It's A Rad, Rad, Rad, Rad World
|
Welcome to the Rock. 3/6/2009 3:25 PM It’s here our story gets truly historic. Arriving at the Rock of Cashel we wheel into the parking lot and after running and ID check and a blood sample on a the parking staff, Norb feels it’s safe enough to park in the lot in one of the most visited spots of Ireland. Like most castles in Europe it’s on the outs. It’s like arriving at a really great party around 2 AM. There is just the traces of the good times that happened about 4 hours ago and Don Johnson passed out on the sofa. We decide to forgo the paying tour to take pictures and to eaves drop on the other tours that pass by. It’s your standard Irish day. Overcast with just enough sun slipping through to light up the greens on the surrounding hills. We meandered through the outer cemetery, past its impressive 90 foot round tower. Once the seat of the Kings of Munster, a majority of the Rock was built between the 12th and 13th centuries. It finds a place in my heart with other European cathedrals and landmarks. When things were built over long periods of time, when people built things for a greater good than themselves. It’s also historic because it is the supposed birthplace of Christianity in Ireland where St. Patrick (Yes...that St. Patrick) converted the King of Munster. Topping off the ceremony when the Saint spiked the King with his staff breaking his foot. As the tale goes the King said nothing just figuring that it was "just part of the show". I love that story...its nearly Midwestern in its attitude. Its not the last time the Irish would be getting the sharp end of the (stick)staff from Christianity in the coming years. If he was smart that king would have tossed Pat out on his arse right then. One of the most noticeable landmarks of "the Rock" (yes, we did that bit...alot) is the rather large chunk of the castle sitting in the lawn on the north side of the grounds. I am giving Norb an impromptu history lesson of how it occurred during "the night of winds". Where it crack and fell away from the castle. This then led into the inevitable imagination of the night...a squire sitting by the fire then a sharp crack as he stares wide eyed into the stormy night then someone walks in "Well I'll just be checking in on our friend he's just in....what did you do?!". That’s going to be a hard one to live down. "Hey mate...thanks for breaking the feckin' castle. Good luck getting the touristas in now." We take our leave and decide its probably a good time to start searching out a place to stay for the night. In the small library I carry. What Norb is for rental car security I am for rentals...I have 3 books and a notebook full of listings and phone numbers and addresses. We arrive anywhere and a tiny voice in my head begins to shout: "You have no place to stay! You have no place to stay." "Quiet tiny voice in my head! There is plenty of time." "Yes..but...You have no place to stay! You have no place to stay." It takes a week of drinking Guinness and Jameson before tiny voice gives in and drowns. I hate tiny voice. I can link a majority of my failure and liability to act to tiny voice. But we heed its warning now and begin to search Cashel for a place to hide our crap for the night and to eventually set our beer laden bodies later. We drive up and down the row of B&B's. The popular ones in the travel books are occupied. Our familiarity of the main street becomes fantastic from driving up and down it 12 times. In performing an automotive maneuver in defiance of several traffic laws and at least 2 laws of physics, we ramble down a brick sidestreet and enter a most definite residential part of town. But out of nowhere, we see a B&B cloverleaf sign on the side of a house. Our options running low, Norb decides I should go ask if there are vacancies, while he stays with the car to keep it safe and begins loading a shotgun to protect the car from the 3 eight-year-old girls having a tea party in the neighboring yard. I knock. Long pause. Knock again...far harder. Long pause...then a faint rustle. I turn to Norb, shrug, he fires a warning blast over the tea party. I AM NOW POUNDING ON THE DOOR. There are few struggling noises within that can only be described as hiding a body. The door flies open and there stands our B&B owner...now I may be making this up, but I swear there was a thunder clap that accompanied it. "Can I help you, sir?"...Well at least my murder will be a polite one. He probably just wants to lure Norb in as well. '"Yes...please. Do you have any vacancies?" "I do, I do...A lovely room for the night. Just one?" "No, there are 2 of us." What I want to say is '...and people on the street have seen us...so there are witnesses and I took a self defense class in college an attended all the classes before finding out it was pass fail.'