We headed out early to enjoy Killarney, and the national park surrounding it.
We started exploring on a horse drawn carriage. Grandma wasn’t as amused as I was, partly because it was pretty cold out. The park was gorgeous – really beautiful flowers, a river, a lake, some monasteries and churches, the whole works. Our horse, Max, was an excellent tour guide. Our driver, Marcus, was a bit doddering, wasn’t he then. He’d start telling a story, and then get distracted greeting a human or a dog also enjoying the park, or seeing something else he wanted to point out, or talking to Max, or talking to us. He tried to tell us about the owners of part of the land; John McShain acquired 25,000 acres in 1956 and upon their death, gave it back to Ireland to be used publicly, as they only had one child. She became a nun so no heirs. He must have told us about Sister Pauline, in Philadelphia, who is 88 years old a solid 10 times. He’s clearly been telling the story for a while now, so I’m guessing she is no longer 88; you can never trust an Irishman’s stories.
We came across the Ross Castle, which was built in 1410. To the left of it are boat houses, built at the request of Queen Victoria in 1861. There is a legend O’Donaghue, the castle owner, leapt from an upper window at the top of the castle, taking his horse, his table, and his library with him, and he set up residence at the bottom of the lake, where he still keeps an eye on things.
Beautiful Queen Anne’s Lace everywhere, along with honeysuckle trees which made the air smell sweetly. We also saw around 14 deer, including a large buck who was eating and stuck his head up close to us. We tried to get photos, but he’s hard to see. Also tons of birds. And did I tell you about Sister Pauline, then? She’s a nun, you know.
After that, we walked around the outside of St Mary’s Cathedral, and then back onto the bus. We made a quick stop to warm up with Irish coffee.
Drinking at 9:30 isn’t frowned upon, as long as you dump the whiskey in the coffee…
From there, we went along the Ring of Kerry. We stopped at Dingle Bay, which is one the the westernmost parts of the country. Dingle Bay was the first part of Europe that Charles Lindbergh saw during his first transatlantic fight; Jimmy Stewart waves to villagers in Dingle Bay in The Spirit of St Louis.
Then we made a pit stop for tea and scones.
Back onto the bus, for more of the Ring. Between the green, in the mist in the far back, you can see a mass. It is possibly Mordor, but more likely it is Skellig Michael, an island in the Atlantic Ocean. Monks moved there sometime between the 6th and 8th century. It is now a UNESCO world heritage site.
More beautiful scenery and history. We went through Moll’s Gap, which is something I had heard of but didn’t know what it was. Turns out, it is basically a great sightseeing stop, but the important part is Moll herself. She lived up in the mountains and was there when they started putting the road in, in the 1820’s. She was already making and selling poitin, which is Irish moonshine basically. She started selling it to the road construction workers to take home, but then at their request, she opened an illegal bar (called a sibin). I’m not sure who or why they decided to then name the gap after her – I guess the booze was just that good.
Kenmare Bay in the background
We eventually got back into Killarney after a drive that was either charming or terrifying. Grandma kept looking out the window at the sheer drop next to the bus and grabbing on to me. We survived, and the bruises on my arm from her grip barely show.
Quick stop at the hotel and then we were off to, you guessed it, a pub.
In the pub, waiting for our drinks, we struck up a conversation with a businessman. I don’t know what kind of business he is in; he was wearing a fine suit, but it was 4:00 in the afternoon and he had been in the bar for a bit. Anyway, he was rolling something so I asked what it was; it was a cigarette. Tons of people still smoke in Ireland. He explained that a pack of cigarettes costs 13 euro, which is about $15 US dollars. Because of the cost, everyone has started rolling their own. Clearly easier than just quitting.
Grandma had her first Jameson of the trip, I had a gin and tonic, with a gin called Dingle, as we listened to an Irish singer/storyteller. I’m starting to think that everyone in Ireland is a singer/storyteller, but this guy has a CD. Which I bought, even though I don’t actually think I still have a CD player. He was lovely though. Beautiful voice, and played the acoustic guitar.
A door squeaked as someone was walking up the steps during the show, and the singer said “is that a Banshee?” Which I didn’t think much of. Later, Grandma told me that Great Grandma Esther used that phrase as well, when something would squeak in the house.
I must tell you, sitting in a smoky pub in the afternoon, listening to soulful folk music played on a guitar, as the room sang and laughed and clapped along, drinking great gin, I thought that maybe I should never leave. I don’t mean just Ireland – I mean that pub. I could have happily spent the rest of my days there, I think.
Instead, we went out to dinner to a local bed and breakfast. A husband and wife team own in, and told us a bit about themselves before we ate. They’re very much focused on farm to fork living, with all of their main ingredients (other than some spices, and coffee) coming from within 30 miles of their home. The food was delicious. One of us ate outside of our comfort zone. The other one of us goes by Tootsie.
I ate some sort of liver pate that, as long as you didn’t think about it, was really quite good. The other radical item was a boxty, which in and of itself isn’t radical. It’s basically a potato pancake – but you throw other random stuff in there too. Today’s included caramelized onions. Those that know me well think that’s what was radical for me – but no. Onions were nothing compared to the Irish Black Pudding that was also in the boxty. I know – black pudding? Sounds like chocolate? WRONG. It’s a sausage, and the “black” refers to the blood in it. For real. But honestly, it was quite good.
As a final thought for the night, I’ll share with you that I’ve become quite enamored with the emergency exit signage in Ireland. I think it does a better job of expressing the urgency of a situation, versus ours as home. To me, this sign clearly says “Run, you feckin’ eejit.
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