Irish Adventures part 3

 September 13, 2008

“Snogging the Blarney Stone”

Hi again,

It had to happen! We’ve finally experienced the miserable weather that everyone warned us about! Rain is whipping away like crazy at the windows as I write this, but thankfully we managed to find refuge before getting a drop on us. Must be the luck of the Irish Aussies! We’ve been so damn lucky with rain so far. It can be pouring down, and just as we pull into a car park it will slow to a drizzle or stop all together. The universe is smiling on us!!

So……where was?

From Waterford we visited New Ross and a replica of one of the ships that took Irish famine victims to America, the ‘Newbrody’. What an experience it proved to be. It wasn’t a large vessel, yet up to 300 people were crammed on board for the 6 week trip across the ocean. A space no bigger than a double bed was allocated for up to 10 people. Inadequate food rations, disease and lack of sanitation meant these vessels were referred to as ‘coffin ships’. Actors dressed as they would have at the time gave a performance below deck based on real records. A Mrs. O’Neill from steerage came forward mopping her brow as she burnt up with fever. Typhoid and Cholera were the main killers on the journey. Mrs. O’Neill explained in softly spoken Irish that she came aboard with her husband, 5 children and 40 shillings. Sadly Mrs. O’Neill and her husband died on the voyage, and there is no record of what became of the orphaned children. There were many, many such stories and it was both fascinating and horrifying to hear them recounted.

After that rather somber experience, we decided to lighten things up by driving one of the scenic routes to Kilkenny. The path we took has been called the ‘craft route’ as this region of Ireland is well known for its artists. We’ve found the Irish term ‘scenic route’ usually also equates to ‘dangerous, narrow and winding’, and this was no exception. Just had the thought that maybe we’re crawling into bed so embarrassingly early each night partly because of the white-knuckle driving we’re doing each day? Of course we stop whenever the whim is upon us, and this day we spied an old church set back from the road and decided to explore. The building sat next to a creek that was foaming white with the influx of water from the recent rains, causing a pleasant gentle roar. Huge fir trees with trunks covered in thick rich green moss towered over the building, dwarfing its simple lines. There was a bell tower in a little courtyard to the back, and childish though it may have been, I just couldn’t resist giving the rope a tug and smiling at the impressively deep tone that sounded – though I did half expect some angry clergyman to come charging out of the church to abuse me!

We were alone there though apart from two local Irish ladies who we suspected may have been nuns who encouraged us to go inside.  It was clear as we entered that the church still being used regularly. It looked exactly like any other working church, complete with a lit candle on the altar, hymn books on the back of the pews and a statue of Jesus up there gazing down on it all. The stained glass window bathed the whole inside with gentle coloured light, and the sound from the creek outside was a gentle murmur that could only just be discerned. Passing the confessional, again the little devil inside me couldn’t resist opening and peaking at the side that the priest sits on. Much cozier than the whole kneeling situation the ‘sinners’ have to endure I must say. We got a couple of pictures of ourselves in pious poses within the confessional. Naughty maybe, but we didn’t get struck by lightning or thunderbolts as a result. Hee hee!

Safely arriving in Kilkenny (land of the victorious Hurlers) we immediately settled ourselves into Kytelers pub for the necessary lunchtime refreshments. History seeps out of the walls in these place with their low ceilings, dim lighting (gotta love that), and thick old beams. Marissa has taken quite a liking to Guinness, and was so thrilled when her first pint arrived with a perfectly formed clover indented in the foam. So amazed was she by this clever artistry that she proceeded to take a great many photos of the glass. There were a few raised eyebrows from the locals at that, let me tell you! Bloody tourists taking photos of Guinness! Sheesh! What’ll they do next? I still haven’t been brave (or drunk) enough to try the stuff. It looks so dark and nasty to me and doesn’t smell too good either.

Refreshed and revitalized we set off for a tour of the totally restored Kilkenny Castle. Oddly, the tour guide had a strong Yugoslavian accent that made him difficult to understand at times,  but he also had a sharp wit and his anecdotes were amusing when we heard them. The castle has been restored to its full magnificence, complete with some original furniture and artworks. It was easy to imagine the royals striding regally down the grand staircases or dancing in the ballroom. Well worth the stop!

