mom & Dad’s house, and I was several states away, it didn’t take Einstein to figure out who that someone would be.

I laid it on thick. “You have such an eye” I gushed. “Your scrapbooks are works of art.”

I give Lib credit. She barely missed a beat before she volunteered for duty. Granted, I had an ulterior motive for the lavish praise, but it was also true. Lib DOES have an artistic eye, as well as a great writing style. Her scrapbook pages tell a little story about the subject photos.

She didn’t let me down. In the short time available, she rooted through mom & dad’s basement, found pictures of interest to Mary, scanned them, cleaned them up digitally, reprinted and put them all in an elegant album.

There was a wonderful picture of stern, old Terrence Corrigan, his wife and progeny all in front of their Utica farmhouse. There were also several pictures of a chubby-cheeked, cherubic me at my first communion. The older Detroit Corrigans were there, including our grandmother and both of Mary’s grandparents. I told her I remembered Johnny Nadon.

This is where we discovered they pronounce the name differently now. According to mom, and as far as I ever knew, it was NADon, accent on the first syllable. Mary pronounced it NaDON. When I remarked on the difference, she said some businessman ancestor had bastardized the French pronunciation to sound more English. I swallowed a snigger as I thought of that BBC comedy about the social climbing Bucket family who pronounced their name like Bouquet. I kept saying it NADon, more out of force of childhood habit than a deliberate stubbornness. Mary never corrected me, but she would reply with NaDON somewhere in the sentence.

Alex is from the Netherlands. He had come to Ireland on a vacation with his mother, met Mary and, as they say, the rest was history. I believe he was a physicist by training, but did something with computers in Ireland. I got the impression he was a bit younger than Mary, but they were a sweet couple.

After dinner we drove to their place for a nightcap. This time I volunteered to squeeze in behind Alex and Lib took the other side. We hurtled around hairpin turns through the Stygian night. Lib was fumbling furiously with her seat-belt as she hissed to me “I can’t get this damn thing buckled!” She was smiling wide for the rear-view mirror, not moving her lips as she whispered, doing her best imitation of the Tin Woodsman, pre-oilcan.

I reached over with difficulty to help her. Because Alex’s seat was all the way back, I was sitting with my knees spread about 3 feet wide and up around my ears. Think childbirth. “Congratulations, Mrs. Schulte, its a driver’s seat!”

“I know” I whispered back with an identical frozen smile, grateful for all those hours of practice with my Charlie McCarthy doll in 5th grade. “It sticks.” We got Lib buckled in and completed the journey to their farmhouse in relative safety.

Alex said what he most appreciated about Ireland was all the space. The Netherlands are very populous, the cities are big and there isn’t a lot of wide open space. He sure hit the jackpot with this home.

They rent a tidy, stone and stucco farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. We stood out on their patio and marveled at the sky. There aren’t any big cities near them, and even Kinvarra was some miles away, so there was no competing glow on the horizon. They don’t have streetlights, either. Just stars. There were thousands, no millions, of stars. Layer upon deep layer of them, some piercingly bright, others so far away they were just faint pinpricks. We live out in the country so I’m used to stars, but I never before appreciated how three-dimensional the night sky could be.

Mary’s artwork is all around their home. She is very talented, and works in several media. There was a watercolor still life of a vase of flowers, an oil of the Burren, and some abstract pieces. They have a large kitchen with 2 tables, and Mary gives art lessons there. She also sells some of her pieces.

Alex poured a shot of Jamison’s for each of us (what else?), and we toasted one another and our common ancestors. The whiskey burned as we swallowed, tiny sips.

Mary was something of a storyteller. She is divorced, and has a 25 year old son. She lived in Grosse Pointe, outside of Detroit, and always loved to travel. She really felt a kinship with Ireland so, when her very smart son went off to college about 8 years ago, she packed up and moved. How brave!

She was in the southeast of Ireland for a couple of years, then landed in Kinvarra in a very serendipitous fashion (there it is again!). But to hear her tell it, there were all sorts of signs and portends that preordained her final destination, so perhaps it was meant to be.

Mary said she felt an affinity with the Irish melding of ancient Celtic traditions and Catholicism. Made it seem less Roman, and more home-grown. She seems quite the bohemian, and Lib felt a sense of kindred spirits.

Although we were having a lovely time, it was past 10 and the pub was calling. Lib and I didn’t want to miss out on our our best chance for traditional music and craic.

According to one source, crack or craic is “fun, enjoyment, abandonment, or lighthearted mischief; often in the context of drinking or music”. Purists say it is an English word, not Gaelic, but the Irish have adopted it as their own and the pursuit of craic is a noble pastime. We intended to get some.

We headed back to Kinvarra and Mary and Alex took us to Connelly’s, their favorite pub. It had the added feature of being just a few blocks from our B&B, just in case Lib and I had to crawl home. The place was small, low-ceilinged and close quarters. It was crowded, and the mood in the place was jubilant, given the day’s rugby victory. Mary and Alex introduced us to several people whose names I immediately forgot, and we tried to push up closer to the musicians.

There were 3 guys sitting in the corner playing traditional music. They had what looked like a mandolin, a banjo and a squeeze-box type instrument, smaller than mom’s accordion. They played with their eyes closed, concentrating and seeming to know what to play without communicating with one another. It was great! I appreciated it even more after we snagged some low stools to sit on. I was wearing heels and, in addition to being overdressed, my feet were killing me.

Mary and Alex introduced us to several of their friends. One rather inebriated gentleman, Mile or something like, expounded at length on a number of topics – what was his name, Lib? He was average height, thin and losing his hair. Pouches under bloodshot, cynical, yet amused eyes attested to a familiarity with the bottle. He had lived in America for a while (is there anyone in Ireland who hasn’t been to Boston?). He had a decidedly socialist bent, and hadn’t anything flattering to say about President Bush. Global warming and a myriad of topics were tossed around. When my smile got a bit strained, he would back off and say something funny. He had consumed mass quantities of hard cider that evening, but wasn’t staggering or incoherent. I ordered a bottle of the cider, and the sweet taste was right up my alley. For about 1/2 a glass, after which I got sick of it. It comes in an almost quart-sized bottle, however, so I was stuck with it for the rest of the night. Another night of sobriety for Peg!

Actually, not to burst Lib’s image as a booze-hound, an image mostly fostered by me, I must admit that neither of us tied one on in the land of Guinness. I imagine the view from the ground when hugging a toilet is the same in an Irish pub as it is in an American bar, so we didn’t feel the need to check it out personally. We wanted to remember all the interesting people and experiences, and not our hangovers.

I made rather stilted conversation with another of Mary’s friends, Moira I believe. She was a plump, faded woman in her 50s who had come to Ireland from Wales years ago. She’d had a rather maverick lifestyle for such an outwardly mousy person. She and her husband chose to live off the land – very hippy. They had a little cottage and they raised sheep (surprise!) for wool and mutton, had goats for milk and grew their own crops. They even cut peat to heat the house. Now she was divorced and employed, and lived in town.

Mary had a headache, so she and Alex left us before midnight, with fond farewells all around. I had wrung all the awkward conversation I could out of Moira so I put on my coat, and Lib and I prepared to leave as well. I was a little disappointed, I admit, that the craic had been so elusive.

A group of about 6 women had come in 1/2 hour earlier and took noisy possession of the front of the bar. They were probably about 30 years old. My somewhat sodden new friend Mile said “the girls” were a fun group. “They don’t live around here but they get together every once in a while.” He pointed to one woman. “If you want to hear the Trad, Jenny’s the one.” The musicians had packed it up by now.

“Is she a professional musician?” I whispered back.

He shrugged “She can do it all – plays drums, sings, other instruments. She’s quite the sportswoman, too.”

I believed it. Jenny was solid, with muscled arms and white-blond hair. Her long, hawk-nosed face was reddened by the sun and wind. She looked like a throwback to the Viking invaders who had conquered Ireland long ago.

