As mentioned, in light of being in Tahoe for the time being, I'm doing a throwback series to my 2009 trip to Ireland with Tom and Paul.
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3/16/2009
Eventually, we went back inside and packed back up. Once done, we brought our bags downstairs, where we ran into most of our new friends again. Deciding on a whim that the sandal was more than just a Guinness scoreboard, I got Liz and Alison, the Cali girls, to sign the sandal. I also gave them my contact info, since Alison would be in DC at some point and thought it'd be cool to hang out. (Ed Note: She never called)
Thus, bidding goodbye to the castle, the girls, and their car (which they'd dubbed The Nugget), we hit the road south to Kilkenny.
When we arrived at about half past nine, even the gates to the castle grounds were still closed (the castle itself being closed all day), so we decided to get some food. Paul, ever watchful for the unique sights of Ireland, had spotted a place called Blah Blah Blah Sandwiches on the drive in, so we decided to chance it on name alone.
This place was amazing. Blah Blah Blah Sandwiches is just a room, roughly the size of a large bathroom, with a counter in the middle and an older-looking Irishman behind it, manning his station without any visible place to sit. We asked if he was open and he said "Oh, absolutely," so we ordered ourselves some....I guess it would have been brunch by that point. While he made our food, he assured us that the castle grounds would, in fact, be open and also corrected my pronunciation of our next stop, the Rock of Cashel (I was saying it like caSHEL, when it's apparently like "castle").
Then, while Tom and Paul stepped outside to wait, a woman came in and I overheard the following exchange in trickling Irish dialects:
Woman: "Hey Andy, how are ya?"
Andy: "Oh, I'm so good you wouldn't believe."
This positive, helpful, devoted old sandwich-maker was just amazing and was probably our first of many Excellent Irishmen of the trip. The bartender in Dublin had been cool and all, but an Excellent Irishman kind of has to be over 40 to be truly great. It’s that well-aged charm.
Anyway, five minutes later, we were walking along the river eating three of the most delicious sandwiches we’d ever had. Paul and I both got a "Christmas Chicken," one of those turkey triumphs actually made with stuffing. Paul actually took a picture of his...seriously.
Once done, we walked back up to Kilkenny Castle and found the grounds had been opened. As soon as we went through the archway, our jaws dropped. We could see it was stately from the outside, sure, but inside, a lawn stretched out from the U-shaped castle for at least the length of two football fields. Walking across the grass, we turned and took several pictures of the castle and one another, all the while simply shooting the breeze on the grounds of an old Irish castle.
We walked around the castle to little fountain garden in the front, then doubled back to find the visitor information. It turned out the castle actually was open, but despite seeing pictures of truly beautiful rooms inside, we preferred wandering the town to paying for the tour. Thus, after all that, we bid the castle goodbye.
Crossing the street, we followed signs for the Butler house, which we thought was literally a mansion for the butlers of the castle, but it turns out it's a house for the Butler family who had once lived in the castle. Why they'd move from a gorgeous castle into a merely beautiful mansion is beyond me, but it was definitely stately in a more modern way and the gardens were peaceful.
Since our parking was almost up, we moved the car north through the small city center until we found a new spot just beneath St. Canice's Cathedral, the namesake of the city (In Gaelic, Church of Canice translates to Cil Chainnigh....which became Kilkenny). Beside the cathedral, a round tower stretched up over the rest of the cathedral (they should be called tall towers) and Tom quickly realized an older fellow leading people into it. Tom apparently shot Paul a look that communicated enough for Paul to then turn to me and say, "Ian, we're on the move” before rushing over to the doorway. We entered the base of the tower, paid the guy 3 euro, and began climbing a series of wooden steps and platforms upward.
It felt like it had to be 10 stories high once we reached the top, which itself was only like 6 feet across. In between wondering how many people that old guy thought could possibly fit up behind us, we got some sweeping views of Kilkenny and the surrounding countryside. Ultimately, though, my fear of heights, especially crowded heights, got the best of me and I went back down.
After we were done at the cathedral, we decided we'd all earned a drink so we passed our car and strolled up into the city, stopping to take pictures of the Smithwick's brewery and the Rothe house, an old merchants’ dwelling recommended by guidebook. It's a good thing we didn't stop at either, however, because we instead found Kyteler's Inn, a pub the guidebook had also recommended and which was actually older than the Rothe House. In fact it, was...wait for it...
