ROCK OF AGES

September 22, 2014
Farewell to the Blue Horizon and the coast as we head in towards the center of Ireland.  Breakfast for me was scramble with salmon; Loni opted for a poached egg with ham.  All good.  Moving on of course means repacking the car with all our stuff.  We’ve become quite fast at it once we figured out the ideal logistic for cramming everything in.  Yes, the boot closed.

Our first stop today is the port town of Kinsale, a lovely burg whose excellent harbor shows evidence of use all the way back to prehistoric times.  Only 2,200 residents, I bet it quadruples during the summer with foreign and local visitors.  It’s very picturesque and pleasant to walk.  LOTS of colors on the buildings.  Some refer to it as “Happy Valley,” perhaps a veiled reference to the nearby Eli Lilly plant that turns out Prozac.  Here’s one laid-back duo.

Sort of the town center.  Hard to pin down, as it is a snake’s nest of streets.

Shopping was the order of the day.  Fortunately, only Alice found something to buy.  Loni was about to spring for some scarves for the girls, but noticed that they were made in Italy, not Ireland.  Fah.

Did I say the place was colorful? 

Chuck, he of the opera and symphony set, found his personal favorite pub.  If only.

Ok, now on to the big show of the day, the Rock of Cashel.  Looming high above the Plain of Tipperary, it’s a long way, to go.  Sorry, couldn’t resist.  This is one of Ireland’s most historic sights, the seat of the ancient kings of Munster from AD 300 to 1100.  St. Patrick here baptized King Aengus around AD 450.  The local clans had waged war over possession of the place until, in 1101, the wily Murtagh O’Brien gave the Rock to the Church, thus gaining favor with the clergy while at the same time preventing the rival McCarthy clan from regaining possession.  It gradually evolved from ring forts and thatched cottages to the impressively massive stonework of today’s ruins.

In the forecourt facing one end of the cathedral, there’s a huge chunk of debris that fell off the wall.  Lord Inchiquin’s cannons weakened the structure during the 1647 massacre, and in 1848 a massive storm (known as the “Night of the Big Wind” in lore) flung the piece down.  Or so they say.

The cathedral was built between 1230 and 1290, the Gothic style exemplified by the pointed arches and high, narrow windows.  When the Protestant Lord Inchiquin attacked the Catholic town of Cashel in 1647, hundreds of the townsfolk fled to the sanctuary of this cathedral.  Displaying all-too-common of Christian virtues, Inchiquin packed turf around the exterior and burned the cathedral down, massacring the faithful inside.  So much for faith, the power of prayer, a loving god, etc. etc.

Another example of sanctimonious hypocrisy is that of archbishop Miler Magrath, the “scoundrel of Cashel,” who sadly lived to be 100.  His remains lie in a grand wall tomb similar to this one.  He became the Protestant archibishop of Cashel, while simultaneously profiting from his previous position as Catholic bishop of Down.  He married twice (vows be damned), had numerous children, confiscated the lid for his tomb from another bishop’s grave, and converted back to Catholicism on his deathbed.  What an opportunist!
The view over the Plain of Tipperary is quite nice, including another ruin below.  This whole area was once forest, but in keeping with Ireland’s designation as the most denuded country in Europe, it is all fields now.

One view that is a personal favorite of mine, for reasons I can’t explain, is the adjacent graveyard with its forest of Celtic (or Ionic) crosses.  In Ireland,  it is a popular myth that the Celtic Christian cross was introduced by St. Patrick during his time converting the pagan Irish. It is believed that St. Patrick combined the symbol of Christianity with the sun cross, to give pagan followers a sense of the importance of the cross by linking it with the idea of the life-giving properties of the sun.

There was a lot of interior stuff, most of it dimly lit, and my photos didn’t turn out so hot, so I’ve excluded them.  There’s plenty of history, however, and the tour guide did a good job.  We were ready to move on, to Kilkenny to see its castle.  Started around 1200, it became the seat of power of the Anglo-Norman Butler family for 500 years.  It originally had four walls, but Cromwell’s army knocked one down, leaving the U-shaped remains of today.  Remains is hardly the word, for this was exquisitely restored to a livable mansion in the Victorian era.

