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3/18/2009
Along came Wednesday (We could not believe it was ONLY Wednesday at this point). Our plans for the day were to leave Cork, hit nearby Cobh and Blarney Castle, then drive halfway up the country to Galway. During our time in Cork, I’d started pushing to add a side-trip to The Burren along the way. Round Ireland with a Fridge, Frommer's and Stef all recommended it, with the first two comparing it to flowers growing out of the surface of the moon…to me, that sounded amazing. Since I realized Tom was a bit wary of overloading the day with extra driving, however, I made a polite request that we keep it in mind if we had time.
Even after a second long night, we woke up incredibly early. I don’t remember the exact time, but the sun sat low on the horizon as we drove out of Cork. The early departure came as a direct result of me being the first to use the shower and promptly breaking the mechanism while I was testing the temperature. So, unbathed, we set off for Cobh, with Tom complaining that we somehow managed to both enter and leave the city driving into the sun.
Cobh (pronounced “Cove”) sits quite close to Cork, but the drive packed a lot of stunning views into a few short miles. The road ran right along the water most of the way, with little seaside castles rising from the fog in the distance. As we neared the town itself, massive shipping cranes emerged from the mist, looming over the water like they had come to drink from it.
Cobh itself was once a significant shipping port, a huge point of departure for Irish immigrants to the US, and the last port of call for the Titanic before she sank. We learned these and other facts from plaques and monuments, since we pulled into the visitor's center too early for it to be open. We even found a memorial to the first woman checked in at Ellis Island.
We strolled down the shoreline, passing a seaside park and sharing the morning with a stray, surprisingly well-groomed dog with no sign of a master. High above the town to our left towered the Cathedral of St. Colman. Not only was it roughly three times as tall as any storefront, but its placement atop a hill makes it dominate the otherwise quaint skyline.
We hadn’t eaten yet, so we found a little cafe serving a full Irish breakfast. We'd had Irish breakfast the day before, but it had been St. Patrick's Day then, and I had more important stories to tell, so let me say now that I LOVE an Irish Breakfast, as it hits all of the following:
Toast
Fried Eggs
Bacon
Blood Pudding
Rashers
Baked Beans
There may not be a better meal for the morning after drinking; we hung out at the cafe in Cobh for a little while, savoring the meal as it put us back together. Afterward, eager to continue our journey, we stopped at a convenience store for Red Bulls (quickly becoming a daily necessity), and hit the road again.
Since Blarney Castle is about twice as far north of Cork as Cobh is south, we actually had to drive back through Cork itself to get there, which we commmemorated by shouting "Wooo, coming through again! High fives!"
Not long afterward, we pulled into the town of Blarney, found parking, and walked up to the ticket window for the castle. All three of us were prepared to be disappointed, as guidebooks call it touristy, legends abound about the locals pissing on the stone, and Nick, one of the Virginia guys from the castle hostel, had said the castle itself was underwhelming.
Well, sorry, Nick, but Blarney Castle was stunning. The keep jumped up out of the landscape, surrounded by watchtowers and riddled with dungeon entrances no one had bothered to close off Before even reaching the main gate (and despite my claustrophobia), the spirit of adventure found me hunched down and waddling through 4 foot by 3 foot tunnels into really tight "rooms" most of the other visitors seemed comfortable letting alone. It was deeply creepy, especially once you realize, "Hey, someone probably died in here."
So, of course, we did it...or rather, Tom and Paul did it. I actually missed the stone and kissed the one above it because I was confused by the height and inversion. The one I kissed definitely wasn't as smooth as the one below it, so I don't even know what blessing I got. I figure it’s fine, though; it's not like I didn't already have the gift of gab already.
First, there was loads of driving to do. We stopped next in the small town of Ennis, which turned out to be a very important spot. The three of us have a college buddy named Jay Ennis who speaks in a growly, throat-clearing tone of voice that often makes normal things sound epic and hilarious. One of his gravelly catch-phrases is "I'm having a great time!", so we decided that we would raise a toast in Ennis and take a picture of us Having a Great Time!
