Because I have no original content to offer you, I'm re-posting some emails I sent after my first trip to Ireland in 2000. I was a total dork back then. Reading them has made me realize how much better this blog would be if I still drank a lot.
Ireland, Day 1
After a not-so-long flight (5 1/2 hours), we arrived in Shannon at 6:30am.
We were glad to get away from all of the stupid American tourists who
shouted across the aisles to each other and wore name tags. also, the first
thing you see when you get off the plane is a room full of ashtrays. Reason
1 why Europe is better than the U.S. The car rental people accidentally
gave us an automatic, which was great because they are about $250 more per
week and we'd decided not to get one, a decision which certainly would've
cost us our lives our first morning on the road. We picked up our cute
little red Corolla and hit the road. As has been noted before, the Irish
drive on entirely the wrong side of the road. When we came around the first
curve and faced oncoming traffic (we were both in the correct lane but the
roads are so skinny that it doesn't really matter) we all spontaneously
screamed at the top of our lungs. Fortunately, Laurie, who was driving, managed to resist the impulse to throw her arms up in front of her face (Bree and I succumbed).
It was about an hour drive to our first destination, Doolin in Co. Clare
("home of traditional music in Ireland") and there was a lot of cursing and
whimpering as we tried to hug the small area between the stone walls on our
left and the trucks, buses, and lunatic Irish screaming by on our right. We
scraped our left rearview mirror on quite a few fences, hedges and cars, but
we only screamed a couple more times. It was about 8:30am, and the early
morning sun on the fields and little towns was perfect ("Everyone but
Laurie, look at that!") We thought it was funny.
Doolin was right where it was supposed to be, and we were overjoyed to get
out of or little red joyride toward death. Our first stop was the pier,
where the ferries leave for the Aran Islands. It was a sunny, windy morning
and we crept out over the karst (look it up) to the shore. There were sheep
fields and huge boulders all around us, and wild sea cliffs lining the shore
in both directions. We were ecstatic, but we also really had to go to the
loo and we were getting a little punchy from lack of sleep combined with the
adrenaline rush of several close brushes with death so we climbed back into
the scary car and headed for "town". Nothing was open, so we milled around
the payphones for a humiliatingly long interval, trying to figure out how to
use the phone. Mission accomplished, we struggled up to the B&B/post
office/store and fell asleep "for an hour". Five hours later, we hauled
ourselves out of bed and headed out in search of the craic.
By this time, it was dark. Not like, "Oh the lights are off" dark but like
childhood nightmare dark. We'd had one drink at the pub by the B&B, so
picture us stumbling blindly down the rutty road, hands outstretched to
feel for sheep and walls and what-have-you, and scrambling up on top of
stone fences to get out of the way when cars came flying by. Once Bree and
I fell into a ditch between wall and road and I got trapped by sticker
vines. By the time we were in sight of O'Connor's, a beer had never ever
looked so good.
So in we went and up to the bar where we ordered stew. It was like Dinty
Moore, but much worse. But who cares, since we also got heaps of brown
bread and butter. The bartender heard us complaining about the horrible
walk and offered us a ride back up the road (she had the hots for Laurie in
a big way). So, to hurry toward the end of day one, we ended up in this
pub with a hottie bartender and six old locals. We ended up talking about
poitchin and U.S./Irish politics (Trip catch phrase: "Clinton was grand for
Ireland") until way after the pub closed. Two of the men were from Mayo and
we told them funny sheep anecdotes (at least we thought they were funny)
and they stole Laurie's cigarettes and she whined about it until we took her back to the B&B and went back to the bartenders house to drink more. He lived in an unheated stone cottage in the middle of godforsaken nowhere so we soon went home. Interestingly, he was a little hippie Irish kid who quit his job to move to Doolin and play the bodhran. He idolized Bob Marley and used the word ganja a lot, which is very funny spoken in a culchi Irish accent. It was an interesting introduction to Ireland.
DAY 2
Ah, Doolin, I hardly knew ye. I forgot to say that L. and I had a tiff
before we even left for the pub and she was mad the next morning that we had
stayed out after her, even though she was violently ill while we were gone
so it's not like she would have been great company anyway. But I digress.