We didn’t get inside, but really enjoyed a relaxing stroll about the castle and its grounds.

Refreshed, we meandered through the town to our next B&B, Rosquil House.  Loni ranked this as one of her favorites, liking the elegant breakfast room.  I enjoyed the lack of a duvet (I hate those things:  I roast and sweat under them), and was very comfortable with blankets and coverlet. Chuck liked it, too, as it had rare (for this town) off-street parking.

Dinner was at the Marble Rock Pub & Restaurant, and was excellent.  I had a Cottage Pie and Loni wolfed down a Pork Cordon Bleu.  Happy happy.

THAT SINKING FEELING

September 21, 2015
Busy day today, so we started with a big breakfast in the pub at the Blue Horizon.  It was surprisingly good, despite a lack of hominess to the place.  I tried the “one of everything,” including black and white sausages.  Loni found her croissants to be the real deal, not Saran-packaged day-olds like we see in hotels in the States.  With all this, we were able to skip lunch.
First stop was Cobh, a rather pretty port town, although we didn’t get to do much strolling about.  It is said that if you’re Irish-American, the last bit of the old sod that your forbears touched was in Cobh, as it was the center of Irish emigration in the 19th century.  Legions of Australia-bound souls left from here as well.  The deepened harbor today attracts mega cruise ships and their hordes, thankfully none were in port this day.  That’s the neo-gothic St. Coleman’s Cathedral looming over all.

Of course, the reason for our visit is that Cobh was the last stop of the Titanic before it set off on its fateful maiden voyage.  The ship didn’t actually dock in the harbor, it was too big.  It sat at anchor outside the seawall and sent lighters in to pick up those lucky few last passengers.  That’s (allegedly) the old dock that the unfortunates used to board the launches.  The town plays up its minor role in history to the hilt, and we couldn’t depart without touring “The Titanic Experience.”  Perhaps the “ho-hum” experience would be more accurate, but it did have its moments.  One tale was of a Father Brown who was hastily invited by a millionaire to travel first class on the voyage.  Brown embarked at Southampton, but wired his Jesuit order for permission.  Those worthies ordered him off just before he was about to re-embark at Cobh.  He reluctantly obeyed.  Luck of the Jesuits?  They have a big photo on the outside deck, taken of the building on which we were standing, with the eager passengers waiting to board.  It shows a guy in a bowler hat gazing out to sea.  And I was standing in his footsteps to take this picture!  Oooooh.

Another gimmick was kind of fun.  When you enter, you receive a ticket on which is named one of the 123 passengers who boarded at Cobh.  When you wind your way to the end of the exhibits, you can check “your” name against the list of those who survived to see if this is your lucky day.  Well, sorry to say, we all perished.  However, my guy must have been the inspiration for Leonardo deCaprio’s role in the movie “Titanic.”  This poor sod used someone else’s ticket at the last minute and ended up in Davey Jones’ locker.  Another sad factoid:  for the 700 passengers in steerage, there were only 2 bath tubs.  However, they probably didn’t mind.  Steerage class nonetheless offered adequate bunk rooms with a basin and running water – probably better than they left at home.
All this ocean stuff left us hungering for a drink, so next stop was the Jameson Distillery in Old Middleton, accurately rated as one of the two best tours of such facilities.

It is home to the world’s largest copper distilling pot (no longer in use);  copper, because it supposedly draws out any sulfur that might be lurking.  Anyway, it’s rather pretty.
The more modern methods are nothing to look at.  Certainly not whimsical like this thing.
Jameson claims its product is “triple distilled,” not only twice like most others.  They employ virtually all used oak casks from bourbon or sherry makers. The malt is dried using smokeless anthracite coal.  They disdain the Scottish whiskey makers who use (or used to) peat to give a smokey flavor to their goods.  All Irish whiskey flavor comes from the barrels!  A factoid for the next trivia contest.  One distressing thing to come out of our tour was the visit to the barrel aging room.  Before the guide opened the doors, he prepped we tourists by warning that we were about to smell perhaps the most overwhelming fragrance that we would ever experience.  Sure enough, he opened the doors, we entered, and everybody in the place but one went, “OOOOOOOHHHHHHHH.”  Apparently it was really something.  I was the one.  All this did was to confirm that my sense of smell is hopelessly lost.  Nada.  Zip.  After the tour, volunteers were sought to participate in a taste-off among Jameson’s, Jack Daniels, and Cutty Sark.  We were not among the tasters, but it was fun watching them.  The fix was in.  Jameson’s won, 8-0.