Pubs close at midnight in Ireland, so most of the patrons had left. Lib was talking to a redheaded woman and I was standing around with my coat on, ready to go, when Jenny started to sing. No self consciousness, no grandstanding, she just sang. It was a folk song about a boy who was leaving Ireland, leaving his sweetheart forever. She had a strong voice; not pretty, but compelling and true.

After the song, Lib and I applauded enthusiastically and the redhead told the rest of “the girls” that we were Americans. They were very friendly and welcoming and, as was true almost everywhere we went, excited about our new president.

“So, you must be thrilled you’ve got the Obama now.” Jenny gestured with her pint, smiling broadly. The others agreed enthusiastically.

I replied diplomatically, “I certainly hope he does a good job, and I wish him well. I’m reserving judgement until we see what he does.”

“But you must be happy to get rid of that Bush” she persevered.

“President Bush made some mistakes, but he had many fine qualities.” I answered primly. I sounded like a maiden aunt schoolteacher and I knew it. This wasn’t what they wanted to hear.

Jenny looked at me for a moment, then, with what I learned to be a characteristically wide smile said, “well, I guess we won’t talk about that.”

Another of the girls then started to sing a Broadway show tune – something from Oklahoma. She had a nice voice, but not as distinctive as Jenny. Others joined in, including Lib and I, but I am ashamed to admit I didn’t know all the words.

That happens all the time. A song will come on the radio, one I’ve known for 40 years, and I love to sing along. But when push comes to shove, I don’t really know all of the words. Very discouraging.

Then Jenny sang a rollicking traditional song and the few remaining patrons joined in. The bartender shushed us, saying his kids were sleeping upstairs. It wouldn’t be the last shushing.

The girls had spent the day canoeing. In the Atlantic Ocean. Well, Galway Bay, but still, it was impressive. One woman imitated our American accents, and did pretty well. Lib said I had a good Irish accent and, put on the spot, I gave it a try.

“Doesn’t she sound good?” Lib asked.

“No” they all replied, and everyone laughed.

The imitator was a teacher. She did a spot-on imitation of an American teenager, sprinkled liberally with “like”s. Lib and I talked to her, Jenny and the redhead the most. She said many Irish teenagers are deliberately trying to lose their accents, to talk like the people on MTV. She decried this intentional abandonment of their national identity. And for such a role model! We agreed wholeheartedly.

She said “I bet you think Ireland is like that movie Darby O’Gill and The Little People”.

I perked up. “I loved that movie! It’s one of my husband’s favorites! We always try to find it on TV around St. Patrick’s Day, but I haven’t seen it in years.”

Wrong answer, I surmised. Her lip curled. “It’s shite. You Americans all have that Lucky Charms image of Ireland.” They liked to tease us, but were welcoming and fun so it was all good.

Someone started a Kermit the Frog song from the Muppet Movie – not the Rainbow Connection one that I knew, but some obscure thing. Then Sesame Street songs. They knew all the words! Then the lone man left in the place, besides the barkeep, sang a very bluesy version of “Me and Bobby McGee”. We joined in at the chorus (once again I THOUGHT I knew this song, but didn’t). More landlord shushing ensued and we toned it down. It was humiliating that these Irish knew all the words to all these songs, and we didn’t!

Then Jenny turned to Lib and I. “Now its your turn. What are you going to sing?”

Showtime!

A hurried conference ensued. I wasn’t too worried about carrying a tune – Lib has a great voice, and I can get by. But what did we know all the words to? And we’d have to put aside our demure, public personas and “bring it”.

We decided on “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”, and we laid on the schmaltz. Lib even added some harmony (I’ve always envied that talent). I won’t say there wasn’t a dry eye in the place when we were done, but we held up the honor of the Yanks quite nicely, thank you very much, and received a gratifying round of applause.

At about this time the innkeeper’s wife came down to announce “If ye wake up those sleepin’ kids, you’re going to have to take them home with ye!” Her husband called a cab for a few of the revelers, we took pictures and shuffled out the door, saying goodbye to the girls.

The guy who had sung the Janis Joplin song walked Lib and I to our B&B. Which was a good thing, because I was all turned around and would have headed out of town. I hadn’t noticed him before, but Lib had, and there seemed to be some chemistry between them. On the few blocks walk we learned he had also lived in America for a time and was an engineer. He was nice, rather cute, 40s and not drunk. All the major qualifications met. Too bad we didn’t have more time to pursue an acquaintance. We were stunned to discover it was almost 3am, and so Lib had to mark him down in the “what might have been” column. To bed we went.

Based on some of the things that were said, and unsaid, Lib and I figured we probably HAD ended up spending the evening with the Irish Lesbian League. But it was the most fun we’d had in Ireland. We’d finally had some of the craic!

Love,
Peg

We finally found the craic!

Lib’s artsy, pastoral shot.

“It’s almost 5!” shrieked Peg to Lib
“Call Mary and tell her a fib.”
The castle was great,
But now we were late.
“I won’t lie,” said Squib “I’ll just ad-lib!”

And so we left Limerick.

We made pretty good time heading north out of Limerick because, as previously mentioned, the highways are OK in and out of the big cities. We flew past Bunratty Castle, which turned out to be right next to the highway, not 15 miles inland down some obscure goat-track as is the norm in Ireland. This is a top tourist destination so we were tempted to stop, but remained focused and pressed on.

The road wasn’t very busy, primarily because THE BIG MATCH had started. Soccer is probably the biggest sport in Ireland, as it is everywhere else in the world, but they are also passionate about rugby.

Remember “Braveheart”? Mel Gibson made that movie when he was a big box-office draw, before he made “The Passion of the Christ” and he got buried, professionally, for being religious. In Hollywood it’s OK to be “spiritual” – in fact its downright trendy right now. If its something like the Kabbalah, or Buddhism or Scientology. But you can’t be traditionally religious, especially something like Catholic. People whose life mantra is “I Sure As Hell WILL If I Want To” don’t want to hear all of those pesky “Thou Shalt NOT”s.

Anyway, there’s a scene in “Braveheart” where Mel, as William Wallace, leads a mass of Scottish highlanders into battle in the middle ages. They’re filthy and hairy, their faces painted and wild-eyed, screaming in Gaelic as they run forward clutching spears and axes. They literally collide with the other army and try to hack off one another’s heads, and any other appendages that are handy.

Well, rugby is like that. Without the face paint. I understand they also call this sport football, but its not the same as the American version because they do away with the sissy helmets, padding, rules and such.

A house shows its colors, ready for the big rugby match.

On that particular Saturday the all-Ireland team was playing Wales for the World Cup rugby championship. This is a title Ireland hadn’t won for more than 60 years and passions were running high all over the country. Most everyone was hunkered down in front of their tellys.

About 25 miles south of Galway, we spotted the road signs for Kinvarra, which was our destination for the night. The N road we had been on was pretty good – meaning there was room for 2 cars at the same time. Once we turned onto the R class donkey-path to Kinvarra we would fondly reminisce about such modern driving conditions.

It was pretty country with lots of farms. The sun had come out after being overcast in the afternoon. The farms were bordered by tall hedges or stone fences that reached onto the narrow, rutted road. It was slow going for one car, but when someone approached from the other direction we had to find a break in the hedgerow to scoot over and let them pass.

On this particular stretch of road we encountered several impatient Kinvarrians, eager to get home to the game. They would come up fast on our tail, apparently laboring under the misapprehension that 100 kph was a reasonable speed for these roads. They would wait with ill-concealed impatience for the road to widen so they could pass us and roar off.

Even though we were really stressed for time, we couldn’t resist pulling over to take some pictures. Lib got a very artsy shot of grazing sheep through a chink in a stone fence. It’s a perfect juxtaposition of Ireland’s 2 major products – sheep and rocks.