Also forgot to point out that we managed after-hours access and a couple of
free beers on our very first night. Cha-ching.
Woke up Friday morning with a hangover that would have killed Joel, but the
huge greasy Irish breakfast helped. Drove under a low sky the few miles to
the Cliffs of Moher (note: this is not pronounced "mohair" and if you choose
to pronounce it thusly when asking for directions, you will be sent in the
wrong directions and everyone will laugh at you behind your back. We saw it
happen to a dumb boy and it was funny). Clare is so unbelievably beautiful.
We hiked along the Cliffs and all around us we could see the sun breaking
through on distant fields and sea gulls flying around way far below us. As
we tramped through the rain toward the lookout point, Laurie fell on her ass
in the mud and the weight of her backpack kept her down there a bit, rather
like a turtle. I wasn't allowed to laugh at the time, but I can now. And I
do.
On Rasta-Jared-the-bartender-of-love's suggestion, we stopped for lunch in a
wee town called Lahinch, which is where the Irish go to party down
apparently. It has beautiful beaches and the houses make it look like
Florida. There's tons of palm trees. So we sat next to a turf fire and ate
a big plate of mussels while we watched the little kids ride their Razors
(scooters) on the boardwalk. By that time the sun had come out and it was a
beautiful day.
We drove about an hour to Limerick. This is what I have to say about
Limerick; Limerick sucks. We went because we had to drop off a gift to some
friends of my landlord, and we stayed because they insisted we have dinner,
and we thought it would be fun. Their argument that we should definitely
see a "real Irish person's house" seemed unassailable when I was drinking in
Doolin early the preceding evening, but in the harsh, gassy light of
Limerick it occurred to me that I have been to real Irish people's houses in
the U.S., and of course we'd been to the 200-year-old stone cottage the
night before with Bodhran Boy.
Nonetheless, after I lost their number twice and we got lost in some
Angela's Ashes slum for a while, we settled into a B&B with the weird, needy
owners and set off to find David and Fiona's house, cake in hand. The
directions went like this: "Go out the Dublin Road and follow it through
town. You'll come to around about. Go right-like. About fifty yards down
the road there's a-no, ye wouldn't know that. Anyway turn left, and left
again , say, 100 yards on, and go t'rough the next roundabout. Then you'll
have to be after asking directions because the roads have no names and
someone will point you toward us." Fortunately the people we stopped to ask
for directions turned out to be them so it all worked out. We had a great
time at dinner even though the food (spaghetti, to be sure) had way too many
ingredients for Bree and the cake we brought tasted like ass (note: stick to
Cadbury products in Ireland if the craving for sweets hits you. They
haven't quite mastered dessert yet, what with the Diaspora and all). Cute
David and Fiona kept trying to speak Americanized English for us; like "So
we'll see ye at half seven-er, 7 t'irty, then" until I broke it down for
them and explained that I am really cool and I already speak Irish (unlike
Laurie and Bree, who needed me to translate for them for a couple of days).
We left their house and went back to the B&B instead of going to the pubs.
We just couldn't bear the thought of dealing with the crude souls of
Limerick in any social environment, and the one loo we'd seen that day made
Murphy's seem like a spa so we skipped the whole scene. Anyway, we needed
to save our strength for the next day, when the true drinking endurance
challenge would begin. We needed ret before we tested our mettle against
the best of Ireland in Galway on a Saturday night...
((Best sign we saw thus far: "Guinness Hurling Championship" They kept
explaining over and over again that it's a sport but we just couldn't stop
laughing).
