Ireland’s West Edge

Saturday, 04-14-18 (continued)
Here’s what Brits eat for their first meal of the day:

Yours truly rode shotgun in Janet’s rented Hyundai and navigated with a sporadic network signal and a photo I took of an atlas. Sunny, beautiful warm day through the English countryside, through Hook Norton to Oxford. Made a couple surprise turns, but got to Hertz to return the hire.

Stepped lively, crossing the Thames to the train station. Downed an ale, then walked out to the platform and soon caught a Great Western Railway car—three seats and two, facing both directions. Pretty views of hills, wood, farms, and little towns. Arrived at Reading to wait an hour for our next leg. Bought a fruit smoothie and shared two juices. Boarded our next train and continued.

Felt relaxed and droopy. With little time to charge en route, phone battery ran low. Lina and Janet sat in front of me; young woman to my left read from a Kindle and wrote by hand in a notebook. Other passengers made various uses of their electronics. An open window let in racket and fresh air. Nostalgia for Merrie Olde England washed over me.

At Gatwick, we climbed up an exterior staircase to the Ryanair 737, three and three seats across. With no one in the window seat, I claimed it. Sun went behind the horizon despite our westerly direction. Flight lasted about 75 minutes.

Stumbled down stairs again and fought brisk gusts to walk to the Shannon Airport terminal. Check-in man welcomed me to my first visit, saying I’ll love it enough to return. Alan of Rosie, Janet’s niece, met and carried us in his Kia along an expressway and some impossibly narrow and winding roads.

Janet’s two-storey homey house stands in a rural area near but three or four neighbors. She and her late husband, musician Paul, built the place in the early 90s. On the first level sit the kitchen, music room, conservatory, wide hall-library, laundry, and Jan’s bedroom and bath. Our quarters were upstairs in one of three bedrooms with our own bath. Sound sleep overtook us in no time.

Sunday, 04-15-18

In Kinvara. 49 deg, 72%, SE 17 g 23, dp 40 deg, ptly cldy, 29.44”, 10 mi viz. Looks cold with this wind, but sun shines through on a green landscape of budding trees, stone fences, scattered houses, and distant hills.

Performed my yoga salutations on the bare wooden floor of the music room, then prepared coffee and took it back to a wee IKEA desk that sat beneath a sloped window in the slanting roof. The situation offered excellent natural illumination and a red lamp if necessary.

Went down to a breakfast of Janet’s poached eggs and bagels. We looked at maps, guidebooks, and brochures. Dressed in all available layers, including my Scots tartan scarf, and sallied forth into the cold intermittent rain.

South and west into the Burren steered Jan. Road got amazingly narrow in places between tall hazelwood trees. Geology consists of gray limestone there, with many stark outcrops and hills, such as the hat-shaped Mullaghmore at 591 feet. Stone fences snake across the slopes, demarcating separate properties. Saw cattle for the first time in Ireland.

Stopped for a walk, where we met a couple from New York, of all places. Stepped through several walls with stiles to find an ancient ruined church with rock tented graves and a holy well. A standing stone on a cone of earth allowed pilgrims to walk in circles while chanting. Small bits of cloth were tied to branches above the water, and a cup hung ready for anyone wanting a taste.

One area without fencing was a commons. Beyond that lay a neolithic tomb: slabs of rock formed a little house that was likely originally buried beneath a mound. Candle wax inside spoke of devotion and ceremony.

Next came Killiboy and a weathered Sheela la Gig over the entry to another roofless old church, but with recent burials. I smelled incense.

Around another several bends came Kilmacduagh Abbey complex and its iconic round tower. Again, fresh graves were evident here, some with the name of Quinn. Markers indicated that several family members often share the same plot: They dig down to the last coffin and place the new one on top. Jan said one subtle way to ask a girl to marry you is “Would you like to be burried with my people?”

In Gort, we found a favorite cafe called Gallery: busy and lively, with a glass-covered well full of goldfish. We shared a platter of cheeses and meats, breads and crackers, veggies and jams. I washed all down with a Rustbucket rye ale.

Lidl is a supermarket much like ALDI, with strange items for sale from bins between shelves of staples. Lina spied a chainsaw and overalls, for instance. We picked up ales and dairy items and some malted wheat cereal. For the first time ever in my life, I purchased a bo’le of Bushmill’s on a Sunday from a grocery store.

Coole Park was the estate of Lady Gregory, who helped revive local culture and Irish folk tales. The mansion went up in flames long ago, but the grounds offer walks in woods by a disappearing lake, or turlough. Notable grows the Autograph Tree, with initials of famous persons—such as Bernard Shaw and W B Yeats—carved in the bark. Rain came and went, but no one minded.

In not a long drive, we were back at Janet’s. I kipped for a bit and even dreamed. Long about 6:00, Jan prepared some pasta and sauce for later, then took us to Kinvara to Sexton’s Pub. In its back room played half a dozen local musicians on fiddle, banjo, button accordion, guitar, and whistle. What a jam! Reminded me of Kerrville Folk Fest campfires, but this is original. At one point, two young boys joined the band, one on wooden flute and the other banging a bodran. We stood and swayed to the tunes, feeling joyous.