Other than our personal cause, the only thing my guidebook had to offer on Ennis was to avoid drinking the tap water. That aside, once we found the center of town, Ennis was quite charming. It took us a while to find a sufficient pub (unfortunately a place called "Chaos" was closed), but we came at last to a place called Paddy Quinn's. The back bar room bustled, surprisingly busy for 12:15, but we sat in the front with just a little old couple across the way. Unlike Cork, we were not looking to mix and mingle our way into a new, authentic experience. We were just those American guys who get a round of Guinness just to take a picture with our pints.
Before the photo session, though, we took a sip and immediately exchanged wild-eyed looks. Completely by accident and in an absolute blip on our route, we'd found the best pour of Guinness so far in the trip. Barely any bitterness, just cold, smooth taste. It was amazing, so I had two.
Guinness Count: 31
Two quick Guinnesses easily overcame my Irish breakfast, so we left the pub and picked up some sandwiches to counter my midday tipsiness before blowing town. At one point, a few miles later, Tom said "Aaaaaaand Ian's drunk." When I looked at him in confusion, I realized that I’d stopped dancing...then I realized I'd been dancing in first place, specifically pumping my fists to AC/DC's "Back in Black." Ruh-roh.
Frommer's had given us the best route to take to/through The Burren, a little rural road let's call R-480 (no recollection of the actual name). The problem, though, is that no one who lives on R-480 would call it R-480. They probably call it "the road to Billy's farm" or something. Whatever the case, we couldn't find the road, ending up in the next town over, Ennistymon, having definitely passed R-480.
Confused, we continued onward towards another town, Lahinch, where I saw another road on the map that could lead us the way we want to go. Once again, we wound up farther than we thought and, seeing an older fellow on a motorcycle idling in a driveway, we pulled in beside him to ask directions, leading to the following conversation.
Me: "Excuse me, could you give us a hand with directions?"
Excellent Irishman on a Motorcycle: "Oh, sure."
Me: "We're looking for the Burren."
EIM: "The Burren? Hahahahaha."
Me: "Yeah, we realize we may be nowhere near it now."
EIM: "No, you're fine. What you want to do is follow this road up to Lahinch, then take the coastal road around. You'll pass the Cliffs of Moher, which are absolutely beautiful, have you been?"
Me (knowing we're skipping them because we'll be getting our fill of cliffs on the Aran Islands): "No..."
EIM: "Well, you should go, they're right on the route, and then you're going to pass through <Irish town>, which is also just lovely, and then it'll bring you all the way...where you going tonight?
Me: Galway."
EIM: "Oh, grand! So you'll come all the way around all of these lovely coastal towns and then, there you'll be in Galway."
Me: "Oh, great, great, and...and the Burren? "
EIM: "Oh, yes, right here at the tip of the coast, you'll get a nice little taste of the Burren."
He went on about how impressive the Burren is, including the flora living there side-by-side that don't coexist anywhere else in the world...oh, except Poland, he corrected himself, there's a similar landscape in Poland.
Thanking him profusely, we got on the road in front of him, drove into Lahinch, missed our turn again, then rerouted and followed him across the coastal road, wondering just how big a "taste" of the Burren would be.
Then, we saw the Atlantic Ocean...
One of my favorite parts of my junior year trip to Ireland took place on the Aran Islands, where I looked at the Atlantic from the rim of Dun Aengus (or Dun Aonghasa): so blue, so vast, so intimidating. I couldn't fathom how people ever thought, "yeah, let's cross that.”
Now, here we were, driving with a constant view of the ocean on a beautiful day. At some point, we lost our biker guide, then came upon the Cliffs of Moher. Since we were right there, we contemplated going, but once we saw 25 Euro for parking, we passed.
We cruised along the coast a ways further, gasping at the scenery until we hit a crossroads. Tom thought the motorcycle guy said to stay straight, while I thought he said to hug the coast, which implied a turn. Unlike our battle in Cork, we agreed he definitely said both things. Since the turn pointed towards Doolin, we headed that way to find Stef’s greatest pub in Ireland and presumably someone to provide further directions.