I haven’t drunk whiskey in decades as I find it much too harsh on my throat.  Still, I gave it a go.  Meh.  I think I can leave it alone for the rest of my life.  All I get is alcohol.  Still, we were mellow.

Finished with the tour and the samples, our teetotaling Chuck guided us back to the Blue Horizon just in time to see the last part of the All-Ireland National Football Final, Donegal (of Chuck’s flag) vs Kerry (the county we now were in; the flag remained hidden away).  It was much like Australian Rules Football, if that helps.  Didn’t think so.  We got some Guinness and shouted along with the locals.  Kerry won, 2 – 9 to 0 – 12.  Got that?
After the game ended, we hightailed it to the second of the barkeep’s recommended restaurants, the Speckled Door.  We should have driven more slowly.  Maybe they would have been all booked up.  Alas, we got a table.  I’ll just leave it by saying that they tried to serve my thrice-re-heated lasagna with a side of fries.  Lord have mercy.  There’s not enough Guinness in the world . . .

MUCK-ING ABOUT

Sept. 20, 2014
We bid our farewells to Phena, Gerry, and family after another great breakfast, which included a visit to the kitchen where we watched their son strain milk that he had just taken from his goat.  You can’t get much more farm “authentic” than that.  Gerry laid out some more route for us to follow and, with regret, we departed.  Lovely people, lovely home.  Here’s the parlor.

Our first stop was not far away.  Ross Castle, located in the Killarney National Park.
Ross was a private “tower” house, built in the late 1400’s by the O’Donnaghue family.  It originally had high walls all around it, but these were co-opted by later owners who built various appurtenant structures which themselves were subsequently destroyed.  Mostly only the original tower structure remains.  Legend has it that O'Donoghue still exists in a deep slumber under the waters of adjacent Lough Leane. On the first morning of May every seven years he rises from the lake on his magnificent white horse and circles the lake. Anyone catching a glimpse of him is said to be assured of good fortune for the rest of their lives.  We were a few months too late.  Ross Castle was the last stronghold in Munster to hold out against Cromwell. 
After Ross, we headed on around the park to a true gem of a place, Muckross House, called the best stately home in Ireland.  But first we had to contend with horrendous traffic occasioned by a local marathon being held in Killarney.  Muckross, built in 1843, sits on the edge of a gorgeous hunk of Killarney National Park.  Here’s the front view.

and, the even prettier side view that faces the park vista:

What price ambition?  The owners of the house sent an invitation to Queen Victoria to visit their manse.   She gave six years (!) notice of her intended stay at the house.  The owners  spent a couple of years preparing for the royal visit in 1861, eager to gain coveted titles and nearly bankrupting themselves in the process.  On the ground floor (she was afraid of fires) is Queen Victoria’s bedroom. The queen stayed only three nights, and her beloved Prince Albert died soon after the visit.  The grieving and depressed queen never got around to granting the hoped-for titles.  Oh, well, at least the owners got to enjoy the great view from these windows of the national parkland.

We took the tour of the house, but no photos permitted.  62 rooms in 26,000 sq ft., manned by 22 servants back in the day.  The drawing room curtains were the originals that were installed for the Queen’s visit!  The huge billiards table weighs 3 tons.  Pretty nice place and well worth the stop.  The Park Trust provides no end of things to separate you from your wallet. 
We rejected the vintage busses, although they were truly cool, and instead went back to an even earlier vintage transport . . .

This bit of local ripoff set us back more than a Central Park hansom ride, but what the heck.  It took us off into the parklands, ending up at a trail back to some waterfalls that were, well, underwhelming but pleasant.  Our drivah from the local hood (adjusting the tarp above) snapped our beaming faces.