...no, keep waiting...
...almost there... ...six hundred and fifty years old.
A PUB! A PUB was that old! And what's more, it was once owned by a woman who was accused of witchcraft and almost burned at the stake! In fact, in the basement bar, they had a dummy dressed as a witch, and after the bartender served us (without once questioning our drinking at 11:30 AM), we took pictures with the witch. It was a charming little pub to take a break and we sat contently in the beer garden, already reeling at the pace of the trip.
Smithwick's Count: 1
Guinness Count: 11
After our drinks, we decided to head on out, but not before stopping to pick up lunch in the form of fried chicken and chips (fries) for Tom and premade sandwiches for Paul and me.
Shortly after leaving town, we also stopped at our first gas station and Tom learned two things. One, in remote areas of Ireland, there's no automatic cutoff:
Tom: "Excuse me, do these cut off when the tank's full?"
Irish driver one pump over: "No, mate, just keep an eye on it."
And two, the gas cover was broken. Not the twist-on cap itself, that was fine, but the metal cover on the exterior of the car had broken off on the inside, so it really just sat in its place, connected not by a hinge but by a plastic cable from the car to the cover. When it first fell off in Tom’s hand, he looked down at it, then put it back with a shrug. It seemed to hold…for now.
Our next stop was the Rock of Cashel, which is a STUNNING castle, church and abbey combined into one complex on top of an imposing hill in the middle of the countryside. We pulled into the little town of Cashel, but before we walked up the hill to the Rock, we decided on a detour.
Guinness Count: 12
Freshly satisfied, we walked up the hill and paid our admission, at which point the cashier told us an informative video would start in a few minutes next door. Eager to learn about the site, we followed her instructions into a little room with a projector and screen. It was an informative video for sure, and darn it if 10% wasn't actually about the Rock of Cashel. The rest, though, seemed to cover Christianity broadly, almost advertising it. We exchanged many the puzzled stares during the showing.
Once done with our ecumenical education, we stepped out of the theatre and into the amazing ruins all around us. The castle stood proud and gorgeous, the abbey solemnly gave way to a grey sky, and the view for miles definitely made it clear why the kings of Munster (that particular region of Ireland) had made the Rock their seat.
Of course, our form of reverent appreciation was saying "Welcome to the Rock" in Sean Connery accents and taking a picture of my legs sticking out from behind a huge chunk of fallen wall. Typical Americans.
My camera, notoriously averse to working during the most beautiful parts of a trip (see The Isle of Skye in Scotland) decided that it would be a good time to crap out, so I only took handful of pictures of the place, but thankfully Paul and Tom passed along some good ones.
Cork is Ireland's second biggest city (leaving out Belfast in Northern Ireland), yet there’s really not a whole lot to see there from a tourism standpoint. As a result, we had grown a little nervous about our plans to stay there Monday night, do St. Patrick's Day, and then stay another night. What if it was a bust of a place to spend so long a time?
What a foolish, foolish concern.
We pulled into Cork at sunset, which would have been gorgeous had we not been traveling west into the city, leaving us blind to most of the signs that we needed to find our hostel. Trusty navigator that I was, I hadn't mastered the transition from our big highway map to the smaller city maps in the guidebook. As a result and thanks to Ireland's penchant for switching road names with reckless abandon, we got lost and ended up at the top of St. Patrick's Hill. Speaking of which, someone should call San Francisco and tell them Cork stole one of their hills...it was MASSIVE.
We swung back to where we went wrong, went right instead of left, and found our hostel at last. Though sadly not a castle, it was a nice little row house with a really pleasant owner who led us, once more, to the top of the building (thankfully only three flights this time). Our room was tiny, only about two double beds wide, though with two bunked beds and a third all on one wall so you could pass beside them. The tight quarters were of little concern, though; hostels really only need to supply a bed and a shower, and for now, the Aaran House of Cork had done well.