(Reason #2 why Ireland is better than the U.S.: people will beg you to
spend the night at their house even if it's the weekend of their kid's
christening and their house is full of out-of-town relatives and they don't
know you from Adam)
DAY 3: Galway
We set off for Galway with the words of our weird B&B host ringing in our
ears: "Beware of wastrel men in Galway!" Of course, he had also cornered
Bree and told a long, rapturous story about his one trip to the U.S., when
his life was apparently altered by a foray into a strip club in Dallas. In
his mind, however, it wasn't actually a strip club, but merely nude women
dancing on the bar spontaneously, in a show of American patriotism and
Yankee ingenuity. Ken (host), standing a wee bit too close to Bree and
gazing over her head into the misty reaches of his fondly recalled youth, a
smile playing about his lips: "So the next t'ing I knew, they started
dancing on the bar, these great Texas lasses. They took off all their
clothes and just danced around up on that bar..." Bree: "Oh, you mean you
were in a strip club. Those women were the strippers. There's lots of them
in Texas" Ken, breaking out of his reverie, is miffed. "No, it was not a
strip club. The women were just wild. It wasn't even for the lads really.
You don't see that kind of t'ing in Limerick..." Bree, speaking gently:
"Mmm-hmm. But weren't the "lads" giving the women money? You see, because
that's-" Him: "No! I told you..." He also tried to tell us a really
disgusting story about how black pudding gets its flavor while we were
eating breakfast, but we made him stop. It rather put us off our feed, even
with the framed sign hanging in the breakfast area proclaiming that Ken Ryan
was inducted into the World's Greatest Chefs society-by someone named Paddy
Ryan, in Limerick.
Anyway, his warning about "wastrel men" only made us more excited for
Galway. We love wastrel men (not you, Mark; not like that). Driving away
from Limerick, we left the rain behind us and our spirits lifted. En route,
we stopped at Coole, where Yeats wrote a bunch of his poetry. It's now a
national park. We hiked around for a bit and looked for the fabled wild
swans without success. We also stopped to take pictures of distressed
looking sheep with what appeared to be green handprints on their, er,
hindquarters. I only wish I were joking.
Around noon, we saw the "Welcome to Galway" sign. We cheered. Quoth the
guidebook: "Even if you've somehow managed not to find the craic anywhere
else in Ireland, it absolutely cannot elude you in Galway. The city's
teeming pubs and friendly citizens are guaranteed to give you one of the
best nights of your trip, if not your life!" Not to mention the wastrel
men. If we made it there; right behind the "Welcome" sign was this little
gem: "121 people have died on Galway's roads in the last 2 years! SPEED
KILLS!" Not to mention Yanks driving on the wrong side of the road. Yay.
We drove around the city for a bit to find parking. Just as we slid into
our spot, it started raining. Hard. We were pretty hungry, having skipped
most of breakfast in order to escape our host in Limerick. We splashed
around until we came to the Café Lisheen, where we sat around being ignored
for about 20 minutes while the Irish people around us were cheerfully served
before stomping out in a huff, ravenous. We ended up at a posh place called
Kirby's and I ate an Irish Farmhouse Camembert sandwich, whatever that is.
We walked around town feeling much calmer, until we realized that we had
lost the car. We had to stop the Gardai and say a lot of tremendously
stupid things like this: Me: "Excuse me? Hi. Do you know where the J.P.
something and Sons Something is?" Gardai, looking like a cartoon Irish cop
and wearing a yellow slicker: "No, I don't miss. What is it that ye're
after?" Me: "Um, I think we parked our car somewhere near there. It was
also, like, by the river..." (Note: the River Corrib runs throughout Galway.
It's like asking for directions in DC by saying "I think it was near a CVS")
But he somehow set us on the right path and we found it.
We had another bad experience with directions while trying to find the B&B.
We stopped and asked a man in a yellow slicker collecting money for charity
if he knew the way to White Strand Avenue. "Ah, ye can't miss it, so," he
said, staring meaningfully into my Yankee eyes, "It's only down the road
here a piece and left at the roundabout." I thanked him and we were pulling
out of the lot when he dashed up, a bit breathless, and said "I'm only now
after rememberin' what ye're after. You go..." and proceeded to give us
completely different directions. Wastrel.