Our next port of call was the city of Cork. Driving in to Cork the skyline was peppered with big chimneys’ spewing smoke and the silhouette of cranes. Not terribly inviting or attractive. Many of the main roads in Irish cities were designed before cars were invented, so in Cork, as with many of the cities we’ve explored, the traffic congestion was nightmarish. Crawling slowly through the peak hour traffic, we were again frustrated with the absence of signs.

One of our hosts at a B & B told us that the Irish absolutely hate signs. We’d been moaning over the fact that we often came to a T intersection or some such that provides no clues as to which direction we should head. “Oh yes indeed,” he smiled, “We had a big sign erected just down the road from us some years back showing that it was the N24 motorway and some other information. Of course it was a huge thing, cemented into place solidly. Well the day after it was put up wouldn’t you know that it was found half submerged in the river? Indeed the supports had been sawn off,” he chuckled. “Again and again they’d put the thing back up only to find it back in the river the next day. Oh yes, the Irish don’t like signs much. In the end they gave up. I suspect that may be a common enough thing to happen in these parts,” he mused. Hmmm… that explains a lot.

Thankfully we didn’t get too lost this time. It only took us a couple of days to establish that Marissa is missing the part of the brain that is able to interpret maps. Once we’d worked this out I took over the navigating and she has been doing a lot more of the driving and it’s proven to be a good formula. We also stop and ask for direction more often, though this has mixed results. The Irish seem to have a fairly flexible approach to the concept of right and left and a rather vague way of describing routes. “Ah yes love,” is often the response, “You’ll be after this road here for a little while before you turn off right on a ways.” At this point they will indicate with their left hand where we should turn. We’ve also noticed that asking for a repetition of the instructions can sometimes lead to a complete contradiction of earlier information. Altogether confusing, but that’s Ireland!

So, despite the challenges we managed to find the B & B we’d picked out from the lonely planet guide. Street numbers are also a rare thing over here on the Emerald Isle, and most addresses have none. This establishment was listed as “Garnish House, Western Rd, Cork.” Western Rd is long…….and packed with B & B’s, but by some miracle we found it. Unfortunately a bunch of American tourists had found it before us and in true red, white and blue style managed to fill the place up with the sound of their loud twang. Cork wasn’t one of our favourite stops, so we moved on.

Time for Blarney Castle and some lip smacking on stone! Once again our luck held with the weather and having ascended the very narrow, steep and uneven steps inside the castle, we got to the Blarney Stone to find the drizzle had stopped. This was a very good thing, as it would have been a miserable experience standing exposed on the top of the castle waiting in line to kiss the rock. As it was we didn’t have to wait long, and now we’re both ‘blessed with eloquence.’ Eloquence is what the Blarney Stone imparts apparently. Can’t you tell by my improved writing style?? Well, maybe not! Lol!!

Our next stop was Killarney, and after a visit to the tourist information for a map and list of B & B’s we set off to find a bed for the night. To our disappointment the first few B & B’s were fully booked, so we had to go down the list to the less salubrious establishments. At one place we knocked and when she answered the door the woman retreated several paces down the hall to speak to us from an uncomfortable distance. It may have been that she thought it was dimmer from that vantage point? She had severely crossed eyes and a rather disconcerting twist to her mouth. She also had a stooped posture and a habit of rubbing her hands together up close to her face that totally added to her witch-like countenance. Creepy!!

It had started to rain by then, so we decided to check out the room anyway. Usually the B & B owners offer to show you the room, and welcome you with a smile. Not so Ms. Witchy-poo. She just stood in the shadows with a malevolent stare until we asked if we could see the room. Turning abruptly she lurched up the stairs to a room with two single beds in it and nothing else. It was empty of other furniture because there wasn’t any space for more. The two beds were touching in the middle, and if you breathed in you could get around the edges. Obviously no ensuite or any other ‘luxuries’. Like an old married couple Marissa and I did the eye contact thing and we both knew exactly what the other was thinking. That would be a resounding ‘NO’. The whole time Witchy-poo stood there watching us – though admittedly it was hard to tell what she was looking at because her eyes seemed magnetized to the bridge of her nose., Dry-washing her hands with frightening intensity she leered from a distance. It was brighter upstairs and we could see that she had a wee problem with facial hair that in no way improved her looks. We didn’t want to offend, so I tried to be diplomatic, “Look, sorry, but we have a lot of luggage and we actually need something a little bigger.” Colour crept up her grimacing face and spittle collected at the corner of her mouth. “What are you after then,” she snarled, “a castle?”

