Carlow, Ireland (part 2)
10/22/2008 3:35 PM
As the valley's explode.

After Powerscourt we drove off in the never ending greyness of the day. We wound our way out of the country roads….which are “roads” in the way that Abraham Lincoln and Matthew McCougnahey are both “famous”. They are concrete and they do link one destination to another (the roads not McCougnahey). Thankfully, the Irish are notoriously polite drivers. There is an acknowledgment they give each other a very subtle index finger wave (like “we’re #1”) . To say "Aye thanks" or "Come on through in your wee 44 euro a day car, Ay'll make way for ye laddie." Nobly this all really Norb's concern. In an effort to same some euro we decided that since he has the experience he'll be doing all the driving. All the driving. Some may balk at this but I greedily embrace it. Because as a caveat no matter what the auto emergency you can always blame it on the driver. Trying to be a helpful Mr. Sulu I agree to do the navigating via a series of 3 maps and a GPS. These are all very helpful in being able to communicate the following message to the driver.

"Uhhh we should have turned back there."

This kind of navigational skill can usually only be found by 7 year olds or the Donner Party. We travel down "roads" that very from footpath to "I don't think this is a road" to "Oh christ, just head west! Is that the sun?" Until we finally stumble on to a main highway. Now I don't want to diminish the scenery. Its excellent and like no other. The roads and highways seem to follow the natural contour of the land. As a traveler you feel part of it. Adverse to many of the roads in the states that cut scalpel like through the country. It never really bothered me until I began traveling. Its dreamlike...why you could lay your head against the window and drift off to...SKIDDDDDDDDDDDD!

"I saw something back there!" Norb says with a wild eyed look of a man thats slept for 3 hours and spent the last 2 driving on the wrong side of the road. What would warrant such a reaction? Irish Bigfoot. Wrong. Photo op. Its the first in the journey of stopping or striking out on "adventure". Throughout our trip when ever one of us would cross some barrier, wander from the path or rattle a locked door and the other would question them the answer would always be the same...

"ADVENTURE!"

So its not Indiana Jones but it did have some flair to it. The photo op now was some celtic ruins that lay overlooking a desolate rock strewn valley with low, dark fog slipping through it. The cold biting afternoon winds bit through you but the sight of it begged for further investigation. "It looks like a lovely place to blow your brains out." I said. It really put you in the mind set. Thinking of the residents of years, maybe hundreds of years, ago that lived here. My meager historical understanding recognized the stone crucifixes in the windows indicated that this was most likely a cleric's home at some point. Then I glanced up to the sign noting that we were along "St. Kevin's Way" . I dashed it off in my notebook knowing I'd want to know more about St. Kevin later. Later...this is what I found...

St. Kev seems like quite a guy...

Saint Kevin of Glendalough (c. 498–618), a Christian saint who was the Abbot of Glendalough in County Wicklow. St. Kevin lived in complete solitude for 7 year,-slept on a Dolme (a rocky tomb), was notorious for his disdain of human company (especially women), for a time his name was used as a term for men that had trouble with women, was chaste to an extreme once pushing a woman into thatch of nettles, supposedly to have lived to 120. The "way" here is said to be a path that he walked through Wicklow county.

After numerous pictures and stepping round the beer cans that formed he immortal beer can pyramid in the center of the crumbling walls ("St. Kevin was a Bud man."). We soon took the arrival of some Slavic tourists adorned in horrible head wear as sign enough it was time to get on to Carlow. It was roughly 2 pm and we were feeling roughly. When I initially mapped it, it seemed about an hour and a half out of Dublin now driving it seemed half a world to me, The other strange perception I had in riding shotgun on the "wrong side" of the car was that you seemed to be moving 4 times faster then you actually were traveling forcing you to constantly to ask in a unconcerned yet terrified manner..."Uh say...what warp are we traveling at? heh heh...". It wouldn’t be so bad except instead of the yards and yards wide of median we posses on the roads in the States the Irish in their folksy ways thought it would be good to line their roadways with moss/grass covered rock walls that are 5-6 inches away from the side of the car. There us a sort of comfort knowing that if you do get loose and go off the road that you'll be kindly nudged back INTO the ONCOMING traffic. Its why you'll often see cars on tow trucks with great green smears from quarter panel to quarter panel. When you drive through Ireland you can't count on driving through anywhere between 3 - 10 small towns between you and the nearest gas station allowing you to rev to to 100 kph for about 20 yards before having to slow down for a farmer herding some sheep or a sheep herding some farmers...its all very blurry. As such your navigator (me) role is intregal...at first I chuckled agreeing to this duty figuring I'd get maybe 2-3 naps. But 20 minutes into the trip I realized that I no clue what I was doing and that we'd be flying on instinct. And with all honest...My navigational instinct sucks. Once while driving the Chicago lakeshore and starring at a map I instructed my wife to make a right handed turn into...Lake Michigan.