Ireland is home to hundreds of different hues of green. They don’t call it the Emerald Isle for nothing. The fields are blanketed with lush, rolling carpets of green. But we saw very few trees. Ireland’s wealth of forests were all cut down over the centuries to fuel the building needs of England. I don’t think we saw one farm with growing crops. In the springtime in Illinois you drive through a patchwork quilt of crops: miles of corn alternating with soybeans, budding in straight rows of green fuzz against the black earth. Ireland seems to grow only cattle or sheep. Lots and lots of sheep.

We were surprised at how many new, large houses there were on the road to Kinvarra. Some weren’t even done yet. All the houses are made of stone. From a distance, it was hard to tell the partially built stone walls of a new house from the tumbled down remains of an old one. Over the stone they put a coat of stucco.

Every farm or parcel of land is bordered by its own stone wall, even in the towns, (but not in the cities). The newer places have orderly blocks of quarried stone, straight and even. The older homes are bordered by haphazard piles of rocks. Many have the top course mortared to stand upright in a jagged, crenelated pattern; a parapet for everyman’s castle, tall enough only to keep out invading leprechauns.

Welcome to Kinvarra.

Lib had called Mary to say we were running late, and it was decided she would pick us up at our B&B at 7, instead of the previously agreed-upon 5:30 (oops!). We rolled into the charming little town of Kinvarra with 10 minutes to get checked in and change clothes.

Mary had recommended Fallon’s B&B, which was above a grocery store. Lib checked it out on the Internet and emailed our hostess, Maura, ahead of time to get everything set up. We couldn’t find a parking spot anywhere on the narrow main street, so I dropped Lib off to get checked in and drove around for precious minutes before settling on a place several blocks away. Kinvarra is a harbor town with the water coming right up near the road, a couple of fishing boats at anchor off the shore. But we had no time to sight see then.

Fallon’s was a surprisingly big place, very clean and fine for our needs. Our room had 2 doubles and one twin bed. We should have sublet the other beds to earn back some of our rapidly dwindling money supply. Since this was the off-season, it wasn’t crowded. In fact, I d0n’t think there was anyone else in the B&B besides us.

We dashed up to the room, used the facilities, threw on our clothes and clambered down to wait in the front hall. As it turned out, we would have had time for a leisurely shower and unpack as Mary was 1/2 hr late. Since we were 1-1/2 hours late, we couldn’t complain. We used the time to study all the family photos Maura had in the hall. She was a widow lady with 6 grown children, and we really got to know all of them as we studied and restudied their wedding photos. When her 20-something daughter walked in the front door I felt I knew her from my intense study of her pictorial history. She looked a little scared by the warm greeting she got from a total stranger.

Once we had decided to visit Ireland, Mom called her cousin, Bernie Nadon, to get some background history for our trip. She found out his daughter lived there and suggested we get together. Her cousin immediately started rolling UP the welcome mat and putting it away.

“Mary isn’t really that up for visitors. She’s had some bad experiences with everyone she knows going over to visit, looking for free lodging and staying for ever.”

Mom was a little miffed – “My daughters don’t want to move in. I thought it would be nice for them to meet their second cousin!”

We got her phone number and Lib called and emailed back and forth as our plans solidified and we decided to meet for dinner one night. Mary mentioned the weekend would be best for her partner, Alex.

“Partner” is one of those ambiguous modern terms that creates more questions than answers. It’s difficult to pin down. It used to be, when someone referred to their partner, they meant the person with whom they were in business. Picture two guys with starched collars and walrus mustaches facing one another sternly over the gleaming mahogany expanse of a two-person desk in a book-panelled law office.

That definition is still probably #1 in Websters, but several alternates are now in common use. The first refers to the person of the opposite sex with whom one is: cohabitating without benefit of clergy, living with, shacking up with. It’s a fiancee without a ring and a date or a significant other. It’s supposed to denote some kind of intimate relationship, without all the fuss and bother of an actual wedding.

“Partner” has also been co-opted by gays to denote some kind of commitment with their inamoratas (or inamoratos, as the case may be).

Alex is one of those sexually ambiguous names that can go either way. Like Pat, Chris, Terry. Remember that Saturday Night Live sketch about Pat, the androgynous guy/gal? Everyone was always trying to figure out his/her sex. Lib was going to try to nose out a little more info about Alex in her emails “so, when dinner is over and we all need to use the bathroom, and the women’s room is occupied…” But we decided that would probably not be polite. Mary used the term partner several times in her conversations, and Lib never could get a sense of what, specifically, she meant. I guess it would also be impolite to just come right out and ask “what do you mean – partner? In what way?”

So Mary’s relationship with her partner could have fit in any one of the three possible categories. We were happy to meet them in any event, so this was only an issue as it relates to the all-important business of pub-going. Let us not forget that was Lib’s main interest in Ireland – going to as many pubs as possible, and meeting a bohunk Irishman. To be fair, she was also interested in local music in a cultural sense, but guys and beer were number one.

We were really looking forward to this evening because it was our one opportunity of the trip to experience small-town life in Ireland, with a guide who knew and could introduce us to the real people. Not just the tourist stuff. Mary’s partner was germain as we speculated, between giggles and groans, that we might be destined to spend the evening with the Irish Lesbian League. Not that there’s anything wrong with that…, but Lib was interested in cavorting with strapping Irish lads, not lasses.

Alex turned out to be a man. A very nice, very tall, rather angular and raw-boned Dane with black glasses. Think Abraham Lincoln, but cuter. Mary is an artist, probably in her late 40s, with long dark hair, curvy and not very tall. She dressed very artistically with a flowing dress, jacket and several scarves. She must have gotten over the visitor-phobia her father mentioned, because she was very warm and welcoming to us. Alex is in engineering/computers. So their partnership was of the roommate variety.

We got in the backseat of their car and headed out for a little tour of the Burren on our way to a fresh seafood restaurant Mary and Alex knew. Getting in the car wasn’t quite that simple, however.

The cars in Ireland are, for the most part, small. We saw some SUVs and I marvelled at their drivers daring, because the roads are narrow. Their car was a 4 door, which was a plus, but did I mention that Alex is tall? Maybe 6’4″? As in all legs? Lib graciously chose to sit behind the driver. The driver’s seat bumped up against the back seat. The process of getting in was much like mounting a horse. Lib had to put her right foot on the door frame and swing her left leg in so that she ended up with her knees on either side of the drivers seat. Real elegant position. It was a good thing she wasn’t wearing a dress.

Almost dark and the Burren is quiet and mysterious.

Mary wanted to show us her favorite place to go for inspiration – to walk, think and paint. The Burren is a wild, bog-filled area in the west. We drove along the edge of the Burren, on the coast of Galway Bay. The beach is layers of rock, very austere and beautiful. By now it was twilight, so it was hard to see. We had, unfortunately, no time for daytime exploration of the area, so we appreciated what we could see.

The peace and beauty of the area washed over us, which would have been very Zen-like if it weren’t for the fact that Lib and I were in a state of abject terror.

Alex drove like a madman. Or like an Irishman. May be a European trait.

His car had a stick shift and we bounced and jostled down the narrow, rutted, curving road as he shifted gears – left handed, I’ll have you know. I had to admire that skill. I absolutely insisted on a manual transmission at Hertz. By now it was full dark, but Alex didn’t let that slow him down. Nothing did. Until we came around a hairpin turn in the middle of nowhere and found ourselves mano a mano with a huge piece of farm machinery, or boring equipment. It had an interesting circular pattern of lights on its front like the spaceship in that Richard Dreyfus movie about the people from all over the country who all have this same intergalactic top 40 song stuck in their heads – what was it? Oh yeah, Close Encounters of the 3rd Kind.

By the way, we figured Ireland must have some kind of agriculture because we kept coming upon slow-moving farm machinery in the roads.

With an amazing display of testosterone, Alex figured he could take this 2 story, alien earth moving machine. There wasn’t anywhere to turn around, so he proceeded, squeezing as far to the left as possible and going very slowly.

We got stuck.

There was absolutely no room to maneuver. His right side mirror was being bent back and if we went forward, it would snap off and we would be wedged against the metal behemoth.