Unable to find the pub we sought, we chose one at random and walked into a room empty but for the bartender. Paul and I got drinks while Tom ordered a Coke and asked for directions. The guy gave us not one, but two routes; one kept to the biker's coastal route, while the other doubled back quite a bit for a larger bit of Burren. He assured us that the coastal route was a sufficient experience of the Burren for our needs, so we decided to stick with it, especially since it was heading to Galway.
Guinness Count: 32
About 20 minutes outside of Doolin, we found the Burren, big time. The description of it as a moonscape was completely accurate, with limestone flats as far inland as the eye could see, all stunningly barren. Meanwhile, on our left, we still had uninterrupted ocean views. Eventually, we pulled over so Tom could take it in instead of navigating the road, which is when Tom realized he was traveling with two tipsy fools. Paul, upon leaving the car, looked down the road and became entranced:
Paul: DUDE, there's a COW in the ROAD back there! It's in the road!
Tom: Haha, yeah, look at tha-
Paul: Hold on!
At this point Paul sprinted down the road to take a picture, a picture he spent the rest of the trip showing to fellow travelers, naming it the best picture of the trip. Each time, Tom followed up by showing his audience a picture he took: the cow in the road…AND Paul at a dead sprint towards it.
I’m one to talk, however. I was halfway up the rock wall beside the road, dodging cowpies where no cow should really be able to walk, eager to reach the actual flats of the Burren. When I made it to the top, I promptly went silent. There's not better way to describe it but moon-like.
I called for Tom and the recently-returned Paul to come join me while I continued up the next ridge. Once I topped it, I could see far across the landscape, which prompted this exchange:
Ian: Holy crap, Tommy, it goes for miles.
Tom: I know, man.
Ian: No, dude, it goes FOR MILES.
Tom: Ian, we knew that it did...
Ian: Oh, sure, we saw it on a map, Tom, but it's up here! It goes for MILES!!!
Tom: Okay, buddy.
Once we came down from the ridge, we crossed over the road and through a small field to reach the cliffside, from which we could see back to the Cliffs of Moher and down to the ocean below (also visible FOR MILES). While Tom and Paul hung back, I got on my stomach and shimmied up to the cliff, looking over as I'd done on the Aran Islands three years before.
Once we got in the car, the Burren and the ocean stayed with us for the next 45 minutes of the drive, throughout which we (that is, Paul and I) kept shouting "The Burren!" in weird faux-Scottish accents, for reasons passing understanding. Soon afterwards, I fell asleep in the car as the last two nights caught up with me (it seemed unthinkable that our big night in Cork was just two nights before). As I slept, the Burren continued on, stretching out beside us without the attention of its biggest fan. Also, from then on, Tom had only to sweep around Galway Bay into the city itself. Since my first trip to Ireland touched on only Dublin, Galway, and the Aran Islands, the next stretch would be a familiar part of the trip.
Waking as we entered the city limits, though, I realized one critical difference from my previous time in Galway...last time, we didn't have a car.
Galway is a very young, Euro-centric, bohemian-friendly city with huge sections of town marked off as pedestrian-only, including, of course, the street our hostel sat on. I knew EXACTLY how to get to our hostel by foot, but since we couldn't exactly plow through the lively city lanes, it took us a good 30 minutes of circling our destination before we finally pulled into a parking garage within sight of the hostel sign.
As we got out of the car, the whole day hit us. We'd started the morning in Cork after two wild nights…did Cobh practically at daybreak...made Blarney Castle, THE touristy thing of Ireland, a brief stop along the way…had a great time in Ennis...got lost, got directions, and got lost again...took in the Burren…all in a single day. Small wonder that we trudged up the block towards our Barnacles hostel tired, but accomplished. We wondered aloud if we might not just go to bed as soon as we got in, though it was only about 7:30. Then we saw there was a pub called The Quays literally across the cobblestones from the Barnacles.
The three of us settled into a four-person room, took turns at our first showers of the day, then made our way across the street to The Quays. We sat out on the street with a pint while waiting for Paul's brother Craig and his friend Dave to come down and join us. Craig was studying in Galway for the semester (from Villanova) and Dave was at Oxford (from Notre Dame).