This B&B was the best ever. They had a cute old dog and Chelsea Clinton
stayed there last year (another reason to love the Clintons). I sent Bree
and Laurie away from me for fear that I would hurt someone (guess who) and
took a nap. I walked into the city to meet them at about 7. They were
right where they were supposed to be, but they had thought we were supposed
to meet at 6 so they were cranky as though I had been late. Laurie was
cold/tired/hungry/bored, so we dealt with her basic needs for a while. This
included going to two separate restaurants so that Bree and Laurie could
both have dinner and be happy (though to be fair, Bree was an excellent
traveler). I was only concerned about finding a seat in a pub, which of
course we ended up not doing because by the time the kids were fed it was
too late and everywhere was packed. We ended up at the King's Head, which
had a really good college band playing American rock covers. The bathrooms
had all this makeup and perfume out for people to use, which I found rather
odd. It was the greatest bar night ever. I couldn't walk two feet without
talking to someone, and people were spontaneously singing all those Irish
songs Conor plays.
It was here that we really began to be struck by how much all Irish people
look alike. It seems that there are only about 10 versions of the Irish
face and if your heritage is strong then you have one of them. It was the
best game of "He looks like-" ever, and it just went on and on. I also
learned that all Irishmen have a similar style to PJ. It's amazing they
ever mange to breed (but they do; there is a maternity store on every block
of every city). Here's a typical, every two feet encounter in the King's
Head:
Irish Boy: Hey, how're you doing?
Me: Good, good. How about you?
IB: Are ye a Yank then?
Me: Yep, only here on holiday.
IB: Where are you from?
Me: Washington, DC.
IB: Terrible town. Can't you eejits even elect a President? What's wrong
with yis?
Me: Hey, I voted. Blame Florida.
IB: Would you like to go into the alley with me?
Me: My, you Irish certainly are charming and seductive.
IB: I'm not after seducin' you, I'm only horny.
Me: I think I'll pass.
IB: A kiss then? Just a wee one?
Or, even more directly:
IB (a different one): What's your name?
Me: Cara
IB: So you're an Irish Yank then. Do you go to nightclubs?
Me: No.
IB: Would you go with me?
Me: No.
IB: Can I kiss you?
Me: Um, I need to find my sister...
But we found a couple of fun wastrels, and they took us to a winebar where
we drank sangria, listened to "Mambo #5" again and again (a little bit of
this song goes real far), and saw many public displays of affection. Galway
is no place for restraint. I met a cute English boy named Simon and we all
left together at closing time. Then {CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED
CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED
CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED
CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED
And off to Dublin!
Ireland 4&5
After a big greasy breakfast we set off for Dublin. We stopped first to do
some shopping, but everything was pretty much closed as it was Sunday
morning so we kept on. The road from Galway to Dublin is basically a
superhighway by Irish standards, which in American terms means it's a pretty
crappy road with crappy scenery. So, when we saw the road for Athenry, we
decided we needed a detour.
For those of you who don't know, "The Fields of Athenry" is a really famous
Irish song that traveling companion Laurie particularly loves. The town
itself, unfortunately, is nothing to write home about (which is funny, since
I actually am writing home about it right now, ha ha). We stopped and
jumped a stone fence into someone's field (love those gun control laws they
have in Europe; you can do that kind of thing without fear) and took a
picture of ourselves, and then went to a gas station to load up on crisps
and chocolate (two things which comprised a big portion of our Irish diet,
along with butter on everything and various pork products for breakfast).
When we asked a woman in the parking lot for directions to
Ballysparsomething-or-other, which was where we were scheduled to rejoin the
Dublin Road, she decided we were too dumb to decipher actual directions and
just made us follow her to the correct road. The Midlands are not all that
exciting scenery-wise, but the little road was much better than the big
'highway". So we tooled along happily for a while until we found an
interesting prospect: a little tiny country pub in the middle of nowhere.
We pulled in, and as we were getting out of the car several people passed us
in their church clothes, going into the pub. Sunday Mass was obviously
letting out somewhere nearby. The most interesting of these characters was
a wee little man in a slouchy black cap. He was short and slight and had
pointy ears and weird teeth, and the overall impression was that he was some
kind of elf, although in his dark, old-fashioned style clothing he also
looked like an old picture of a railroad laborer or something. His three
little kids, two girls and a boy, followed him in.
We walked in a moment later and every head turned. Apparently Yankee girls
do not wander unaccompanied into pubs in Kiltulla right after church very
often. It was also time for the Celtics/Rangers game (big soccer match), so
there were extra people there to see it. As we hesitated by the door, the
Elf grinned elfinly at us, "Ah, there you are, just in time to babby-sit for
me!" We were the only women in sight.