Now, Mary and Alex may have decided against “Marriage” as a bourgeois institution, but they must have seen the movie because they knew the dialogue:

Scene II: Set on a dark, narrow country road. Small, battered Honda containing 4 passengers comes around curve. A large, farm machine appears suddenly from the opposite direction. Both vehicles slow, but proceed.
MARY: “Alex, I think you need to back up or something.”
ALEX (in Scandinavian accent): “No, I have room.”
MARY: “Are we supposed to yield? Is there somewhere to turn around?”
ALEX (downshifts and bounces through rut. Tone now more stern): “It is alright Mary, we can get through.”
MARY (nervous titter and look over shoulder at interested passengers, says sweetly): “Honey, I really don’t think we can both fit.”
(sound of screaming metal on metal fills the car, fade to black.)

Anyway, the other guy just stopped, Alex somehow backed up and edged around with the side mirror bruised but still attached. We proceeded on and arrived at the restaurant in one piece.

TTFN,
Love,
Peg

Cobh waterfront

We got up early on Saturday, knowing we had a lot of ground to cover. We wanted to see the harbor town of Cobh, which was southeast, then we had to head northwest to get to the Galway area by dinner time.

Our hostess, Dolores, put on a great breakfast spread with all the usual meats, but with the welcome addition of some fruit, as well as my favorite brown bread. She and her family actually lived a few blocks away. She still had a child at home in college, and I think another had moved back home. The plan was to move into the B&B house after the kids were out of the nest.

We talked about the Waterford plant and she shed a little more light on the situation. I thought the workers were going to lose their retirement, but she explained that in Ireland they have a national pension when they turn 65. Dolores said her dad was on the pension and it was a pretty good deal. He gets his phone service for free, as well as choosing to get his heat or electric for free. This is in addition to the actual pension payment, which she said was generous.

She said the laid off workers would get unemployment – that wasn’t the problem. They have a custom of paying a hefty chunk of severance pay. She said when her brother-in-law lost his job, he got around 250,000 Euros. That’s more than $250,000 given the exchange rate! No wonder the Irish economy is in such rough shape. What sympathy I had for the Waterford workers nearly evaporated.

Soon after we sat down, a couple came down to eat and we got to talking. They were from Minnesota and had come to Cork to visit their son. He was a college student taking a semester abroad in Ireland. I think that’s a wonderful opportunity for a student – wish I’d done so in college. It doesn’t cost much more than the airfare.

Armed with pretty good directions (we only had to stop once to ask), we made it out of town and were on our way to Cobh. This is pronounced Cove, by the way. We wanted to go here because it was and is a major shipping port of Ireland. Most of the immigrants who left the country in the mid 1800s did so from here. We liked to think our great, great grandfather Terrence Corrigan may have taken his last steps in his home country in this town.

Once again, the town was much farther off the highway than expected. We headed for the visitors center/museum, only to find it didn’t open until 11. So much for our early start! It was another lovely, sunny day, so we decided to walk around the downtown.

Cobh is a charming, waterfront town. The buildings are painted different colors and, oddly, there are palm trees along the streets. There’s a big park with a bandstand/gazebo right on the water, and the town curves around the cove. The streets rise steeply away from the city center, somewhat like Cork. At the top of one street was a large church, its steeple the tallest point in the town. I imagine the sailors coming home used that as a beacon. The church bells no doubt rang more than once when ships did not return.

We stopped in a gift shop, then the St. Vincent DePaul thrift store. Yes, even in Ireland we were able to find used junk! No ancient Irish relics, however, just the usual used clothes. I bought a sweatshirt and the lady gave me 2 daffodils along with my change.

I think I will associate daffodils with Ireland ever after. There was a nationwide cancer fundraiser of some sorts involving daffodils going on when we were there, and they were in bloom in all but the most remote areas.

By this time the museum was open so we paid our fare and entered.

Besides being the point of departure for millions of Irish, Cobh is famous for two reasons: it was the last port of call for the Titanic, and the Lusitania was sunk by a German U-boat just a few miles away. Most of the injured and dead were brought to Cobh. The exhibit had photos and exhibits from both tragedies, as well as a history of Irish immigration. Very interesting! But, with time a-fleeting, there was no time to linger. Back in the car and north we went.

Getting around Cork took some time – its a big city – but soon we were on the country highway heading to Limerick. Thanks to our huge breakfast, there was no need to stop for more than a drink and we made good time.

We decided we couldn’t pass by Limerick without checking out the wonderful, medieval castle and church right downtown. Once again, the signs were lousy and we did a bit of aimless driving before finding the castle. Then we couldn’t figure out how to get in. The downtown has the usual narrow streets, roundabouts and traffic lights. The castle was just a sidewalk-width away from the street, smack in the middle of town with a boarded up pub right next door. Again we experienced that weird jolt at the casual mix of old and new.

We parked across the street from the castle. Lo and behold, we were right in front of an antique store – what a happy coincidence! Naturally, we had to go in. Didn’t see anything I couldn’t live without, but we enjoyed the rooting around. The shop and the castle are right on the River Shannon.

Oh, heck, I don’t know. Lemme see..maybe the River Shannon?

Remember that time we were playing a family game of Trivial Pursuit, I think it was at Mary Kay’s house? Dad was on one team, but was paying scant attention to the game. I think he had his nose in an Arthur C. Clarke book. The question was “What is the longest river in the British Isles?” and Dad’s team looked stumped. They got his attention, but he didn’t know the answer – kept hemming and hawing between several choices I never heard of. We were giggling in anticipation of winning the game and, after 10 minutes of waffling, insisted on an answer. Dad says, out of nowhere, “how about the River Shannon?” It was right.

So we had to get several pictures of the River Shannon.

St. John’s Castle was built in the 1200s and is pretty much intact. We got to climb up on the battlements, look through the archer’s windows and imagine what it would be like to live in that small place, and be under siege.

We then walked a couple of blocks down to St. Mary’s Cathedral, which is also really, really old. OK, maybe I didn’t pay close attention during the exhibits. At least I didn’t doze off and start snoring and have to be nudged awake because the other tourists couldn’t hear the film they showed before the tour of Newgrange, like SOME people. We couldn’t figure out how to get into the church (seems to be a common problem with us), so we toured the graveyard.

Irish cemeteries are really cool. We stopped at several to take pictures and read the names. Some of the monuments are so old so you can’t read the dates. Entire families are buried together in a plot with a low wall, kind of like a sandbox with a headstone. On one we saw the beloved father died in 1950. The mother died in the 1970s, and the son died in 2007. They put the date of death, but not the date of birth so you can’t figure the age, which I didn’t like. They use the Celtic cross in their monuments, which are 6 foot tall and makes even the newer stones look ancient.

Unlike America.

Our modern cemeteries are sod farms; smooth flats of green where they grow plastic flowers. Or so it looks from the road. Except in Louisiana, where they still have cool monuments: they can’t bury people in the ground because they’re below sea level.

Last week we went up to Oak Brook, a booming suburb of Chicago. There are lots upon blocks upon miles of fern bar chains, malls, restaurants, etc. Stuck between an Olive Garden and a Giordanos was a little cemetery. It had old headstones and was surrounded by a chain-link fence. It looked like your homespun, country cousins flanked by your New York friends at a fancy wedding. No doubt it was a peaceful patch of field when some one’s ancestors were laid to rest there. Now its a barely noticed, yet jarring anomaly at the side of a busy, suburban road. Overlooked by all but the waitresses at the Olive Garden who lean on the fence to smoke their cigarettes on 10 minute breaks.

We left the church and walked the several blocks back to our car. The neighborhood was a mix of businesses and rental houses, rather poor. It occurred to me that Limerick was the home of Frank McCourt. I should have reread Angela’s Ashes before we came to see if I were walking down the streets of his miserable childhood.