The long trip the day before, tromping about in the cool mist, it was weighing on us…we were tired and we both know it. We both also knew we were at least an hour away from where we were staying for the night. There were long silences. The eyes weighed heavy. If only for a moment...I might rest them...HEY! Did we just drift to the side? No...I'm sure that...I glance over to Norb. His eyes are wide...well now they were. And there seemed to be a small trickle of sweat. "We really need to get there, man." Within minutes we in fact do pass the city limits. With a valid question Norb asks..."where is this place?". But in our twisty turny way of "Adventure!" we've came into town via the other side that I was expecting. I rumble through the map thinking, quite ludicrously, that if we got on the road that the our lodging was on we'd eventually fund the place. Let me give you another Ireland fun fact. An Irish man likes a good strong drink and after a few of those strong drinks they like to design cities. Man, say what you will about America but we know HOW to design a city. After rolling through up and down the main thoroughfare 4-5 times we finally pull up outside a pub. This is the stuff right out of the dreams I've had about Ireland. Being lost with a crumpled map talking to a bartender pointing and looking as he gets us back on track. But this bartender is new to the area..."This was not in my dream..." I think put he points me down to a group of men in the corner who are definite "local flavor" They most likely were born, raised, lived worked and will die in that corner of the bar. Ireland fun fact #2 the Irish like a strong drink but they LOVE to give driving directions. Asking more than one will definitely lead to vigorous debate. Calling into question the other persons heritage ("Your family has only been inna this town 120 years how could YOU possibly know the way?) their intelligence (aye, ye could go that way...if you're a fecking moron.) and so on. This is all very good and...Irish but when you're goal is simply to arrive you're a little impatient. I ask how to get to our B&B. (Whose name will not going to be given because it might harm its fine reputation and the wonderful time we had staying there. Because I am going to malign it with my own hang ups and stereo types that you'll soon read about.) So I ask about the B&B and I SWEAR the first guy gives a little eyebrow flair. I even thought "that's odd". At least 3 different arguments ensue on how to get to a place 1/2 a mile away on the left if we drove straight. I leave before there is gun play.

We arrive and our B&B is a charming place immaculate, regal and run by the biggest stereotype of a gay man I have ever encountered. He has a lisp that would embarrass Sylvester the cat from Bugs Bunny. He wears a a shirt that has a crease that could cut me. Straight guys not only don't know how to iron a shirt like this we don't even know where to take our shirts to get them ironed like that. I now figure out what the eyebrow flair back in the pub was about "Aye...they'll be staying with the "Dandies". "Irish Dandy" becomes the first official 'word' of the trip. As we drop off our bags in a room that is cleaner than most operating rooms I note there is an envelope on the table for Norb...Its labeled "Daddy". He opens it and is visibly touched getting a note from home. Inside his wife and girls have sent along a little spending money and paid for our lodging for the night. He is visibly touched...until I bring up that it meant that our 'Dandy' was the one who wrote "Daddy on his envelope. I snort and evil laugh as I exit the room to hear his joy turn to shock. Its all about friendship on this trip. Now lets go spend a little of that money.