Once we’d settled in, we struck out into the city. On our way back down our hill to the center of town, Paul noticed stairs leading up to a walkway over the train tracks beside us. This led to the following conversation:
Paul: "Hang on, I'm gonna go up here and take a picture"
Ian: "Oh, good call, I'll join you."
Tom: "I thought your camera was dead."
Ian: "It is, but I'd still like to see the sunset without being in a car."
Tom: "Ugh, count me out, I'll meet you guys at the pub on the corner."
It’s important to note there was neither a pub nor a corner visible from where we were standing…or at least it's important to MY side of the argument to come. Because we saw neither landmark, Paul and I took Tom's comment to mean "Yeah, I'm not coming up those stairs, have fun guys," a sentiment he chose to phrase as "I'll meet you at the pub on the corner."
Paul and I went up and got a beautiful view of Cork at sunset, then came back down the stairs.
Tom, of course, was gone.
We looked down the sidewalk in the direction we were headed, but it curved right not far along, so we couldn't see that much ahead of us. "Maybe he did walk down there," we thought, so we headed down a ways. We still didn't find Tom and ultimately decided it was impossible he could have walked as far as we did, so we turned back, muttering that Tom won the award for first person to get lost in the foreign country.
Suddenly, we heard Tom shouting down the street and sure enough, he was further along down the sidewalk, past where we'd stopped looking. So commenced an argument over whose fault it was that we got (briefly) separated. Paul and I maintained we thought he'd wait below the stairs as it only took us thirty seconds to take pictures. Tom maintained he told us exactly where he'd be; though there was no pub, he was damn sure down on the corner.
After some warm discourse, we pretty much let it drop...for now.
Both the driver and the argument belied a general hangriness, so we went on a search for food, but as I’d discovered on my first visit, Ireland can sometimes be strict about dinner. You have to have planned a meal out in advance, because restaurants just shut down, while most pubs only serve food at lunch. As a result, on our first night in Cork, after a quest down the long pedestrian roadway called Oliver Plunkett Street, we ended up sitting down to dine at a Subway. Eat Fresh.
After Subway, we once again sought out a pub recommended by the guidebook, encouraged by our brilliant time at Kyteler's Inn. It turned out we were close and soon we stepped into a pub called An Bodhran, named for the drum played in a lot of traditional Irish music. The guidebook lauded their live music, but at the time we arrived, the sound system was blaring pop music and the TVs were tuned to ESPN America. It was odd to be in a pub in Ireland watching hockey.
While the pub seemed right up our alley, the guidebook lied to us when it came to drinking in Cork. There was a little blurb in Frommer's saying that the people of Cork were very proud of their rival stouts, Beamish and Murphy's, and that if you ordered a "home and away" in Cork, you'd get a pint of Murphy's and a pint of Guinness. Encouraged by this excellent idea, we sent Tom to the bar to order three "home and aways."
The bartender had no idea what Tom was talking about. In fact, he asked Tom if the order was "some f*cking Australian thing." We found out later that "Home and Away" is an Australian soap opera. Screw you, Frommer's. Unfazed, Tom ditches the cute name and orders three Beamish and three Guinness and returns triumphant. As a short review, Beamish is quite good, but also a little sweeter than Guinness, so I don't think I could have a lot. Paul and Tom, on the other hand, switched to Beamish for pretty much our entire stay in Cork (it was also cheaper).
We stayed for a while at An Bodhran, awaiting the live music that would start at 9:30, and Tom decided to pass the time by making new friends. Actually, I think he was just taking a picture of the outside of the pub when a crazy drunk old lady asked him to take a picture of her and her male drinking buddy who looked absurdly disheveled. Then, she told Tom to send her the picture by mail. Then, she gave Tom a little St. Patrick's Day fan. Then, amused to no end, Tom came in for my sandal so she could sign it. Well, Lady O'Drinksalot not only wrote her name in HUGE letters, but also wrote the names of her children, consuming a huge chunk of sandal real estate and immortalizing Julia, Danny(?) and Colie.
After the lovely Julia moved along, Tom made a new friend, this time an older Irish gentleman with a bolo tie, a brimmed hat, and a trim white beard. The man, John Mullins by name, asked us where we're from and, hearing Tom hailed from Connecticut, told us his daughters were there as well. Then, our new mate John told us that he knew where some great live music would be playing and that we should follow him to another pub. Normally, I’d consider this shifty on the level of a stranger with candy, but the man's over 50 and drunk, so we were pretty sure we could take him if he were trying to rob us or something. With a shrug of Tom's shoulders and a pound of our last drinks, we follow John Mullins out of An Bodhran.