Several people hurried down the street carrying grocery bags of provisions and bottles of ale – Smithwicks, Murphy’s, Guinness and, yes, the dratted Heinekin. The big rugby match was starting in an hour – the match of the century for Ireland, and everyone wanted to be in front of their TVs. We had a long way to go to reach Kinvarra and we were not going to be on time for dinner with our cousin Mary.

Love,
Peg

Talked to Lib yesterday. She was on her way home to get started on her Ireland scrapbook. I guess we all have different ways of expressing our creativity. She really goes all out on the scrapbooks – it will be something to see when completed; a real masterpiece.

I’ve always liked Lib,(no really) and we talk on the phone once week or so. When we decided to go on this trip, we started emailing and calling every day. Sometimes multiple times a day. There were lots of details to work out. Then when we were in Ireland, it was all Lib, all the time. Lots of togetherness. Of course you can drive each other crazy that way, and we did experience some of that (can you blame me?). But now I kind of miss my daily dose of the old Libster. I’ll call her up and say “remember when??” cuz she’ll know what I’m talking about.

Anyway, when she called yesterday we started giggling again about the Old Man and the Sea and the “Hoary Bitch” comment with which Lib greeted the Irish Sea. I don’t know how we got to talking about the spelling of the word, but it seems I had it all wrong. I thought she meant “hoary”, as in white tipped, you know, kind of frosty. She said meant “whorey”, as in like a whore. Now it doesn’t seem as funny. Don’t know why. I don’t even think that’s a word!

Gotta take the cat to the vet.

Have a good day!

Peg

Cork, finally!

Hello, fellow travelers.

We rolled into Cork around sundown on Friday. This is a big, busy harbor town built into the side of a hill/mountain. The downtown is bisected by the River Lee, spanned by several, one-way bridges with no visible street signs (of course).

We didn’t know where we were going to spend the night, so Lib referred to our guidebooks. She called a recommended B&B, only to be told the place was no longer open for business. And so began a series of futile phone calls – getting referrals and finding out the next place was closed for the season, closed forever or full-up. Lib dialed and chatted while I drove around, finally finding a street wide enough to park on.

Right now we were really glad we had done our cell phone homework. U.S. cells don’t work in Ireland. (I guess that “can you hear me now?” guy and his minions don’t like to fly.) You need some sort of special chip to use their networks. We checked online and got all sorts of complicated suggestions like buying a cell phone in the Dublin airport, or buying a chip and having your phone reconfigured when you get to Ireland, then buying minutes. Lib graciously offered to research this vital topic and her cell carrier gave her a special loaner phone that still used her phone number. It cost a whopping $1 per minute, but made us feel safe.

Lib finally found a B&B that was willing to put us up. She was on the phone with this elderly lady for a good 10 minutes, taking notes on directions, interspersed with requests for clarification. I knew we were in trouble.

If driving in Dublin was the 3rd circle of hell, driving in Cork was skinny-dipping in the River Styx. Remember all the bad stuff about Dublin driving? Cork has all that, plus really steep, incredibly narrow roads. Several times I started down a street, only to stop short because there was a car coming towards me and there was only room for one of us. It’s playing chicken, masquerading as transportation! I couldn’t tell if I was on a one-way street, or if one of us had to figure out how to get out of the way. They mark one-way’s by painting “Do Not Enter” on the pavement, facing the direction of the driver who shouldn’t enter. Try noticing a faded sign under the wheels of another car, in the dark, while moving. The appearance of an impatient driver on my tail was my clue that at least it was not a one way street.

Our Cork map only showed the city center, but even if we had a better map, the absence of street signs makes it all moot. We drove around for what seemed like hours, unable to find even one of the landmarks/signposts our would-be hostess had described. By now it was full dark. We somehow found ourselves back in the city centre, on the riverfront and near a big, Holiday Inn-ish hotel we had passed before. I headed for the Jurys Inn like a dying man in the desert spying an oasis.

I parked on a dark side street behind the big hotel, and wasn’t budging until we knew where we were going. I was all for the Jurys, figuring we didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding that B&B. Besides, it probably had a communal bathroom, damp sheets and smelled like cat pee.

Lib usually seems very pleasant and compliant, but don’t let that fool you. She can be as stubborn as a mule (refer to Lib’s Facebook page for a picture of her discussing tactics with one of her long-eared brethren) when she feels strongly about something. She chose this moment to make a stand.

“We are NOT staying at a big hotel again. It’s bad enough we’re staying at one in Dublin. We need to experience the ambiance of the B&Bs and mingle with the Irish people. See how they live, eat the big, Irish breakfast, get their views on things.”

Lib sprang into action. She jumped out of the car and approached some guy walking down the other side of the dimly-lit street to ask HIS recommendation for a place to stay. Why didn’t I think of that? Who needs guidebooks, or Internet opinions when you can get valuable advice from the first homeless person/rapist you see wandering down the street? I nervously kept her in the rear view mirror while she chatted with Jack the O’Ripper, wondering where I would get help in this deserted neighborhood if the guy decided to stuff her in his trunk.

Our genial hostess

She came back flushed with success and made another call. This time the sprightly innkeeper at the Avondale B&B was able to give us coherent directions and we made it there in just a few moments.

The Avondale was a little gem! It was a totally renovated row house on the river that had been open for just a month. The high ceilinged hallway was painted lemon yellow with white, cove mouldings. The carpet was red with gold fleur de lis. Up a cute, split staircase was our room, with new carpet and beds and our own, all new bathroom. Our hostess was a little lady in her 50s. Corkians have a reputation of being very talkative and funny, and she fit the stereotype. She gave several suggestions for places to eat (and drink!) as it was now almost 8pm, and directions on how to walk to the city centre. After freshening up, we started out.

There weren’t a lot of restaurants downtown, more shops than anything and most were closed. We couldn’t find the recommended places. Lib talked me into a Chinese restaurant over one of the shops. After about 200 steps, we collapsed at a corner table with a lovely view of the night-lit street below.

The food was good, not great. The best thing about the Tung Sing Chinese Restaurant was our waitress, Mona. She was an energetic, 60-something lady with very dark brown hair, courtesy of Clairol. She bustled about, stealing a candle for us from a neighboring table and getting very involved in our choice of sauces. When we asked for suggestions for the night’s pub, she pulled up a chair and got to business.

Mona the Waitress tells all.

Mona had lived all over the world, including several cities in the U.S. She was a native of Cork. Lib and I exchanged a look; the chatty Corkian stereotype had held true for 2 out of 2 of the people we’d met.

She told us a story of an American gentleman who had dined in her restaurant some time back. He was in his 70s and said his parents had come from a small town nearby. They had emigrated to America when newlyweds and he was on his way to discover his roots. Mona recommended he check with the Catholic church, the Protestant church and the police station in the town. The police may tell you something you don’t want to hear (that your relative was the town drunk, for example) but they would have records. She had a lovely chat (big surprise) with the tourist and wished him Godspeed on his quest.

Several days later, on her day off, the manager called to ask her to come into the restaurant. There was a man there who was very upset and wanted to speak with her. She was a bit nervous, but came in to find her American customer, back from his journey.

The gentleman took Monica’s advice and checked in with the local police station. They did recognize his family name. Not only that, they recognized him. They sat him down to break the news – he had an older brother still living in the town. The American was the spitting image of him.

It seems his parents had anticipated their wedding vows and had a child out of wedlock. That was a grave sin and, apparently, they gave the child to someone else to raise. When they later married and left for America, their son stayed with his new family. Neither boy knew of the existence of the other. The American was very shook up – upset with his parents, but glad to find this new brother. He wanted to thank Mona for her part in this monumental discovery.

After bidding Mona a cheery farewell, we tried to find the pubs she recommended. But the streets around the city centre were dark, narrow and full of pubs. I didn’t have a good feeling about this place. For you Harry Potter devotees, the area reminded me of Diagon Alley. We wandered around, with Lib proposing and me discarding pub after pub. Finally we just walked into one that seemed to have a mix of ages.