I muttered something like “Yes, actually that would be good,” before high-tailing it out of sinister headquarters. There’s that Deliverance soundtrack again! Sadly, the next place we tried we also had a frigid welcome. Again, there was no offer to show us the room, and with a rather loud sniff and a turning down of her already-pursed mouth she simply turned her back on us and lead us up the stairs. This room wasn’t a closet like the one at Witchy-poos, but it was still very small, and the house totally reeked of a mix of Mortein and Mr. Sheen. It was about as welcoming as a septic tank. Pursed-mouth wasn’t too pleased when we politely turned this room down too. She just gave another obvious sniff, looked down her nose like she’d smelt something bad and turned her back on us. Again, she didn’t attempt to show us out and we rather hastily made our way down the stairs and out of the noxious smelling premises.

We decided that Killarney was altogether too scary, and that we needed to blow this town. Wearily, we returned to the car to explore the smaller outlying B & B’s. Thankfully we found a place off the beaten track (The Pot of Gold) that had a really large room and blissfully, an ensuite. It was in the town of Beaufort, and as a double bonus it was stumbling distance to two pubs! Excellent! Or so we thought.

Pub number one was obviously a working man’s hang out, and the bar was populated by Ireland’s equivalent of Australia’s blue-singlet brigade. There was only a low murmur of conversation, as most of the men propping up the bar seemed to be frowning dejectedly into their beers. The barman scowled at us when we ordered as though we’d trodden mud (or worse) into his establishment. There was also a very pungent body odour permeating the room that contributed to the rather unpleasant vibe. We drank up fast and headed down the road to what we thought might be a more family-oriented place. Not! Perhaps smiling had been banned in Beaufort and nobody told us? Again our reception was hostile, but we decided to persevere and ended up playing a few games of darts. The barman handed over three mismatched darts – very begrudgingly I might add. Altogether disappointing, as we’d been hoping to chat with locals, maybe experience a bit of the legendary spontaneous music. Not likely in this town! Ah well – the rain turned into a nasty storm as it turned out (I began this email in Beaufort) and we were snug and tucked in by then, so perhaps it was for the best.

The next day we headed for Killarney National Park, Dingle Peninsula and Dunloe Gap. It was a miserable, blustery day and our host at Beaufort mentioned that as the weather was so inclement, the ‘Jaunting Cars’ wouldn’t be running and that we could take our car through Dunloe Gap, despite this usually not being possible. ‘Jaunting Cars’ are horse-drawn buggies and for a mere $160 you can ride one through the gap for an hour. At that price, had there been opportunity, we probably would have passed on that anyway. That would have been such a tragedy, because we were to experience some of the most dramatic and beautiful scenery imaginable.

We were a little taken aback to discover a very large sign that announced cars were not allowed through the gap. Hmmm………should we trust Joan’s advice? The rain lashed down and horses with their heads hanging low and their carriages covered in blue tarp stood forlornly near the entrance. We decided there was nothing to lose and off we set with Marissa clutching the steering wheel tightly and leaning forward with intense concentration. Mountains rose majestically before us, mist and rain obscuring their peaks. Waterfalls were abundant and flowing fiercely. It’s difficult to describe how utterly breathtaking the scene was. Dark, almost black clouds hung between the valleys and the rain was a fine mist that caused the most curious effect in the wind. The very air seemed to consist of ghostly waves, adding to the mystical atmosphere. At times the road was very, very narrow, and rocks jutted out so frighteningly close to both sides of the car that we found ourselves holding our breath as we inched between them. Thank God there were no other cars we thought! If we were to meet up with another vehicle on this steep, tight road it would mean one of us would have to reverse down. Aaaahhh!  No sooner had we spoken the words and we spotted a car heading towards us. Gulp!! We both broke out in a cold sweat and decided this had been a very bad idea. Shit! We should have taken out the extra insurance!! Inching around the next bend we saw with intense relief that there was just enough space on the edge of the track for us to pull aside, though it looked like we might get bogged in the mud, there was no choice. We survived a couple of these encounters during our trip through the Gap, and only had to reverse once in a relatively easy space.