Guinness Count (including the one Beamish as agreed by my tripmates): 17
John led us back down Oliver Plunkett Street a few blocks and stopped in front of a narrow doorway jammed between two storefronts. The sign over the door read "The Hi-B,” which my guidebook actually mentioned as a great pub. Sadly, the sign ON the door read "Private Party." John stared at this sign for a moment, teetered a bit, then pushed through the door, leading us into an inner staircase. As we entered, two young guys up a flight of stairs hopped to their feet and asserted that tonight was indeed a private party. John made some drunken entreats that he was there all the time and knew the owner, but they remained adamant to the point that we thought we might have to lead John back out the door.
At that point, an older Irishman burst through the door they'd been watching and looked down the stairwell at us. This guy was decked out in a black dress shirt, red suspenders and the most happening pinstripe pants you've ever seen, but it was his words, not his outfit, that changed our night:
"Oh, hold on, boys, that's John Mullins! He's a regular, just charge him and let him in!"
Apparently, this endorsement also blanketed over John Mullins' three 20-something American friends, because we all filed up the stairs and handed over 5 Euro apiece, at which point our suspendered friend, whose name is Ian(!), filled us in.
"So, boys, you’ll be happy to know the money's going to the hospice, really, but here are the flyers for the party itself."
He handed us each little quartersheet fliers that look vaguely like Wanted posters. Upon closer examination, they read "Dick O'Sullivan is Alive and Well" with a picture of yet another old Irishman and the Mark Twain quote, "Reports of my death were slightly exaggerated."
It turns out that Dick O’Sullivan is the piano player of the Hi-B. Recently, the regulars of the bar saw an obituary for Dick O'Sullivan in the paper and immediately began passing the word that Dick, their Dick, had passed on. News traveled fast and their tight community became very upset until someone then ran into Dick on the street. It turned out the obituary was for another Dick O'Sullivan (which seems like something you check) and in the light of this new, jubilant information, there was only one course of action: Throw a Party! Dick's Not Dead!
So, with looks of shock at such an awesome party theme, we followed Ian and John into The Hi-B at last. The lighting was dim, but you could tell the place was tiny, smaller than some family rooms I’ve been in, though equally equipped with odd pieces of upholstered furniture. We also quickly noticed that we were the youngest people in the room by some thirty years. We shared a quick smile with one another as we passed by one delightful conversation after another.
Ultimately, we stuck with John, who took a seat on a couch next to an older man and woman. We quickly learned that the man's name was Liam McCarthy and that he's 72 years old. Next to him, though, was his MOTHER, Agnes who is 94!! These were our drinking buddies for the night.
Just beside us, at the piano, was the man himself, Dick O'Sullivan, working his own survival party! He was tinkling away when we came in, but soon stopped to ask one of the women at another table to sing a song as he accompanied her. She declined, saying, "Dick, I don't sing anymore, only in the bathroom, in the shower." Dick, not missing a beat, called back, "My dear, I'll accompany you there anytime." Alive and Well, indeed.
Dick convinced a few people to do some individual singing, including Liam, who proved that those who want to sing the least will sing the best. He sang a beautiful song called "My Old Man" about a father and son. I naturally got a little teary, which prompted this exchange:
Liam: "I'm sorry, did I upset you?"
Ian: "No, Liam, sorry, I just lost my father when I was young."
Liam: "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that...I hated my father."
Cue me laughing straight through the fresh tears.
Since Liam was a McCarthy, I asked him about our heritage and, more specifically, about our ties to County Tyrone in the north. In response to the latter, Liam barked, "We're not from Tyrone, we're from Cork! West Cork!” He then proceeded to tell Paul that the O'Sullivans (Paul's family on his mother's side…which I suppose makes him a distance relative of Dick) were also from Cork. He then completed his history lesson by telling us the McCarthys once nearly WIPED OUT the O'Sullivans in clan disputes. Paul looked at me with drunk, shocked disapproval until something distracted us from our inherited discord...for the time being.