Mistake. After we found a stool at the bar and ordered a drink, we noticed just about everyone in the place was in their 20s. There was a group of young men nearby who had had a few pints and were singing along to all the pop hits. Friendly Libby started chatting with one of the guys while I was in the bathroom and I returned to find him with his arm around her shoulders. I don’t think there was any lechery involved (no offense, Lib), it was more like an anchor to keep him upright. Lib’s new BFF’s balance was impaired by a few too many pints of Murphys.

I should interject here that Lib, seasoned veteran that she was, knew to order Murphys and not Guinness, while in Cork. Murphy’s is the local brew. To order Guinness might risk an international diplomatic incident.

The guys were all Scottish. They were in town for a weekend-long bachelor party. I guess that is a popular trend – groups coming to Ireland from neighboring countries for bachelor/bachelorette party weekends. I never did figure out which one was getting married. Lib took some pictures and it was all good craic, but not for us. The mating rituals of drunken 20-somethings is only interesting if you’re one of them.

We asked the bartender if there were anywhere nearby that served a clientele closer to our ages and she suggested the place across the street. After getting past the bouncers without having to show ID (amazing), we walked into a pulsing wall of mosh-pit type music from the live band. We were flattered that the bartender had thought we would have something in common with this older crowd, maybe LATE 20s, but it wasn’t our scene. A quick use of the facilities and we were back out on the street.

We wandered aimlessly some more, in the general direction of our B&B. Nothing struck our fancy. By now it was almost midnight and I convinced a skeptical Lib that perhaps we had had enough for one night. We had a busy day tomorrow and a good nights sleep would be great. She agreed, looking longingly at each pub we passed. And so to bed.

Have a great day-
Peg

Leaving Greystones Friday after lunch, a quick look at the map revealed we were barely out of Dublin. We still had 1/2 the country to navigate to make it to Cork by nightfall. So we hopped back on the highway – no time for country roads. Except the highways ARE country roads.

The highway south out of Dublin is called the M11. This is a true highway, and the speed limit is 120 kilometers per hour. Which isn’t as fast as it sounds. Kilometers, it turns out, are shorter than miles. Never did get them figured out. The M11 turns into the N11. The N roads are down to one lane each way, and they go through towns and villages, and the speed limit is 100 kph. On the N roads, there usually is room for 2 cars and you don’t have that many stops or roundabouts, except in the towns.

The next smaller roads, which are most everywhere, are the R roads. Almost without exception these are twisting, winding, zero visibility country lanes with barely enough room to pass oncoming traffic. You have to watch out for runners, sheep, farm equipment or old men on bikes around every turn. And we had nice weather – I shudder to think what it’s like when it’s pouring. Speed limit is 80 kph on the R roads. Only crazed, suicidal Irish drivers would dare to go that fast on these paved sheep paths. We constantly found ourselves with one of said drivers on our tail and I would sometimes pull over to let them pass.

Lib said after the trip that she didn’t realize I was such a nervous driver. Ha! When faced with near-certain death at every mile, fear is nothing but a reasonable response. In true Murphy’s Law fashion, I’m convinced that my purchasing travel accident insurance for us both is the only reason we didn’t have a crash. Ireland doesn’t have the 2nd worse accident rate in Europe for nothing.

Random roadside Medieval ruin.

Passing though a little town, we came around the corner and there at the side of the road was a ruined castle tower. It was a couple of stories tall, with a crenelated top, arched windows. It was ivy covered and pretty dilapidated, not very big – only about 20 feet across, so it was probably some sort of watch tower. But is was an honest-to-goodness medieval tower, just at the side of the road between 2 normal houses. No signs or anything. That’s how Ireland is – so casual about its antiquity.

We pressed on at the highest speed that prudence would allow until we came to Waterford. This town is famous as, you guessed it, the home of Waterford Crystal. It’s a pretty good sized city. As we navigated through the center and out the other side, our eyes were met with a familiar sight. The Golden Arches.

Our first day in Dublin we were wandering, dazed and confused, trying to decide between 2000 places for lunch, keeping in mind that we didn’t have much time if we were going to take the bus to the jail. I suggested we stop in at the Burger King we had just passed.

Lib went ballistic. “We are NOT going to BURGER KING!” Her voice dripped disdain. “We’re in Dublin, for God’s sake! With all the choices of real, Irish cuisine and experiences, to even SUGGEST…”

Jeez. “I was JOKING! You know, JOKING?” You would have thought I suggested we club a few baby seals for seafood tartar right there on the sidewalk.

So I didn’t even suggest we stop at McDonald’s, but Lib did. Apparently her bladder was not as discriminating as her palate. We stopped, but only for the bathroom and a drink. No matter how much I decry the sameness of America’s highways and exits, it is comforting to know there will be another fast food place just up the road to stop and go, if you get my drift. You can’t very well go into a picturesque little pub, ask to use the bathroom and leave without ordering something.

After we took care of business, we bellied up to the counter to place our order. I was especially excited because I saw this as my chance to finally get some decaffeinated coffee. Ireland doesn’t do decaf. Doesn’t believe in it, I suppose. The few times I was able to get some, it was instant. But Mickey D let me down. No decaf, even at this bastion of homogeneity.

I found myself getting mildly annoyed that I couldn’t get a decent cup of decaf coffee anywhere. It wasn’t a big deal, just a nagging bother.

My reaction, mild though it was, is the real reason I decided to take this trip.

I have always wanted to travel. I figured the time and money would not be available until after the kids are out of the house, and Bill and I are retired. My secret fear has been that, by the time I’m able to travel the world, I’ll be one of those old people who complains about everything. I’m not implying that all old people complain. It’s just human nature to get set in our ways as we get older.

“Why don’t they have any American food?”

“How are we supposed to walk that far?”

“Why doesn’t this ancient ruin have an escalator?”

Or maybe “Why doesn’t this country have decaf?” I firmly squelched that reaction and thanked God, Lib and Bill for the opportunity to experience this strange, wonderful, decaf-free place called Ireland.

Right after McDonald’s we came upon the entrance to the Waterford Crystal factory. With a squeal of tires we pulled into the right lane to turn left, or something like that, deciding it would be a shame not to peek in at all the lovely crystal – serendipity, remember? The lot was pretty empty, and we remembered having read something about trouble at the plant. But there were people around so we got out and approached the visitors entrance. There were handmade posters up all over the entrance, and a guy smoking a cig said yes, we could go in.

Once inside, there were a number of people to the left in the coffee shop, others milling around and a guy seated at the info desk. None of them had the organized, chipper appearance you would expect for your first impression of a major factory. Turns out they were actually ex-employees. The “receptionist” explained that Waterford declared bankruptcy in January. They sold to a foreign company. All the employees got a letter sent to their homes that the factory was closing and they were out of work. They didn’t like that. So they decided to come down to the plant. There they’d been, ever since, occupying the plant in shifts.

“How’d you get in?” we asked.

“That door right there” he motioned to a broken glass door. “They (meaning the new owners, I suppose) sent some goons, but we got rid of them.”

He went on to say the new owners would probably move all the work to China and continue to use the name, but without the craftsmanship.

“What do you want?” we asked.

They wanted Ireland to nationalize the plant, and keep them all on at their old salaries. Failing that, they wanted severance pay. He clarified that they had government guaranteed pensions, and would get unemployment benefits. To me the obvious question was, if the company is bankrupt, why would the country want to continue the same as before, losing money? But I didn’t ask. Didn’t seem smart when confronted with a bunch of goon-dispatching, angry union guys. The important thing was, the gift shop had closed 5 minutes earlier so we left.

post script: After we got home, I saw they settled the sit-in just 1-1/2 days later. We’d like to think it was our peaceful presence that did the trick.

post post script: I bought some lovely, Waterford Marquis glass ornaments at a Dublin shop. When I got home and unwrapped them, I saw the tag said “made in China.”