We emerged from the gap feeling that we’d just had a truly magical experience. The pictures can’t possibly do the place justice as the scale and ambience can’t be transferred (at least not by this photographer). Having said that, we took many, many shots (often from inside the car as it was raining so hard).  The next leg of our trip was towards Dingle and the peninsula. Here the road was better, but at times the edge of the asphalt dropped away to a steep cliff without any barrier between us and empty space towards the ocean. While it’s refreshing to travel in a country that hasn’t taken OH & S on as a religion, it can also be a teensy bit scary at times, particularly when wind gusts rocked the car or another vehicle came towards us at speed. Sometimes the words ‘Go Mall’ (Irish for reduce speed) were written in big white letters on the road just before a particularly dangerous hairpin or steep incline, but usually there was no warning. At one point a creek flowed over the road, though it was relatively shallow, we still weren’t too keen on taking our little Fiesta through it. Again – no choice as reversing wasn’t possible. We survived and patted ourselves enthusiastically on the back after!

Dingle was obviously a popular tourist attraction as busloads of tourists thronged along the waterfront. The accommodation was the most expensive we’ve had to fork out so far (70 Euros each for a bland room with no view). The bonus was that we were staying at the Dingle Bay Hotel and the place had live music that night! Woohoo! Time to party!! All frocked up and excited about the prospect of real live Irish music, we wandered down to the bar. The music was beautiful, but more of the haunting ballad-style than the rowdy tap your feet kind of mood we were after. Dashing out in the rain, I checked out Murphy’s pub next door and that was where it was rocking, so there we moved and there we stayed until the place closed. The group called themselves “The Shenanigans” and they didn’t play traditional Irish music at all, instead, they had the place rocking with numbers like “Living next door to Alice” (you know the one where the audience yells back “Alice, Alice, who the f&^Ik is Alice?”. They played Wild Colonial Boys for us – the only Aussies in the place. We danced with Americans, Spaniards, Germans and English. Danced and sang and drank and laughed and crammed a couple of weeks partying into one night! At around 3am we found ourselves back at the closed bar of the Dingle Bay Hotel having a drink or 7 with the owner and a few of the staff……. I think…….hiccup……Thankfully I have control over the downloading of photo’s each day, and let me tell you some of the less flattering pictures of me will not be saved!!

Waking up (or should I say regaining consciousness) the next morning was not a pleasant experience. There was no drummer in the previous night’s performance, but there was definitely one camped in my sore head this morning and he was pounding away in time to my rolling tummy. Marissa was begging me to shoot her, but as I told her at the time if there was a gun I’d be aiming it at myself. We didn’t get to see the breakfast banquet, as we were too busy moaning and being utterly miserable in our rooms. The concept of driving anywhere was just……appalling. However, white-faced and shaking we made our way to the car (down 33 stairs I might add) and began our journey forward. We went through O’Connell’s pass which turned out to be bloody hair-raising and the long way to Tipperary (I shit you not).

Needless to say we didn’t take any photos or make any deviations on our way to Tipperary. The scenery might have been the best we’ve seen so far – I really couldn’t tell you as my eyes were coated in sandpaper and locked on the road before us. We took turns driving and sleeping for the couple of hours our journey. Eventually we felt able to eat something and stopped in Tralee for brunch around 11.30 (that’s where I spoke to you on the phone Rog, so apologies if I sounded a bit flat am sure you understand now). Have I mentioned how incredible the colour green is over here? We’ve been trying to come up with words to describe the unique quality of the colour – verdant, lush, luxurious, emerald……..but today it was just LOUD! Towards the end of our trip this day we came across a frustrating delay in the form of roadworks. When we saw how the Irish set up their witches hats we laughed until we had tears streaming down our faces. Talk about overkill!!! For several kilometres the hats were placed – but it was their formation that had us in hysterics. Where in Australia the hats would be spaced a couple of metres apart – here they were tightly clustered – almost touching. On and on they went as far as the eye can see.  

Getting through the sea of orange and white witches hats we eventually found Aisling House just out of Tipperary. This has proved to be our favourite B & B so far. Tony greeted us to the door and gave us a warm Irish welcome – he even made us laugh a couple of times which was miraculous considering how we felt. The shower was heavenly as there was actually enough pressure to get wet under, which hasn’t always been the case at previous B & B’s. We also managed to catch up on our washing which means we smell better I’m sure!!