While Paul used Tom's Blackberry to tell Craig where we were, I sat back and took in the energy of the town. I don't know if it's those pedestrian streets, the countless pubs, or just the generally young populace around us, but Galway feels like a haven for people our age. Most of my fondness for it probably held over from the prior trip, as I imagine it will for Cork in the future, but whatever the reason, it felt like my Irish home away from home.
After Craig and Dave arrived, we took our drinks into the pub and back to a cool, library-like nook with big stuffed chairs. Naturally, we regaled the young'uns with tales of our trip so far and assuring them that joining us for the next three days on the Aran Islands would be worth their while.
Guinness Count: 34
Finishing our drinks left only a growling hunger. Thankfully, McDonagh's, my favorite Galway fish n' chips place from last time, was on the same block as the pub and our hostel, so we simply strolled out the door, walked three storefronts down, and stepped right in. The line for take-away was long but quick, and while I waited for the guy to stop shoving chips in with my order, I was treated to the following exchange between a cashier and a clearly wasted older gentleman:
Cashier: "Alright, there's your fish. Thank you."
Drunk: "Where're the chips?"
Cashier: "Chips are 2.50"
Drunk (rifles through his pocket and puts down what can't be more than 50 cents Euro): "There."
Cashier: "2.50"
Drunk: "No, not 2.50. I just want some chips."
Cashier: "Chips are 2.50."
Drunk: "Oh, then I don't want them."
Cashier: "Ok."
Drunk: "But could I get some chips?"
We left the man behind to explain his plight to the non-believing server and went back to our hostel, which had a full kitchen for all five of us to eat in. The fish and chips were delicious, so I hadn't led everyone astray and most of the guys couldn't finish their meal. I not only killed mine but polished off Paul’s, because you just don't get cod like that everyday.
Once we'd finished, we returned to the streetside tables at The Quays to chat more with Craig and Dave. I'd met Craig before and liked him a lot, so we spent a lot of time getting to know Dave better; he already seemed like a great kid.
After we'd had a few, Tom tapped out, tired after driving and uninterested in going out with the guys to an open mic Craig’s friends were in. After he left, the rest of us set out into the Galway evening.
Guinness Count: 36
Sufficiently buzzed at this point and trailing a temporary Galway resident, I didn't pay much attention to where we were going as we walked. Craig walked with confidence, leading us through several alleys and around quite a few turns. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when we walked into an intersection twenty minutes later and I looked down the block to see...
...Barnacles and The Quays. And I quote myself, "Wait wait WAIT!"
Turns out Craig led us in a giant circle...pretty impressive considering we had to have CROSSED the main road to come into that intersection from the side we had entered from. We tried again and, sure enough, this pub we wanted was a straight shot up the street from our place. Literally don't make any turns and you can’t miss it. (Ed. Note: Craig is still hearing about that walk today)
The open mic night was fun. Craig's friends, Paul and Phil, played good music, as did a family of young Irish folks, while two awful stand-ups performed. After their set, Paul and Phil joined us for drinks and signed the Guinness sandal. Beyond the comedians, we enjoyed the atmosphere and the chance to meet more of Craig's friends, including his girlfriend Liz.
At one point, I noticed that Craig’s Guinness was slightly lower than mine, prompting the thought, “Didn't we get those at the same time? Huh, atta boy, Craig" and little else. Moments later, I realized that, whenever I took a sip, I had a reflection. That's when it hit me that Craig was actively staying ahead of me to try and finish a Guinness before I did, already tired of hearing about my penchant for it. He did, in fact, beat me to the bottom, at which point I conceded defeat and Paul announced his brother was a "naturally competitive twerp. "
Guinness Count: 38
Craig eventually went home and Paul and I quit the bar shortly after. Then, as we walked the extremely simple path back to our hostel, Paul suggested a nightcap. With a pub across the street, it seemed like "too drunk" was quite a ways away, so a third and final time, we traipsed into the Quays.
Guinness Count: 40
That's right, I went to bed in Galway on Wednesday night, just over halfway through the trip, already 4/5 of the way to my Guinness Goal.
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