Thanks to all the serendipity, we were really behind when we got back on the road. One of the guide books said the visitor center in Cobh closed at 5 so we decided to head for Cork for the night. We would double back to Cobh in the morning. Cork’s a big city, so we thought we’d find a B&B, get freshened up and go into town for dinner and some craic.

Slon for now-
Peg

Hi there,

Hoary bitch. I’m referring to the Irish Sea, not my sister.

When last we left our intrepid adventurers, they were tucked in their Rob & Laura Petrie twin beds at the Burlington in Dublin. Friday morning dawned, bright and sunny, yet again belying the cliche of rainy Ireland. We hustled to get packed and out of town early. Our plan was to spend the next 3 nights on the road. Lib edited her clothing choices to one, medium suitcase and left the rest in the hotel, which we had booked for the whole week. I had one huge suitcase, courtesy of my dear mother-in-law, Virginia, and one small. Not knowing what we would need I lugged the whole mess out to the car.

I don’t know about y’all, but I always overpack. I think I ruptured some important, internal organs wrestling that huge, blue suitcase in and out of the hotel. I included about 15 different changes of clothing, but ended up wearing perhaps 3 outfits the whole week. (Liz is a master at this. She comes home for the weekend with 3 suitcases, usually including 7 pairs of shoes. Last weekend she traveled light and wore flip flops. It snowed 3 inches.)

I hasten to assure you there was no rotating undergarments, however, mainly because we were in constant expectation of having a horrible car crash and wouldn’t want to be embarrassed. Every time we stopped at a gas station, or point of interest, I would have to sit and remind myself “left side of the road, left side of the road” before starting out. Several times Lib sucked all of the air out of the car as I drove off, as she’d temporarily forgotten that whole left side thing.

The plan was to mosey south, down the east coast, and end up in the city of Cork at night. We knew we wanted to see the maritime museum in the harbor town of Cobh not far from Cork, but other than that, we had no plans.

Serendipity was to be the watchword for our trip! Whenever we got lost, which was more than once, or were running behind schedule, or wandered off the main highway, I repeated our mantra -“It’s all just serendipity!” (I was going for an Auntie Mame sort of vibe, but typing that, it now sounds like something you would hear the mayor’s wife say in The Music Man. In retrospect, my mantra might have sounded annoyingly pretentious. Drat!)

The only big highways – 2 lanes each way, divided highway – were around Dublin. We decided to take the highway south in order to make some time, but reserved the right to pull off whenever we wanted. We skipped breakfast because we didn’t want to waste the time, so after a couple of hours on the road we were in desperate need of coffee. We pulled off at the seaside town of Greystones.

This particular adventure was the first of many designed to show us the unreliability of Irish roadsigns. I had read something in one of my guidebooks about Greystones being a quaint village. We had 4 books; 2 purchased, and 2 on loan from the library. Don’t tell – I think they’d take away my card if they knew the books were out of the country. What the books and the sign didn’t say, was that the town was quite a ways off the highway. The signs don’t mention the distance, and if they do, it’s in something called kilometers! What’s with that? We also first came into contact with the traffic circle, or roundabout. That was truly terrifying, because of the left side of the road rule. (By the time we were zipping back to the airport like natives, one week later, I had decided America needs roundabouts – no waiting at traffic lights). But I digress. I do that. A lot.

Greystones WAS a charming village, totally untouristy, just Irish people going about their

lives. We parked along the water and got out for a walk. We found a path down between the boulders and there we were – mano a mano with the Irish Sea. The beach was an expanse of tiny pebbles, too big to be called sand. Lib ventured down, out onto the boulders and did her “Old Man and the Sea” impression. Looking out at the unreachable horizon, wind whipping her hair back, surf pounding against the craggy rocks she gruffly intoned “the sea – she’s a hoary bitch!”

Cracked us up! You know how in grade school, someone in your group would say something stupid/funny at the lunch table, and you all would start laughing hysterically and you just couldn’t stop? It was like that, except without the milk squirting out of our noses.

Hoary bitch, of course, became an instant legend, another trip mantra.

We asked a native (everyone was walking in town – lots of mothers with babies in prams down by the water) where to go for lunch, and ended up at a little tea shop where we were just in time to share our first, traditional Irish breakfast with scones. Yum!

Since our little side trip had taken much longer than anticipated (That is the true lesson of Ireland – it ALWAYS takes longer to get anywhere than you think), we had to dash back onto the highway and continue on our way toward Cork, and further adventures.

TTFN (ta-ta for now)
Love,
Peg

Dear Family,

The first night in Ireland we were dragging so much we just went to a cafe near our hotel for dinner around 8. Lib was trying to convince me we weren’t so dead we couldn’t strike out into the unknown to find a pub, but cooler heads prevailed (that would be mine) and we ended the night in the hotel lounge. The Burlington is the largest hotel in Dublin, the site of many conventions, and has a nice, clubby bar.

I had an Irish Mist liquor (remember Mom & Dad kept a bottle up high in the china

Lib learned you don’t pronounce the “h” or the “w”.

cabinet?) and Lib ordered a Smithwicks ale. The bartender winced as he corrected – it’s pronounced “Smitticks”. This established a pattern for most of our pub nights, both in respective drink choices, and in the lesson in pronunciation. For some reason we (that’s the royal we that means just Lib) couldn’t keep that in mind. We sat there, clinked our glasses and toasted one another wearing, I’m sure, the sappiest of broad, idiotic smiles across our faces. We had done it! We were actually in Ireland!

The next day, Thursday, running under all the sightseeing, history absorption and gathering of new experiences was a fine undercurrent of tension – where to go to the pub that night? We had decided, based on online research, to do the Musical Pub Crawl. This is a guided tourist tour of pubs that featured traditional Irish music (called the Trad), so named, I suppose, because you end up crawling to the last one after a pint of ale in each. We were both keen to hear the Trad, but loath to appear in any way touristy, even though that’s what we clearly were. Morris the bus driver to the rescue.

The Quay

Lib and I decided we could sum up the story of our time in Dublin as “A Tale of Two Bus Drivers”. “He was the best of bus drivers, he was the worst of bus drivers..” We ended up on the quay (pronounced “key”, a word we both had trouble remembering. Every time I said it, I said both “kway” and “key” to cover my bases) on the Liffey River, looking down a line of about 10 bus stops. We were looking for the bus to the jail, which experience was previously mentioned. This was the one time we WANTED to go to the jail, as opposed to the many times Libby’s wild drin… but I digress.

One chubby, black haired leprechaun of a bus driver was just exiting his bus when we approached and politely asked for directions. He mumbled something about the 71 and the 58 and stalked off down the sidewalk. We persevered, scurrying to keep up as we asked for clarification. He mumbled something else and, picking up speed, sprinted into a nearby pub for his “coffee” break.

Lunch!

Lib and I stood on the sidewalk, wearing twin expressions of kicked puppies. The buses whizzed in, collected their hordes and sped off. Seeing our confusion, another bus driver approached. Thinking they were trained to operate in tandem, Lib and I hugged each other tight to protect the more tender areas in case boots were to now be used to drive us off the tourists. But this was Bus Driverus Friendlius – the helpful of the species. He asked around, determined the best bus for our needs and placed us in the right queue. He even suggested that the pub the evil bus driver had entered had good, traditional Irish food, was reasonably priced and would do fine for dinner.

After our visit to the jail (that FIRST, historical jail visit, remember) we got on the bus back to the city center. This revealed more working class neighborhoods and some industry, especially on the river. We passed the Guinness factory and administrative offices which are right in the city. The CEO had arranged a little display wherein all the factory workers lined up and fired off a 21 keg salute to Lib for rescuing the local economy – amazing they knew which bus she would be on.