I’m sitting in our room now typing and it’s a HUGE space with two double beds and plenty of space to spread out. The entire home has been decorated in an opulent red and cream theme. Our window looks out over a splendid expanse of that uniquely luxurious green grass – thankfully it doesn’t appear so lurid today. We had a solid, refreshing sleep last night in blissful quite and have just polished off an excellent Irish breakfast. Tony had us in stitches over breakfast with his stories and we’re hitting the road with a smile on our faces once more. Today we’re aiming for Bunratty Castle and a few other attractions around Galway.

Leaving you now to pack up and explore some more. Onward to more adventures!!!

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Irish Adventures part 2

11/9/08

“Hurling in Ireland.”

Hi everyone,

As I’m beginning this email it’s 7.30am in the morning Aussie time, 10.30pm in Ireland. While you begin your day I’m comfortably propped up with many pillows on a big double bed looking out a large, rain-splattered window. The view is down to the unfortunately named River Suir and the city of Waterford below. Marissa has just made me a lovely cuppa and we’re resting after a day of driving down endless Irish laneways in search of elusive landmarks. You’d think it wouldn’t be so hard to find a castle right? Well, today we outdid ourselves by failing to find any of the attractions we set out to see. The Irish certainly have a sense of humour when it comes to signage and directions. We ended this successful foray into county Waterford by visiting the Waterford Treasures Museum which was so stunningly boring we almost had to be resuscitated by the end of the tour. Bet you’re not jealous anymore?

Ah well, it’s the journey, not the destination right? When last I wrote we had just checked in to our Hotel in Dublin. Marissa took off to a comedy show while this raging party hound curled up in bed and tried to catch up on zzz’s. Our second day in Ireland involved a bus tour of the city. The tour guide burst into song occasionally and to my utter embarrassment, I felt myself crying every time he started! He sang such hauntingly familiar songs (that oddly, I can’t recall hearing before) in a rich, deep baritone. So there I was sitting in the front at the top of a green bus rumbling through the streets of Dublin, sniffling and blinking fast and trying not to be obvious about it. Marissa went to tell me something, noticed my snuffling and blubbering and did the ‘What’s the matter?” thing to which I wailed “I’m just SO HAPPY!!!” And no, I wasn’t drunk – though the lack of sleep may have made me a teensy bit more fragile than usual. Now I didn’t have to reveal that particular bit, so if any of you boys (or girls) reading give me any grief over it I will get violent. Consider yourself warned! 

We ended up jumping off the bus at the National Art Gallery, as we’d really enjoyed the gallery experience in London. What we didn’t realize was that it was a ‘modern’ art gallery. The very first piece of ‘art’ we studied consisted of a bit of butchers paper with the words “You give me the creeps” written in red child-like scrawl across it. Hmmm…..that was enough to set us off giggling like fools. The rest of the exhibition was in a similar vein – both in terms of the ‘art’ and our reaction. My favourite was a piece of lined foolscap paper that had obviously been scrunched up and flattened out again before being framed. Beautiful!!  The gallery staff may have thought we had a rather odd reaction to the displays, as no matter what we saw we had the same response – uncontrollable belly laughs! Yep. Everyone’s a critic.

Controlling our mirth with difficulty, we rejoined the bus tour and headed back to central Dublin. We strolled through crowded cobbled streets and window-shopped until we eventually came across the statue of Molly Malone. It was here at the base of the monument that we met the character Connor. Perched on the base of the monument to Molly, Connor played passionately on an Irish Bodrham (not sure of spelling – like a tambourine, but a traditional drum). Not a young Man, Connor would have been at least 70 years of age, but played that drum with the energy of a much younger person. What a figure he made with his infectious, open smile, the slightly reddened, shiny complexion of a man who’d spent a lot of time outdoors (or indoors with a pint) and rheumy blue eyes that nevertheless sparkled with mischief.  Dressed in traditional Irish garb – a perky little tweed cap and a worn patchwork waistcoat dotted with badges from around the world, Connor had drawn quite a crowd.

Stepping up to place some coins in his cup prompted Connor to stop playing and immediately jump up to thank us profusely and ask if we’d like a picture of with him. As it turned out, Connor was only too delighted to chat to us while the crowd dispersed waiting for him to recommence. It’s hard to put down in words what a charisma the man had, and how happiness just shone from him. “Oh and aren’t I the luckiest man in the world?” he said. “Look at the people I meet every day, the music I make, the smiles I see!” There was no doubt that his pleasure was genuine, and it was so wonderful to hear his soft accent and share his cheerfulness. We’ll each treasure the photo we have of Connor grinning so contagiously into the lense. Just before we left him to go back to entertaining the patiently waiting crowd, he recommended that we head off to O’Neill’s pub. This proved a great tip as the pub is awesome.

