Oh no they Kilkenny…You bastards.
12/31/2008 9:33 PM
As so many times before, we awake groggily, unsure of where we are and how we got there. Actually, I awake. Norb still slumbers like a father who has no children in the immediate area. After few "where am I's?" he's woken and we begin the first of many "packing ups and lugging outs" of our bags from the B&B. I'd like to tell you that after a few attempts we got better at it. I'd be lying. The architectural style of Ireland can be described as "Early Insane Leprechaun". The walls are slim and take odd angles. Staircases sometimes descend a flight only to ascend 5 paces later. We were in one B&B and I swear to you there was one doorway and 5 yards away there as another doorway. We lumbered and banged our way to the acapella chorus of "Whoops", "Errrgh", "Sorry" and "My bad." We would have inflicted far less damage if we simply took our large American suitcases and thrown them through our bedroom window. After loading up our car we returned for breakfast. Which is another bonus for off season travel in Ireland. For about 30-35 Euros (about 40 bucks) in addition to a flop house you also get served a "Traditional Irish Breakfast". Now it varies from locale to locale what that tradition is but the Irish have keenly figured out the exact amounts and combinations of foods you'll need in the morning to get you on your feet. Couple of eggs, toast, sausages, some type of potato, and some black pudding. Now, when inquiring with my heterosexual life mate, Norb, "I've heard of it before…what is it?" Norb's face contorted and worked its way through of giving, yet NOT giving an answer.

"I don't want to know, do I?"
"No, but try it."

To describe it would be it looked like some one had deep-fried a tiny hockey puck and honestly, the hockey puck would have been a better choice. Calling it "Pudding" is a shocking misrepresentation to all that is Jello. It's pudding in the same way Grace Jones is a "Model". Plenty more on the Irish eating fare to come. It's time to climb back into the car and set off for Kilkenny, one of the few stops we'd make. Ireland is a place of limitless beauty except in the grip of jet lag, a night of Guinnessing and and early departure. We rumbled out of town planning on getting to Kilkenny in the morning and Cashel by afternoon.. We made our way out of town on now-familiar streets after either driving or walking most of them in the last 16 hours.

We headed west and met a new love...Irish Radio. It is simply fantastic and you can't help but get drawn in. How I wish I could get it here. Absurd, eclectic and news at the top of the hour. Sometimes they talk for 20 minutes and take a few calls. Sometimes they play music. Segues that would make an American Radio Programmer's head spin off and land in the corner. They'll go from playing Jimi Hendrix "Crosstown Traffic" to Anne Murray's "You Needed Me" and you'll be singing out loud to both. Shortly following thereafter they read the obituaries. Now call it my grim fascination with mortality but I love a good obituary. And its an even better send off when read in an Irish accent. They'll not only run through the locals but the obits for the country and the detail is amazing. It surpasses most of the "come as you are" feel that most of Ireland has. They are reading about deaths that have happened 2 hours ago. "This is a country where you have to struggle to find electronic banking, but THIS they are on top of!" marvels Norb. We then make a little sketch about the grieving family phoning family and friends about the passing of Patrick O'Paddy (our Irish stereotype).

"Call the Douglasses and Uncle Joeseph to let them know that grandad has passed. OH! And be sure to call the morning crew at radio Ireland to get the obituary read!"
"Aye, I will!"

Then they'll break off that and read the news/provide their opinion on the news. They hit the highlights but when it gets local is when it gets good. They field some calls and argue with the caller and unlike American radio where you call in state your question and the host then spends 5 minutes talking about it while you get cutoff. In Ireland you'll stay with the host the whole time and they entertain your questions until reall the conversation runs out...."Oh...I guess you have a point. Listen I have to go and pick up my kids.". The host will sometimes hit topics no one gives a fig about. He'll talk up the subject "Now the EU is stating a raise in farming tariffs will NEED to escalate in the next 2 years. Lets go to the phones and see what southern Ireland thinks of it. Oh...are there no calls, Jimmy? None?" Ok well I guess you don't want to talk about that. Now women in professional sports..." Then there are 200 people waiting to talk. Norb began his griping on this. "Listen to these inane callers...such a dumb topic..." But with in moments he is arguing with them. I loved every second of it while we were there. Although they have some odd system of double coverage. You hit the search on your radio and the next station you find is the EXACT station you just left. Its very twiglight zone.

"There it is again!!! Oh wait this is Blue Bayou from Linda Ronstadt...turn that up."