Looking over the map we discover the Carlow Brewing Company is a short walk from our B&B. The Carlow Brewing Company is a small but fantastical brewery. Its won several awards for it's O'Hara's beer. All of their beers are created in traditional Irish style. The few of us that are aware really keep the secret to ourselves...except for now I am posting on the internet. Its late in the day. Aside from Norb's raves about it I am unaware of it. He hovers round the parking lot until I nearly command him if we wants to see it he'll have to knock. I spend a good deal of my working life either asking questions other people won't ask or pushing at their comfort levels to embrace new things. Adventure?...its not just an unknown road or approaching a stranger in a bar. His love of fine beer wins over his Midwestern sense of infringement and he is ringing the bell. Two heads pop out from the building that in size lies between small warehouse to large barn. Its actually housed in the old "Goods Store" of the town, where the towns supplies would be off loaded and distributed Now...it send s the wonderful brew out to the world. Norb says "We saw the brewery here and I love your beer I was just wondering if we could see a couple things. Take some pictures.". Its 3:30 on a Friday...this guy wants to get home and start his weekend you can see it all over his face. "We've flown all night...from America.", I follow up with "He REALLY loves your beer.". Personal pride over takes him..."I...I can show you a few things.". Its here that our trip goes into awesome....some of you may get it...some of you will just shrug. First off the guy shakes our hands and let me tell you its on of the most solid hand shakes I have ever had. It wasn't over powering. It was solid...like I had taken old of a root of a very, very old oak tree. Remember the old Bugs Bunny cartoon when Bugs faces off against the wrestler and he grabs his arm to throw the wrestler and he just kind mounts and changes position while is beefy opponent doesn't even note him? It was as such. This was a man. He brewed beer from the barley and wheat harvested in great burlap bags held in the corner. Me? Meh...I felt like a shadow in comparison. Like Johnny Fontaine getting slapped around by Vito Coreleone...you'd just sit there and take it. So he shows us "some things". Its building itself is tiny by American standards.


"We brew 66,000 bottles of beer a year. Have a guess why"
"Because that’s all you can do?" Norb jumps in with an answer.
"...its all we can brew."

We note the 4 vats and the "Warehouse" that is stacked high with 6 packs of O'Haras. With hand written pieces of paper with their designations cellophaned on with. "States". "Sweden". "UK". Our host walks us over to burlap bag of their barley. He grabs a handful of it, letting it sift from his fingers back into the bag. Talking about their relation to area farmers and all their ingredients are local.


"You can really taste it..."
"I bet."
"No. I'm telling you. Taste the barley."

Our eyes go wide with excitement like Augustus Gloop allowed to drink from the chocolate river. "Really?!"

"Yea...go right ahead."