O’Neill’s is a rambling, dimly lit pub that smelt of roast meat, beer and laughter. There appeared to be 3 or 4 levels to the place depending on where you were standing – stairways that didn’t lead anywhere, little alcoves that once explored led to comfy, intimate little corner spaces furnished with a leather lounge or 2. When we arrived it was relatively quiet, and by the time we left it was throbbing with the sound of raised voices and clinking glasses. We found it’s very expensive to drink in Ireland. A Stoli costs the equivalent of AU$12 a bottle, a glass of wine anywhere from AU$14 – $20. Ouch.

Marissa and I are nothing if not resourceful, and we had learnt in London that buying your own wine by the bottle didn’t hurt the wallet so much. Stocked up with a reasonable white wine, we decided to have a wee party in our room that night before heading out for some traditional Irish music and dancing at the Arlington across the river. The best laid plans etc., We started getting ready to go out about 6pm, but there must have been some sort of time warp in Dublin, because by the time we were ready to leave it was nearly 9.30pm. Oops. Missed the show. Oh well, we thought (hiccup) we’ll just wander over anyway and see what’s happening. Not a lot as it turned out. Oddly for a place that’s known for its inclement weather, they didn’t open their cloak rooms till 11.30pm. We didn’t fancy standing around like eejits with our coats for a couple of hours, so like the true party animals we have become in our dotage, we meandered back to our hotel.

The Paramount where we were staying is in the heart of Temple Bar – the nightlife capital of Dublin. It was an experience in itself walking back through the congested narrow cobbled streets. Crowds formed around buskers in tight passageways, and their music had to compete with various nightclubs pumping out music at maximum volume. We pushed through big packs of tarted up women on Hens nights and loud lads who seemed to have lost their volume control. Sadly, there are a great many beggars in Dublin and here we saw a young girl of 15 or so carrying a 6mth old baby working the crowd. “Can you spare some money for me and my baby?” she’d ask as she approached likely marks. We had seen several women in the city with toddlers or babies sitting on the sidewalk with a cup in front of them begging, so it wasn’t new, but remained very disturbing to see.

Eventually we made our way back to the Paramount and decided to call it a night. Oh yes, the town of Dublin was shaking in its foundations from the serious partying we’d brought to town. The thing was, Dublin didn’t seem to care that we wanted to sleep, and it stubbornly refused to co-operate. 3 stories up provided no insulation to the screams, shouts, sirens and beeping horns that shook the night. At around 2am I had the bizarre idea that I could hear a horse clip-clopping amongst all the cacophony. For a brief time I thought that it could be a dream and that sleep may have claimed me without my noticing. This hope was dashed when leaning out my window I saw that indeed there was a horse and carriage plodding loudly down the alleyway amongst the messy crowd. Go figure.

The less said about that sleepless night the better. As I’d managed to kip through a plane taking off, I’d thought that it was possible anywhere. I was wrong. Did I mention how fatigue had added 10-15 years to my face? On Sunday morning this was a conservative estimate. Let’s just say I could go and apply for a senior’s card without any raised eyebrows. It was in this state that we had to pack up and go get our rental car.  Thankfully, it was relatively easy to get out of Dublin and we headed south on the motorway towards county Wicklow for our first foray into rural Ireland.

As all freeways look the same, and I was driving, I decided to take us via the more scenic routes and quickly exited onto a smaller road. We travelled through those typical country lanes you’ve heard about where the canopy of branches form a dappled and inviting arch to drive through, where the hedges are so close to the side of the road that they brush the car as you drive by. Alarmingly in some spots the hedges brush both sides of the car – we had been warned about this Irish traffic foible, so took it as slowly and carefully as possible. In this way we meandered through the town and Bray on the coast and intended to continue on to Greystones. Arriving in Bray for the second time, we stopped for lunch and sat pondering the fact that we had managed to drive in a loop. Amazingly, we had a bench seat in the sun that overlooked the ocean, so we weren’t too concerned. To our surprise we saw a dolphin playing out amongst the slate-coloured waves, and decided we’d been returned here to see this very sight.