Home again for supper and more sips of whisky. Listened to Dolores Keene singing Gaelic on Jan’s portable Bluetooth speaker. I did dishes while the ladies hired a car from Shannon Airport for Tue. Crash!

Monday, 04-16-18

45 deg, 71%, SSE 13 g 17, ptly cldy, dp 36 deg, 29.56”, 11 mi viz.

Got out to cruise past nearby Dunguaire Castle, then on to Galway. Cold and rainy on and off, with plenty wind. Parked in an open lot, where a kind stranger gave Jan her unexpired parking ticket, so we saved 5 Euros. Walked along nonparallel, unperpendicular streets into the old village core, along a canal next to a rushing, white-capped River Corrib to what remains of the medieval city wall with its 1584 Spanish Arch. Gusts off the ocean almost blew us over and nearly did me in. Sheltered in a great used bookstore, where I browsed an atlas of the Famine, but found no appetite.

In St Patric’s Church, we saw statues defaced by Cromwell’s thugs.

Returned home to eat Janet’s preparation of Irish stew.

Tuesday, 04-17-18

50 deg, 87%, S 20, g 27, dp 46 deg, ptly cldy, 29.42”, 10 mi viz. Not raining, but the wind doesn’t relent. Previewed our route, making notes of roads, towns, junctions, poring over maps. Bade goodbye to the homey house and let Jan cart us past walled fields, her local ruin, and substantial Irish dwellings. Zoomed onto M18 to Shannon Airport, getting to see the place we arrived during the day. She let us out at the door, and we hugged her for the wondrous hospitality.

Stepped up to the Budget desk and negotiated our vehicle. Predictably, sales agent Jack attempted to upgrade us to a larger size, add extended coverage and GPS, and load several other extra charges. Here’s where my credit card dearth hit hardest: to use Lina’s Visa, she had to be registered as an additional driver—at yet another fee. In the end, all totaled about 200 Euros.

Shuttled to the lot and installed ourselves in an ultra-cute black Seat (pronounced see at) model Mii, made in Barcelona. It’s manual transmission was smooth to operate and its engine zippy.

Exited the facility and resumed the motorway south through a toll tunnel to the edge of Limerick, where we made our first wrong turn of the day. Stopped at a service-station-grocery to ask directions of two thickly accented Gaelic gents who gave conflicting accounts. Returned to the big road the way we came and found N24, which got us the short way to Tipperary. Less-improved N74 led to Cashel, where we sought a mid-day repast.

T J Ryan’s pub held but two patrons, who soon took their leave. The owner, T J himself, saw to our needs with soup, corned beef and cheese sandwich, crisps, tea, and a Coke. Paid cash. He told us how to get to the Rock, which Jan had recommended to us.

Parked again and strode uphill to the cathedral cum fortress. Begun in the 13th century and considerably altered in the 15th, this citadel contains a ruined sanctuary, small chapel, round tower, and bishop’s residence. My purchase of a patchwork riding cap in the heritage centre covered our admission fee as well as me head. We joined an in-progress tour and drank in amazing stories of clerics, kings, and crypts. One’s sense of long history just has to shift.

Back on the road, we wended our way south on M8, then east on N72 at Fermoy. Saw lots of water on the right side of the route, which looked like a flood to me. Passed through Lismore, famed for its enduring lived-in castle, and attained Dungarvan around 5:15. With no detailed map or mobile internet, we went around and around the town’s narrow streets until finding the bridge over the River Colligan and our lodgings.

Cairbre House was built in 1819 as a cholera hospital and also sheltered famine victims in 1849-55. It ceased to be a sick place by 1876, then was purchased in 1911 to become a “private hotel,“ which it’s been ever since. Brian Wickham and his late wife Geraldine began operating the business in 1994.

The cheery and effervescent Mr Wickham escorted us inside to show the guest lounge, breakfast room, and horizontal grand piano that holds pertinent brochures, guidebooks, and menus. He even provides a pair of binoculars for birdwatching. Upstairs, the rooms are named for area attractions; ours was the Lismore with photographs and sketches of that castle. We got two big single beds, bathroom with shower, window seat, and a great cabinet with drawers, shelves, and hanging clothes space. Brian showed us the walkway across the river to the string of fine eateries that line the quay. We settled into these picture-perfect accommodations.

Stepped out into the windy cold and took the stone 1816 Devonshire Bridge to the waterfront. On our good friend Mimi’s recommendation, the Moorings pub and restaurant brought to our table Guinness, a fish pie, green beans, mashed carrots, fries, and veggie pasta–all simply scrumptious.

Ambled back for more Bushmill’s and a phone call to sister Rose in Munich. To bed!

Next: Dungarvan and the Copper Coast