I've been on some major brewery tours and you're lucky if you can even see a truck that brings the fixings in. Health, saftey....pffffft! Adventure! We plunge our hands deeply into the grain, then smell and munch it like cereal, tasty beer flavored cereal. I feel like Sam Neil in Jurassic Park...knees are weak. Oh my. We say our good byes not wanting to over stay our welcome besides our host probably has to arm wrestle a bear for his entertainment for the night. We trade happy looks this is just the kind of thing we'd been hoping for these many months of planning. To our chagrin and bucking our reputations. We've been in Ireland for nearly 12 hours without anything to eat and a need of a stiff drink. We then do what will soon become habit for us...we get lost in an area where it seems impossible to get lost. We have walked no more than 1/2 a mile from our bed and breakfast but we are completely spun around. As we wander up and down the quaint streets of Carlow. I sight my first tour book sight "The Liberty Tree", a grand statuary/fountain in the center of town raised in commemoration of the 1758 of the United Irishmen. Norb showed his interest by noting "its not s pub is it?” Quite right. We moved on and eventually found our way back to the N9 and then back to Tullow St.. Bless the Irish for typically putting their pubs all a short stumble from each other. We stand before Teach Dolmain, its the pub we had visited earlier for directions. We decide its only right we start our drinking adventure here just for the gratitude alone. We enter the bar...its like and scene from the old west. There is a long moment of palpable silence as every person in the pub looks directly at us for a long, lingering and HIGHLY uncomfortable moment. I don't know how you do it but you lock eyes with 6 people all at the same time. Your frozen in short terror in front of the door until you realize you are standing directly in front of the television that’s showing a football match. So you've gone from "unwelcome stranger" to "thick headed tourist" in about two seconds. You do the hand out "Oh sorry" move which looks even more ridiculous than the "blocking the view" stance you just had. We scoot out of the way. "That was uncomfortable...". I note The same group of men are in the back of the pub and they are STILL arguing about the best way to get to our B&B and they seem on the verge of a knife fight about it. "Perhaps we should buy them a drink" Norb, always the diplomat, proposes. I think they are doing just fine without us and I don't want to die in the first pub we're in. God has blessed me with the talent of recognizing when a situation is on the verge of breaking down and I should get away quickly. This is that type of situation. We order a beer wanting to seem not so cowardly that we've run off from a fight due to directions. Like men we down our Guinness in quick order and duck out as inconspicuously as we can. That said Teach Dolmain did have an awesome sign. We moved along next door to Racey Byrnes The Plough, a pub dating back to 1829. 1829. That kind of scope is impressive. Goethe wrote Faust in 1829. Andrew Jackson became the 7th president in 1829 and people were standing in this spot having a pint and glass of whiskey in 1829 just as we are know. Its the film maker in in me in that creates an immediate montage of images of people through the years standing there that runs through my head. I'm always fascinated by it. And now we are here...and it really is a "Norb and Jared" kind of place. Mainly due to the fact that aside from a bartender and a lone patron at the bar it is empty. No uncomforting glances to welcome us. We take our places at the center of the bar. The pub is dark yet welcoming, a group of track lighting and flashing gaming lights washes over the room. As we look about you immediately notice the appearance of a chamber pot hanging above your hea-no wait there's another...and another. In fact there is barely a surface above that does NOT have a different style/color of chamber pot on it. "Are you seeing this?" I mutter in amazement to Norb. "The chamber pots? Yeah, I hope this place has a bathroom." Our barkeep finishes her glass washing and approaches us with a "Wot can I be getting for you...". "2 Guinness’s and Jameson’s...and the story on the chamber pots." As she explains it the chamber pots are from the owner of the bar who comes from a family of...wait for it...20. The women readers may all collectively hold their wombs now. That’s right a two and a zero. As the story goes his parents passed away a few years back and each family member had their own "pot", each uniquely shaped and colored as the butt that would one day rest on them. A little out there but definitely cool. In America we're top heavy with Sports Bars and TGI-High Priced drinks were the memorabilia and kitsch is slung on the walls to create atmosphere. It looks like a goodwill box threw up on the wall of Red Robin. I think that there should be a constitutional amendment stating you can only but something on the wall of a bar that has at least a 10 minute story to accompany it not just because the corporate plan-o-gram says you should put up a rusty bicycle, an old time phonograph and a label from a 50' bag of peaches. So where was I? (now you have the true pub experience with me. Odd observations, then a five minute rant until another pint is placed in front of me.) Yes, we were discussing the bar decor with our bartender. I remarked to her about the size of the owner’s family...

"They know what causes that now..."
"Yeah, boredom."

Oh we like this bartender, we like this bar. In embedding ourselves with the pub we soon discovered something that shocked us to the core and we found it to be true across southern Ireland. The Irish are forsaking their black gold, Guinness beer for...Bud Light. As it was explained to us they like it because "its always the same". We sat incredulous, blinking into the low lit gleam of the chamber pots in front of us. How could this be? America what have you wrought? After that stunner, we began talking with the other patron of the bar who thoroughly agreed. The topic of sports then came up where we uncovered through clever purchasing a pint for our friend at the corner of the bar. That not only do the Irish love boxing but if Floyd Merriwether(whom I only have a passing knowledge...my database reads. "Floyd Merriwether, boxer, black guy, most likely would kill me. End of line.") is ever looking for a little loving he should move Ireland. Men and women alike LOVE him. In a adoring, yet nearly stalker type fashion. We talked of the NFL...which to my surprise they really liked, especially Tom Brady and the Patriots ("He's good he's no Floyd Merriwether"). We stuffed a few quid into the swear jar and it was a fabulous time for just 4 people. Then much like a dealer change at a Vegas table a new bartender came on and the mood turned to hunger. We travelled cross the street to "Reddys" fr...well to be honest I have NO recollection of what I ate. Jet lag and a few pints of the black had seized us both to the point of standing exhaustion as we waited for dinner. I think we both nodded off a couple times a concerned bartender asked if my friend needed "anything" because "he seemed to be in quite a state." I apologized and gave rough accounting of moving non stop and now sitting near a warm fire had done us in. A walk into the night air and us subsequently getting lost on the way back to our B&B would wake us up. We adjourned ourselves tramping back into the dark f'ing frigid Carlow night to return to our immaculate and fabulously decorated B&B.