When we left Bray we were confident that we had checked our position and were headed south, so it wasn’t even slightly amusing when we saw “Welcome to Bray.” F*&K the dolphins!!! I’ve read this book! It’s a horror!! Amidst much teeth gnashing and frowns we re-consulted the map and decided that it lied. Despite fears that we would forever be trapped in Bray, like some kind of Irish groundhog day, we did manage to escape eventually. It was on to Greystones, Arklow and a town called Enniscorthy seemed a good spot to stop for the evening. At least we thought we’d stay in Enniscorthy as the Lonely Planet Guide suggested a few inviting B & B’s would welcome us. Firstly though, there was a pressing bladder issue to settle. It’s easy to find a loo in Ireland people told us, just wander in to any pub and use the amenities there. Obviously whoever told us that has not been to Ireland. If only it were that simple. Firstly, it was Sunday and the streets of Enniscorthy were eerily absent of people. Up and down roads we went and only one or two people walking the streets in this relatively large town. It was 4pm on a Sunday and not a single convenience store or service station was open. Meanwhile back at the bladder things were getting Urgent with a capital ‘U’.

Desperately driving faster (as though it would help to get nowhere more quickly), up and down the empty streets we drove. “There’s one!” Marissa screamed triumphantly, and indeed a small sign indicated “O’Shea’s Hotel.” Parking the car in the Irish way – wherever the hell it landed – we hurried across to the door of the pub and the sound of a mob within. My bladder suggested being shy wasn’t an option so I marched boldly in to a crowded room full of big, hairy, aggressive looking men. Marissa insists there was a token female amongst them, but am sure she had long hair confused with female gender. My marching abruptly turned to hesitant steps as I realized all eyes were on us and that the sound of laughter and talking had stopped. The only sound in the room was a match on the big screen TV. We’ve found the people in Ireland have been amazingly friendly, and yet, in this tiny little bar in the south-west backwaters there was hostility in their gazes. Marissa bumped in to my back as my steps faltered and the sound of the Deliverance movie began playing in my head. Oh yeah, I’ve seen this movie too, & I didn’t like the ending. Scanning the room frantically for any sign of a toilet we saw nothing but harsh glares. It was a little pub so it didn’t take too many strides to get the hell out of there.

Racing back to the car we jumped in and with a squeal of tires raced away from the scene. The bladder issue had moved into the red zone. Forget ‘Urgent’ and think ‘Critical’. At this moment we spotted one of those horrible Dr. Who style Tardus structures that house a loo in the middle of a street. Fumbling Euros (can’t believe they charge  people to use facilities like this) we eventually came out able to talk and move normally, but still rather stunned with the recent events. What the hell had just happened in that pub? We weren’t so sure we wanted to stay here anymore. Consulting our Lonely Planet Guide again we found that one of the B & B’s listed was rated very, very highly, so we decided to risk a night in this odd little town despite our reservations. However, after locating the B & B we found that despite an empty car park at the front of the B & B, a sign in the window indicated that there were No Vacancies. Obviously, we weren’t meant to stay in this odd little town.

On we drove, becoming more and more weary now as the day stretched on and the miles accumulated. We passed many a B & B sign, but all were on busy roads and looked very ordinary, so we continued for a long time before we finally found a likely prospect. Driving up a long, steep driveway on the outskirts of Waterford, we eventually came to a very grand looking Manor House – “Sion Hill House”. Somewhat concerned about the  budget, we decided to pay whatever they hell they asked so that we could STOP and REST and recover from the previous two sleepless nights. It was here that the mystery surrounding our Enniscorthy experience was revealed.

Standing at the front door we turned and looked back over an utterly magnificent view. The river Suir sparkled far below and the lights of the town of Waterford began to twinkle in the dusk. Turning back to the door as it opened we hopefully asked if there was a room available for the night, and to our utter relief, we were told ‘Yes.” Introducing herself as Antoinette, our host showed us through a massive home packed to the ceiling with all kinds of odd things. Antique furniture lined the wide hallway, there was red carpet on the floor and chintzy wallpaper. Antoinette showed us to the rooms available and we immediately said we’d take it. In the top corner of the front of the house, the room had a double and a single bed, huge ensuite with bath and the best part was the large windows overlooking the city below at the front and the enormous garden sprawling in all directions away from the house.