...but I don't. "Well you'll shake my hand and we'll look at the room". He's so charming...like an Irish Ted Bundy. We shake hands and he has a grip that astounds me. It's not that he crushed my hand or oversqueezed it. Rather it was solid and it made my blood run cold. Its how I expect Quint's grip (from Jaws) grip to be. Its whatever I do once this hand grabs me I won't be able to change the outcome. If I was smart I would bolt for Norb and the rental jump into the passenger seat while screaming "DRIVE! DRIVE! DRIVE!". Instead I turn, meekly smile at Norb and give him a thumbs up and take solace in the fact I won't die alone. B&B's have a interesting habit of showing you the room before you agree to stay there. we are paying roughly $40 each to sleep in a guest bedroom. If there is a blanket and a surface to lie there is precious little that will turn me away now. I don't get it but feel its rude of me to say "look could you just kill me now?". Norb soon joins us with the luggage and we have a comfortable yet odd conversation in our room that seems just a little TOO long. The kind where you laugh it winds down and then ends with a sigh and "yeaaaaah". Irish Bundy then takes his leave and returns to the basement so he can finish burying the Thompsons from Michigan. Unable to maintain his reserve, Norb inquires "Whats the story...?" I then run off of my suspicions and Norb genuinely feels that I am right on in my suspicion that this guy is serial killer material and the best we can hope for now is being his "Gimp". No reason to stop us from going out and getting a pint first. We also have a few other tasks to complete one of which will lead me on a 5-minute rant...getting a power adapter. We both came amply supplied for power and recharging. However like a fool, I figure Ireland would be using the same type of plugs the UK does and the way my plugs are shaped, I can only charge one thing at a time. So as an open question to the world I ask you...What the fuck is with the plugs? As a planet we have straight prongs, slanted prongs, 2, prongs, 3 prongs, some have grounds, some don't. It’s not like when electricity started we thought it would be a fad and we could all go our own way. Would it have been a big deal to make a couple calls and everybody get on board with 1 unified plug/outlet? And I am not "all American" way about this. I'd be happy using a Lithuanian plug design just as long as I don't have to cross borders with a James Bond technology kit so I can power up my Ipod every couple of days. Speaking of James Bond...that’s a scene I'd love to see in a Bond movie. The clock is ticking. 007 opens his bag of gadgetry...then eyes the neighboring outlet..."Hmmmm is that a straight, curved or slanty plug? Oh damn..." Then he would shoot the outlet. But I have digressed from my original digression. Plus the fact that most of us attempt to circumvent these adapters via the "might makes right" method. No mattter how inconceivably-shaped our plug is to the adapter we all at a certain point are just jamming them together in a rage. I bet even Albert Einstein found himself in a water closet somewhere trying to jam a 3-prong slanty into a 2-prong standard..."Ach! Mein gott in Himmel I cannot fit it in zee slanty-slotsen!!!" We set out into town to see if we can either locate A) a new adapter we can use here or B) a metal file so we can grind down one of the plugs to fit in the outlet. Before you ask...NO that's not a safe idea. But we were Amercian adventurers out in the Isle...risks must be taken. I have an entire U2 Ireland playlist on my Ipod I have not listened to...safety be damned! As we wandered throughout Cashel looking for A or B we immediately found ourselves in 3 different pubs. My experience in Carlow has shown if you want directions and/or advice...go to a pub. Well actually you should got to a pub for about 88% of the things you encounter in life. The day grows a bit hazy here in the memory time and Guinness have taken its toll. But it was not without lessons learned. Our first pub the Brian Boru...the guidebook said it was very popular, we found 5 local mothers who were in there having a drink. Now shock and alarm will go off in our American minds. From eavesdropping I found they were returning from walking in the park and honestly how many of you mothers out there couldn't use a stiff drink after an hour in the park. Another thing that warmed my heart, aside from the Jameson (Thank you very much, barman!) was how friendly and polite these kids were. My observations of typical American kids in public are either nearly catatonic with fear when anyone speaks to them or they are obnoxious on a level that makes Jerry Lewis cringe. The little Irish boy we watched ran up to the bartender...In a showcased reaction the Bartender says: "Hello! You startled me..." feigning a heart attack. The lad giggles and says "Hello! How are you...I'm Jeremy." "I'm very well, Jeremy! "would you like a soda?"