The closer we got to the city center, the packed bus emptied. We had been on the upper deck, but descended to the first floor the closer we got to the quay (kway/key). By now, we were the only ones on the bus. The rush hour traffic was so bad we were stuck at the same light for about 10 changes, so we struck up a conversation with the bus driver, Morris. He was a very friendly fellow, young, sandy haired and going to be married in two weeks. We put the thorny question of the evening’s pub to him and he pshawed the Musical Pub Crawl. Way too touristy. If we wanted a true taste of Dublin, we should try O’Donoughues, a public house that he himself frequented. It had the added benefit of being much closer to our hotel. He Xd our map and dropped us off, right where we started, just a few feet from our dinner and resolved on the evenings entertainment. Our best wishes followed him off, into the sunset. Well, into traffic really.

O’Donoughues looked like a typical neighborhood bar in Chicago, long and narrow with stools, and stuff tacked up on every inch of wall – pictures, currency, etc. We got there pretty early, were assured that they would have the Trad later on, and staked out a couple of stools against the wall. The place filled pretty rapidly. We were squished against the wall by a group of tall people, mainly American tourists (damn tourists). They created a bulge in the stream of traffic so people carrying full pints would have to squeeze between them and us. We lived in mortal terror of finding a Guinness, or worse, Heinekin, spilled all over us.

Lib made friends with a waitress so she could have a drink source. The bartender kept shooting her the evil eye when she asked for water between pints of Smithwicks (remember the pronunciation?). Yes, I know I’ve been insinuating that it was all ale, all the time with her, but even Lib has her limits. The waitress was a Chinese exchange student who had been in Ireland going to college for 6 years. She was about to graduate and head back to China to lead their computer revolution. Very interesting girl, with definite ideas on how women should let their husbands save face in public, while secretly being in charge of everything behind the scenes. The things you discuss in pubs.

There was one stall in the ladies room, and halfway through the night the owner put an “out-of-order” sign on the door. That would normally have signaled an end to our revelry, given our delicate bladders, but it turns out there was a spacious, 3 stall facility in the vacant next building, so it was all good. You can’t smoke in restaurants or pubs in Ireland, so the clever management had set up tables and chairs in the alley between the buildings, and there was more going on there than inside.

By 10 or 11 the place was filling up. The musicians arrived and set up at the table in the front window. We could see the side of one woman playing the bodrain (drum, not sure of spelling) for a little while before it got so packed we couldn’t see a thing. It was so noisy by then, we couldn’t hear any of the music, but I’m sure it was lovely.

The annoying tourists left, and their place was taken by a group of 4 young people (boy that sounds old). Lib, the friendlier of us, started up a conversation and soon we were knee-deep in the initial “who are you” information exchange. They were 2 New Zealanders (Kiwis they told us; the bird, not the fruit), a woman New Yorker and a Dublinner. The Irishman and one New Zealander worked in the city, in investments. The other New Zealander was his best friend who, along with his New Yorker wife, now lived upstate. The wife was a writer who has a travel book being printed by Random House next year – what was her name Lib? We have to look for it. She and her husband met in Peru (the country, not the town next door to me here).

They were really fun to talk to, but the time was flying and we wanted to get an early start on our drive into the country the next morning, so Lib and I headed out. We made it back to the hotel, unmolested, after only a few false starts down dead-end streets. We drifted off to sleep, Lib dreaming, no doubt, of big, bohunk Irishmen, whatever that means.

Love,
Peg

Here’s Lib’s reply, all lies of course.

All staged.

Peg once again regales us with her tales… and I DO mean tales – especially the one about me (er, the mythical person) knowing which sheep dung fertilized the fields!! That was her (I mean, the other mythical person) specialty, thank you very much!!

The promised photos will be uploaded on Facebook tonight. I got half of my photos developed, and they look great! I have some scathing pictures of Peg with not 1, not 2, but THREE pints of Guiness in front of her. What Peg says stays in Ireland stays there for HER, but I will be happy to tell all to anyone who wants to hear the truth! 🙂
Love
Lib

This post is copied from emails over the last few days giving introductory notes on our trip. Sorry for the rerun.

All is good here. Our niece Jenny gets married in 2-1/2 weeks at a very lavish wedding in Chicago at the Palmer House. I still have to find a dress that doesn’t make me barf when I look in the mirror. Not an easy task. I have been faithfully going to the YMCA for the last month and a half, and, surprisingly, didn’t gain any weight in Ireland, but the going is slow.

I think we didn’t gain weight due to spending the week in a near constant flight-or-fight state of adrenaline rush from driving. They do drive on the wrong side of the road, and the steering wheel is on the wrong side of the car.

We had a wonderful time in the land of our ancestors. We got in to the Dubliin airport early in the morning, after about 3 hours of sleep, and decided to head north from the airport to see the sights and get used to the driving away from the city.

Lib and I went to an ancient burial site called Newgrange that is 1000 years older than Stonehenge and 100 years older than the pyramids. It was really impressive. The weather was lovely, sunny with blue skies and daffodils were in bloom everywhere. In fact, everyone we met wherever we went remarked that the weather the week we were in Ireland was the nicest it had been in 2 years.

After lunch at a pub in a charming little town, we decided midafternoon to head for the city and find our hotel.

Our first day in Dublin was taken straight from Dante’s 3rd circle of hell, the one with really narrow streets (none of them straight or grid-like), huge busses and suicidal bike riders all over. There are no visible street signs and traffic is moving too quickly to dare stop and ask anyone where you are. We later learned they have plaques mounted on the second story of the buildings that tell the street names. You can’t actually see them from the street – you have to stand right under them, and squint up through a telescope. But don’t get too attached to that street name, because it is sure to change in the next block. I’m not kidding. We hit Dublin the first day around rush hour, minus a map of the city and suffering from serious jet lag. It is a testament to our Christian upbringing that Lib and I were still on speaking terms when we finally dragged our spineless bodies into the hotel after a couple of hours of aimless, terror-filled city driving.

The next day, after a good night’s sleep, we set out to conquer Dublin on foot, armed with a good map. We toured a typical Georgian gentleman’s house on the square, went through the park, admired the architecture, went to Trinity College and looked at the beautiful illuminated manuscripts and their 2 story, vaulted library. We walked over the Liffey River to the historic post office, hit some shops for souvenirs, had breakfast in a little basement restaurant, coffee in a cafe and dinner in a pub right downtown. We split fish and chips and shepherds pie, served by a young oriental man with an Irish accent!

We even braved the extensive bus system to get out to the old jail, Kilmainham. We arrived at 4 to be told that the last tour of the day was sold out. This was one of the few places Lib really wanted to see, so that was disappointing. We spend a few $ to get into the museum and strolled around in a desultory fashion trying to get a feel for the place before we had to head back out to try to figure out what bus would take us back to the city center. The tour group left from the museum and we asked the young woman holding the door if they possibly had any cancellations so we could join the tour. She looked around furtively and said “get along with you then; I didn’t see a thing” and motioned us after the departing tour group. So we got our tour after all!

It was a sobering place with a rich history. During the potato famine, the place swelled with people who preferred jail to freedom because they would at least have a roof and a little food. Later it was a political prison that saw the deaths of countless Irishmen who fought for centuries to get out from under the English thumb.

When we stayed at B&Bs, we had the full Irish breakfast every morning. This consists of one egg, baked beans, 2 pieces of what they call bacon, which we would call ham, 2 large pieces of sausage, toast and black or white pudding. This is actually another kind of sausage, with or without blood. We took it without the blood, thank you very much. If you were lucky, they served brown bread. I developed a passion for Irish scones and chewy brown bread that rivals Mom’s baked goods obsession.

Some OTHER people recently visiting the country developed such a nose for the ale that she (I mean the mythical person) could tell from across the room whether the drops spilt on the pub floor were Guinness, Swithwick, Murphys or, God forbid, Heineken. She (I still mean the mythical person) could further place the source of the brew’s hops in the proper county, within 2 kilometers of the farm, and speculate intelligently on which of the farmer’s sheep had fertilized the field. That requires a level of dedicated study heretofore unheard of in one week’s time. But what happens in Ireland stays in Ireland, as they say.

Anyway, enough of a travelogue for now.

Hope all is well will all of you-
Lots of love,
Peg