Bree and Laurie went to sit down while I braved the staring men at the bar
to order our drinks. The bartender was careful to ask me if I really wanted
a pint of Guinness as opposed to a half. As I was waiting, I saw what was
surely the most disturbing sign in all of Ireland. Tacked up by the
fireplace, neatly lettered, was this little gem: "Please do not throw fags
into gas fire". Yes, please don't. Even though I'm well aware that fags
means cigarettes in the British Isles, it made me gasp every time I heard
it.
We sat down and drank our beers and giggled at the fact that we were in such
a place. The kids kept peeking around the corner at us and laughing. Then,
I had to buy cigarettes from the machine in the main bar area. Once again,
everyone was very quiet as I walked in and put my money in the machine. And
of course, I couldn't figure out how to make the stupid thing work. I had
a lot of trouble with the coins the whole time I was there, and many
transactions ended with me holding out a handful of silver and asking the
barman or shop clerk to just take the money out for me (OK, it mostly
happened in bars but that is just coincidence.) So anyway, it was becoming
obvious that I couldn't work the stupid machine. The kids are standing at
my elbow, their heads cocked at the same angle, looking up at me quizzically
and probably thinking that I was pretty dumb. Finally, it spit my money
back out at me very loudly. The Elf turned around. "Kids! Why are you
just standing there! Ye should have taken that money right away. Have I
not taught you to always take advantage when a woman makes a mistake?" He
cackled gleefully. The barman (very cute) came and took the correct change
out of my hands for me so that I could get my smokes. I gave the kids all
my American change, which they proceeded to roll all over the floor and
chase, which did not amuse the cute farmer boys who were trying to watch the
Celtics/Rangers game. On our way out (we had to leave because the toilets
were outdoors and Laurie refused to use them), we saw the smallest child, a
little black-haired boy of about two, crawl up on his dad's lap (the Elf)
and say, in his cute little Irish accent, "Please Da, couldn't I have
another sip of the black, please please?" and then he reached for the pint
glass with his little hands which were totally black from chasing the change
all over the floor. Straight out of Angela's Ashes.
And then we drove. And drove. And drove and drove some more. And then I
spent 30 minutes on a payphone in a horrible gas station trying to find a
place to stay in Dublin (of course, I couldn't figure out how to work it and
the clerk sneered at me openly when I had to ask him where the money slot
was. Stupid Americans.) And then we drive and drove and drove, into Dublin
in the rainy dark. And then we got lost. We kept asking people for
directions and they kept saying we were close but they couldn't say exactly
how close or where we should go from there. So I called Mrs. Keane, the B&B
proprietress, to ask her for better directions, but she couldn't tell me
because I had stupidly forgotten to ascertain the actual street that we were
on before I called. (Picture that. I called and said something like "Hi,
we're in Dublin now. Could you tell us how to get to you from...from...this
residential street that I'm standing on, which has no landmarks?" Duh.) So
we drove some more, and eventually found it. We trooped out of the car,
weary after some 7 or 8 hours of travel, and Mrs. Keane opened the door.
Mrs. Keane, a widow who ran the B&B (Briefne) alone, was a piece of work.
The house was lovely, deceptively large and set right against the sea. But,
it wasn't very clean, the showers sucked, and Mrs. Keane talked constantly.
She was like a cross between Sofia from The Golden Girls and PJ (totally
insane bartender from Murphy's). On crack. It was amazing that someone
with that level of energy could not have managed to throw away the 75 used
bars of soap that various guests had left in the bathroom.
Exhausted as we were, we struggled out to the pub anyway. The village of
Raheny sports only two, but we made it to both of them before Laurie and
Bree started whining to go home. We stopped at the fish and chips shop and
Headed home to Briefne to watch the Irish language station and eat some
seriously greasy and good food. Bree refused to be in the same room with me
since I had put vinegar on my fish and chips (she hates the smell) but I
didn't care, because I had the whole place to myself then.
(I guess I never wrote Day 5. Hmmm. That was dumb.)
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