Lugging our own bodyweight in luggage up two flights of stairs was fun, and after that Antoinette had suggested we come downstairs for a nice cup of tea. Can you say alleluia?!! Waiting in the ‘drawing room’ while our host prepared our tea, our eyes were nearly bugging out of our head. The room was jam-packed with unrelated items. Every available space was cluttered. Large lounges faded mustard velvet and ornate wooden arms backed up against a grand piano. Gazing malevolently from the side table next to me was a stuffed ferret in some kind of death-duel with a rearing cobra. Go figure! My eyes kept being drawn back to the ferret’s smile and it was so hard not to laugh! Next to that was a Waterford Crystal vase and some get-well cards that looked as though they may have been there since 1923.

Anyhow, it was Antoinette who solved some mystery for us. A thin, nervous woman, she twittered and fluttered and spoke quickly and, we were soon to learn, without taking breath (yes – her ability to talk without pause made me look like an amateur). “Well, it’s very fortunate you came just now, as if you’d arrived ½ an hour ago I wouldn’t have answered the door,” she said. “Actually, I probably would have, but I must admit to having a few tears, and what would you have thought of that if you’d just got to the doorstep and I opened it crying? But of course you’d understand, because it was such an important game for Waterford, and they haven’t won since 1946, and we just so hoped that they’d be triumphant today…….” And on she ran, confusing us until we realized there would be no opportunity to wait for her to pause so we could ask a question. When conversing with Antoinette, we learnt that if we needed to ask a question, we just had to talk over her.

It turns out that Waterford & Kilkenny had just competed against each other in the Irish Hurling Grand final. To my amazement, I learnt that this was a popular sport and that it had nothing to do with vomiting. Hurling (the sport) is a very, very big deal in Ireland. How I’ve lived my life without this knowledge is hard to understand, but there you have it. It explained a few things though. Firstly the whole Enniscorthy scary pub experience – we had inadvertently strolled between a large group of Hurling fans and the big screen TV showing their game. In retrospect we were lucky to come out of it alive!! It also explained the B & B with the ‘no vacancies’ sign, and the deserted town. It turns out there wasn’t some police-based festival on at all – which had been our personal interpretation of the blue and white flags flapping everywhere. Waterford team colours are blue and white. Sheesh. We would have avoided this place if we had realized we were entering a city reeling from a crushing sporting defeat. Good one!

In the end, we were really glad to have stayed there as we saw a wonderful side of the Irish spirit. Despite the annihilation the team had experienced, the crowds in downtown Waterford were in no way hostile or aggressive. We drove down to town for dinner and once again had conversations with random people while waiting for food etc., They all said the same thing, what a fantastic effort the team had made to even make it to the finals! The mood wasn’t somber or melancholy, nor was it irate. It was just the usual Irish laughter and carry on. We stayed two nights in Waterford – I began writing this email on the second evening of our stay (after our first botched attempt to visit the local attractions). The Waterford team members came home on this evening – and there was a grand welcome home parade along the waterfront to celebrate their return (victorious or otherwise).

Marissa and I had the best seats in town. We gazed down to an incredible spectacle below as hundreds of people in blue and white congregated along the riverfront. Music pumped out so loudly that we could hear it clearly from our vantage point more than a kilometre away (through double glazed windows!). Finally the team arrived in a blue and white double decker bus and the crowd went wild!!! Antoinette went down to the parade to be part of the action, while her husband George stayed behind and enthusiastically rang the house bell when the bus made its way through the crowd. There were some speeches (which we couldn’t hear) and more partying for about ½ hour before the crowd dispersed. Did I mention it was pouring with rain? If this was how they treated the losing side, what sort of a party were they holding in Kilkenny? The party was to continue for the week in Waterford, so we though Kilkenny would be our next logical destination!

On our last morning at Sion Hill we strolled through the prize-winning gardens and came across George tending to a garden bed. He took us on a bit of a tour, giving us some wonderful tidbits on the history of the house and its occupants. At one point he said “Oh now then, you must have a look at our treasure before you go,” and proceeded to lead us through thick undergrowth to a large moss-covered statue. 2000 years old, it was a statue of St. Paul that had been erected there by the Knights Templar. Imagine having something like that in your garden, hidden behind the branches? Why keep it hidden away and unprotected? Theft. Apparently the head of the figurine could be sold for thousands to a museum, and many of the priceless sculptures in the area have been desecrated this way. Hidden he remains. Weren’t we lucky to see him then? 

********* To be continued********

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