...gives him a small glass. "How about a 5 and hug?" The kids smacks his hand and gives him a slapping hug. While his Mom looks on. My Grinch heart begins to swell...you never see anything like that in America and we're worse for it. It’s my first observation of Irish "community" and the famous craic you hear of. 2 pubs later we decide we really SHOULD find that converter before we have to into one of the stores as we peruse the main street we swagger past a phone booth. Norb raises a tipsy finger "I should call home..." as we pass a phone booth. I return a tipsy raised eyebrow just at his matter of factness. It’s as if he doesn't realize he is 1/4 of the globe away and he needs to let them know he's running a bit late and he expects to be home sometime in a week from now. He enters the phone booth and I lurk huddled outside it like an Mob enforcer...well an enforcer on holiday with jaunty camera bag. Our hero in the phone booth removes his credit card...squints at the instructions...squints at the card glances to me. Then begins programming a number sequence into the dial pad that is akin to a nuclear launch code. I would not have been surprised if at the end of punching in all these numbers that the telephone booth would have spun three times and disappeared into time, ala Dr. Who. But after a few minutes he gets through and performs the obligatory..."HI!...I'm in Ireland!" with a congenial warmth that only 6 Guinness’s and matching Jameson’s could muster. You could be on the phone with Dick Cheney and warm up to him in such a condition. "Hey...buddy, how’s it going?!!!". Not to be outdone in family concern, I too call home and with as much difficulty as my friend. I am eventually pitied by the operator and connected to my wife. With the congenial glow of Ronald Reagan...In my condition there could be bombs going off and I'd doing pretty good. This nonsensical rambling goes on for a few minutes. I hang up the phone smiling, comforted that I've checked in. The 3-minute call and a practice in non-sequitor will literally cost twice as much as we spent on drinks...and we spent quite a bit. A smart man would put a phone booth with a sign that says near every tourist pub in Ireland and could make a million…perhaps he already has? For what I paid I may as well set up a scholarship and send someone to the University of Wisconsin and tell them to stop by and say hello to my family. It wasn't the first nor last foolish expense of the trip to be sure. As the last of the afternoon light began to slip away and the cool grey day would become the cool grey night. As we roamed the store fronts looking for a hardware store or any shop that my carry the elusive adapter...we come across a window selling...Not making this up...A bag of sticks, sorry a "small" bag of sticks. You need to be precise in this because you could wander in and ask for the bag of sticks and getting scammed into the "Large" bag of sticks. Without making this distinction you're going to get stuck for twice the cost of a small...bloody tourist. Are sticks a big buy in Ireland? So much so they get displayed in the windows of the shops. I imagine a panicked local bursting through the door, gasping for breath..."Bag of sticks....NOW! Not the feckin' small bag...you think I'm playing games?!". Our shopping adventure continues winding up in the hardware store or DIY (Do it yourself) because we think our wants will most likely be found here of the stores we've strolled past. That and because given when lost a lonely men tend to gather in a pub or hardware store and since we've been to the pubs...The woman behind the counter is friendly enough and admires our inventiveness in wanting to file down one of our plugs to fit our current adapter. She offers another solution if we make our way to the druggist down the road they have some affordable converters. I think it’s the Irish way of saying..."I've heard your plan and I now somehow feel a party to them and they must be stopped in however I can." Undeterred we head a few doors down and are pointed to the adapters...I buy one. In the distant memory, I recall us regaling them with tales of America and whimsy. When in reality we were just another pair of tourists who didn't come prepared. We head back to the B&B amongst new found drizzle that will follow us throughout the week. Later, we return and the gentle rain has turned to miserable downpour. Starving, we set out for the night for a traditional Irish dinner. A 5-minute walk in the pouring rain so our plan was quickly changed to simply finding some place open. We wound up at a place that seemingly employed and serving ex-soviet bloc citizens. You may reprimand me for prejudice but, as god as my witness, Boris Badonov was the bartender "making whiskey for moose and squirrel!". We double-checked the Irish name and settled in with a pint and a dinner I don't recall very well. It was deep fried and possibly either cod or a dish towel that had fallen in the deep fryer. My hunger made identification impossible. After dining and dosvedanya we adjourned back to the B&B, where we collected our camera bags to get some pictures of "The Rock" at night. In the midst of our dinning and drinking, we speculated about how cool the inside of the Rock must look in the spots and shadows within. Gazing at the wall and contemplating the security and jail time involved, we abort our plan. After finding out how much it was to call home, I shudder to think what bail there would be. Oh no they Kilkenny…You bastards. 12/31/2008 8:33 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. Carlow, Ireland (part 2) 10/22/2008 2:35 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. |