Even beyond Liam, everyone became our friend to some degree, from the old fella I kept talking to when I went to the bar ("Oh, an American, yeah? I suppose after that one, you'll need another Guinness in, what, three days?") to a guy gabbing with Paul about his trip to Hawaii.
Music continued and Dick began asking the three of us for songs. Naturally, we felt like picking the wrong "Irish song that Americans love" would turn our coach into a pumpkin, so Tom instead asked for "Piano Man" which Dick graciously played…only to have us forget the freaking words. At some point, though, Tom requested the Irish Rover, which is my absolute favorite Irish song.
Now is a good time to explain the concept of the “Kelly Kelly.” We defined the Kelly Kelly as the greatest possible thing that can happen to each of us while in Ireland. Its name comes from Tom's Kelly Kelly, which was to find and hook up with a girl named Kelly Kelly. Paul's Kelly Kelly was to hear one Irish person call another Irish person a "gobshite" which is something we saw in the moving picture. Mine was, quite simply, to sing Irish Rover not IN a pub, but TO a pub...like, to perform it.
Well, when Dick struck up the song, no one else started singing, so I did. I sang the entire damn thing.
In Paul's words, the whole pub was looking at me "like a man possessed," Usually, they joined me on the words "The Irish Rover" and they all fell in for the last few lines, but otherwise, I was on my own, a twenty-three-year old American singing an Irish song to a roomful of older Irish folks.
After the song, we happened upon another American! Ann Marie was a girl from Philly who had just moved to Cork and was staying with an Irish girl she had met in the US. That girl, Stef, and her husband JB frequented the Hi-B and so JB had brought Ann Marie that night.
Ann Marie proved to be a very sweet girl who loved Ireland as much as our traveling trio. As a result, despite how wonderful these surprise Irish drinking buddies were, I found myself talking to her more and more. Some time later, Liam and Agnes left (not before Liam signed my sandal), and Ann Marie told us they were heading somewhere else. With the vaguely unintelligible name of the next place in our heads, Tom, Paul, and I paid up and walked out into the streets.
During our search for this place (which we thought was called Houlihan's), Paul suddenly turned to me and said "Ian, your people slaughtered my people! I think I get to slap you!" A few beers back, I would have probably laughed him off, but at my current state, ruddy with Guinness and high from my Irish Rover karaoke, I instead said, "Fair enough, Paul,” and removed my glasses.
I didn't find this out until a few days later, because my own memory of the incident was hazy, but according to the guys, this was no stage choreography slap. Right in the middle of Cork, on the sidewalk of Oliver Plunkett Street, Paul Rinefierd of the Sullivan clan reeled back his hand and BELTED me across the face.
Whether it was post-slap clarity or the fatigue of a long day, we realized we weren't finding the pub and decided to call it a night. After all, leaving the Hi-B meant it could only be downhill from there, so we walked over the bridge to our part of town and started up the long hill to our hostel.
Unfortunately, along the way, we passed the staircase that had gotten us separated before. Naturally, the discourse resumed, but with drunken tempers amplifying the arguments. Finally, I became so frustrated with Tom's insistence that he was exactly where he said he was that I stopped him on the sidewalk, looked him in the eye, and said "Tom, alright, let's just agree that we all were mistaken, we all got something wrong, and that it worked out fine, ok?" Tom looked right back at me, waited a few seconds and then...
"Where did I say I was going to be?!"
Well, that did it. I had extended an olive branch and, in my drunken state, I really did not appreciate Tom's rejection of it, to the degree that I actually started pushing Tom. Seriously, as though I wanted to fight Tom about this stupid little incident. To Tom’s credit, he didn't do anything in response, especially when I whipped off my glasses (for the second time in about an hour) and he realized I was WAY too serious. At that point, Paul got between us, pushed us apart and we both stepped back. I turned and just walked ahead in a funk, still livid Tom was so stubborn. Some remarkable tunnel vision, really.
Luckily, we made up in the short distance to the hostel, but after such a great night at The Hi-B, we had one additional gem which would cause us all to wake up the next day and wonder "Did that really happen?"
Guinness Count: 21
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