Leaving Muckross, we left the N71 highway to follow the instructions via country lanes for getting to our next destination far down on the southern coast near Kinsale.  The Blue Horizon is our next B&B, although it actually is a small (15 rooms) hotel-pub combo with an absolutely stunning view of the coast.  Since we booked so far in advance, the four of us got the choicest of the rooms.  Not for their style, which was fairly Motel 6, but the views.  And one thing I liked – the first place in Britain we’ve been in that didn’t have dual taps in the sink.  Once faucet with blended hot and cold.  Ahhh, modern plumbing at last.

We pumped the pub’s barmaid for dining tips, as they didn’t serve dinners.  She recommended two – the Speckled Door or the Pink Elephant.  We chose the latter and followed her detailed instructions and actually found the place.  It was a good tip, at least for me.  I love mussels, and the dish below was an appetizer!  I was stuffed (no one else liked the things) before the main course arrived.  When the mains did arrive, my risotto was a bit gummy, but Loni’s duck was a true winner.  And a good end to the day.

THE OTHER RING

Sept. 29, 2014
Today we’re off for the more famous Ring of Kerry, much longer in circumference but, as we shall see, we cut it short.  First thing, though, another of Gerrry’s breakfasts!  Just a bit of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, with a porridge on the side.  Oh, yes.

Gerry regaled us at breakfast, in that wonderful brogue of his, with the story of when, in the ‘60’s, Robert Mitchum was in Dingle for filming a movie.  He was drinking heavily constantly, and one evening he was loaded while driving in a big American car and hit a group of cows, killing two.  The farmer was livid.  Mitchum soothed:  “Not to worry, I’m Robert Mitchum.”  The old farmer told him he didn’t care what his name was.  “Look at my cows!  They have names!”  Mitchum eventually paid up, probably at a premium.
Our first stop of the day was to retrieve our laundry from Tralee, so we zipped up north before doubling back to the Ring down through Killarney.  We were supposed to see a locally famous cottage at the “meeting of the Waters Bridge in a local park, but despite walking much farther than the sign promised, we never found the cottage and didn’t get close to the bridge before it started to sprinkle.  There’s another body of water on the other side, hence the name.  Not worth the effort, one of the few misses of the trip.


On our way, we did a little climbing up the mountains through Moll’s Gap, but the low cloud cover, mist, dim light, and high hedgerows made for poor photography.  We passed through Kenmare and started the clockwise loop along the Kenmare River.  A bit peckish, we stopped at the Parknasilla Hotel, a posh 19th century spot touted as a likely spot for a bit of tea and scones.  Looks (and guidebooks) can be deceiving.  The grounds were pretty enough (the mouth of the Kenmare is at the rear), and the entry and first room we passed through were quite nice.  That room was large, nicely appointed, with large windows to look out upon the lawns and river.  But we didn’t get placed there.  Our hostess kept going, through a second room filled with a noisy post-wedding party, and on to the far back of the joint to a less-than-charming and deserted room done all in, well, what color is it?  Even our faces have taken on the hue. This was taken at the end of our tea, the dry scones and solid-like-cold-butter clotted cream for which were easily the worst we had in all of Ireland.  Fah!  By the time of this photo, the wedding party had cleared out and we were isolated in banishment silence.  This is high on my “skip it” list.
Next stop on the Ring was Staigue Ring Fort, another impressive creation of mortarless stone.  It’s in the background, above and right of Chuck.

We did some clambering around and on the walls.  I’m surprised that you are free to go wherever you want, although I guess if this thing has survived two millennia of conflict and use there’s not much we could do to it.


Onward.  Up through the Coomakesta Pass and more big views, marred by the weather.

In need of fortification, we tried to find a chocolate factory that was recommended in one of our guidebooks.  The signs in this area are virtually incomprehensible, contradictory, and downright confusing.  We kept trying to follow what we thought was the way, but got hopelessly lost.
And then, totally by accident, we found it!  In the middle of, literally, nowhere.  The gal told us they weren’t permitted to place signs anywhere.

We loaded up on yummy selections.  They had a great sense of humor here, as is evidenced by the “control your kids” sign.  This was an excellent end to a somewhat frustrating day.  We lip-smacked our way along the road to dinner at Sol y Sombra, a tapas (!) restaurant in Killorglin, situated in a a converted church.  Very nice inside, and good food – especially the calamari and the super-light battered cod.  Fully recommended!  (Image from web)