After awhile we pull into Kilkenny. By some miracle of navigation/divine providence, we always seem to wind up where we want to be or at least blindly stumble into something that interests us. But there is a new challenge afoot. Where to park the car. I didn't pay much mind to it at the time but since the trip Norb has told me how it all but consumed him. Finding a "safe" place to park. And, really, in looking around most of southern Ireland, the parking standard is basically leaving your car where it comes to rest. Sometimes its over the curb, other times
it's someone's lawn and sometimes you'll actually find yourself between two painted lines, actually legally parked. If it happens twic0e in the same day the universe collapses on itself. Norb carefully drove us through town, peering at a number of spaces, then shaking them off like Tommy John on the mound. "Nope...there are teens near that one." We eventually find a safe spot about 2 miles out of town, I'm kidding...it was more like a mile. In planning our trip, Kilkenny Castle was a must stop. We arrived about an hour before it opened and decided to do a stroll round the castle wall. We talked of the previous night and about our families as we stolled the river's edge. I took pause like a hunter spotting a distant antler on the horizon. "Norb...there is a half barrel in the river.." Norb turned and said "...Ireland."
We walked way around far "rounder". We were roughly a couple miles from where we started. Norb took solace when we passed our still-safely parked car. We crossed a few forest paths. Let me tell you this much there is nothing more uncomfortable for a jogger than to have 2 chubby men appear from behind a thicket. We began to joke that we should begun to run after them...but reviewed our goal of staying out of Irish penal system. We then walked the wide lawn approaching the castle. The sun broke the slate cloud cover just as we were breaking out our camera gear. Perfect timing. When taking pictures these are the moments I love. Where you are in the right place at the right time. It's these moments I try to hold onto. I can still feel the warmth of the sunbeam spreading across my cheek. Knowing that I have only a few seconds to set and meter the shot. I manage to roll off several shots before the sun creeps back into the clouds. The moment's gone, but Norb and I have the same smirk of being there to capture it. We approach the castle as 10 AM nears. I should tell you the castle began construction in 1172, and now houses part of Ireland's National Gallery. It was sold at one point for 50 pounds. I could tell you more if we actually set foot inside. There was a sign outside the main gate stating "No Photography". WHA? We agreed that we didn't come all this way to visit places and NOT take pictures. We took our leave. It was then off to the local Internet Cafe...that is after Rain Man Hansen double checks on where we parked the car. It's still secure in the hour we left it parked, on the road, in the center of town, We spend a few minutes in the cafe drinking a coffee and sending emails home. Norb excuses himself to use the bathroom. Only to return quite shakened.

"Problem?"
"That is either the smallest bathroom I have been in or I just relieved myself in the janitor's closet."
"It was that bad?""
"My back was to the wall and my knees were wedged on the door. If it wasn't for the doorknob I'd have never stood up."

It was back to the city of Kilkenny. When exploring our options, I muffled "I think I saw a church on the other side of town." Ahhh...just like Rick Steves. We found our way to St. Canice's Cathedral and it was perfect. A cathedral and accompanying Round Tower. There's barely a person in sight. Also it was 11AM on a Saturday. Not your prime worship hour, which is good because Norb and I are not your prime worshipers. In typical American style, we bang our way through the tiny doors. Norb scoffs at me until he asks for my assistance to pull him through with his camera bag. We then encounter our first hitch of the plan. It costs a couple of Euros to see it and I have nothing smaller than a 50. Paddy O'Patty at the desk can't break it. He asks what we have and it comes out to about 1.40 euros. Patty gives us a wink and says "I think thats enough..." We spend the next hour taking pictures, reading the plaques and I ensure my place in hell by resting my camera bag on the tomb of a soldier/priest. Perfect. I did tell him I was sorry. We then bang our way out much the way we banged our way in. It was time to tour the round tower and grounds. A round tower is a stone-built tower sprinkled over Ireland and Scotland. Their purpose has been disputed for awhile: storage, bell tower or good ole fashioned protection. It is thought that a lookout atop the tower (typically forty meters) would sight invaders and alert the village and they would climb a ladder/rope up into the tower. Pulling up the ladder behind them. Now learned scholars and anyone that looks at the towers see a problem with this. If the invaders did come, they could easily have brought a ladder or at least "borrowed" from someone in town. You've take all the effort to invade, are you really going to be put off by a 16 foot space? How do you go home with that as your story?

"We got there and they all went in the tower...
"Yeah? You went after them."
"Well that's when it got tricky...you see they pulled up the ladder after they went in".
"So what did you do?"
"Well they pulled in the ladder...so we pretty much came home."
"Wait...what?"

You can see the breakdown in the plan. In its earliest times, they didn't use stairs, rather some of the bricks were turned in. and were foot holds. I was pretty much done in climbing the stairs and ladders. Norb and I imagined the clerics bounding across from brick to brick. I think I would have rather just hurled myself to the crowd, but that feeds in to my weird suicidal wish of "death by cannonball". Upon the roof of the round tower we snap our shots and check the time. Should be getting on to Cashel (about 45 miles west) in order to make our afternoon pub constitutional. We climb back down and take a brief photo tour of the church's cemetary. Its fantastic...although we do raise an eyebrow when we find one grave/tomb that appears to have been busted out from...the inside (yikes). Norb says "Vandals?"..I retort "Zombie vandals!" and inform him in case of zombie attack, its every man for himself. And I now inform all dear readers. If you are in a "zombie" situation with me, not only expect panic but freakout on an epic scale. But count on this: if you're expecting me to save you, you have been woefully incorrect about my character. If it's consolation...I expect the same in return. Where was I?

Ah...yes touring the cemetary. It was old, filled with statuary and wonderful. We did come across a pair of shared plots with "Emily" and "Beatrice". I point it out to Norb. He questions "Sisters"...I shake it off..."Nothing hotter than medieval lesbian love....so taboo...so forbidden.". I am told to "grow up" but I counter "with a name like Beatrice? C'mon!!!". We spend a moment to ponder this most forbidden fruit of medieval "sister lovin' sister". Then it's off to our tiny car, where we make our escape to Cashel. Where we'll meet the "The Barbie toilet paper cozy" killer; are filled with the sense of renewal of parenting in a pub; find an excellent bargain on a bag of sticks and spending nearly 3/4 of our monthly salary trying to make a call home.