We bid a fond farewell to Scotland with a bang-up breakfast by our host, Scott (we resisted the Trekie urge to call him Scottie), and his wife. Sausages, poached eggs, and tomatoes for Loni, and a continental for me (you can only take so many full breakfasts). We had a three-hour journey to the west coast and the ferry port of Cairnryan. Got there in plenty of time to watch the arrival of our boat, the European Highlander.
While waiting in the queue, we were entertained by the Scottish equivalent of Homeland Security, whose dog found the car in front of us to be of interest. After a lot of jumping in and out of the van, nothing was found and the hapless occupants (young, tattooed, and sporting expressive t-shirts -- profiling, anyone?) were free to go. We didn’t get any attention as we all-too-well fit the “harmless geriatric” demographic. Little do they know, eh?
Once aboard and crammed cheek-to-fender with the other vehicles, we made our way to one of the big lounges, staked a claim to a table & chairs by a window, and settled down to observe the latest in permissive child-rearing unfold at the adjacent site. It was like being trapped on a plane. Fortunately, this style of parenting seems to include free-ranging and the little darling roved off to bug the hell out of someone else for much of the time. The voyage was without drama, unlike Loni’s last urp-fest when we crossed the Channel in 1966. There even was an edible “cream tea” from the snack bar. Unfortunately, when we got back to the car as we approached the landing, we discovered we’d parked under some foul pipe or other and the nice white roof was now a sea of ugly brown splotches. That’s the “before” pic above. Sorry, no “after.” We landed at the Irish port of Larne, which was a bit south of our first night’s destination of Cushendun, not to be confused apparently with the more-well-known burg of Cushendall. They both lie along the northeast coast at the start of the Antrim Coast, which we would explore over the next couple of days. I had booked us into a B&B called Farm House Villa, a 19th century house full of creaky floors, atmosphere, and an incredible view. Run by the redoubtable Maggie, it was an excellent first introduction to Ireland. She accepted only cash, but, we thought, no sweat. Northern Ireland is part of Great Britain, and we were loaded with pounds from Scotland. Uhhh, no. She looked at our proffered cash, tch-tched, and said it was the wrong color. And it came from a Scottish Bank. And she didn’t think she could take it. What the? It seems that, despite being one “united” kingdom, a pound is not necessarily a pound. Instead of being issued by one central authority like the U.S. Bureau of Engraving, it seems that various banks issue the paper money, and ours had been issued by the Royal Bank of Scotland. But, apparently, it is not accepted everywhere, especially here in Ireland. She said she’d call her bank and check. She found that her bank had some sort of relationship with the RBOS, and it would not be a problem for her to take our “foreign” pounds. Live and learn. Anyway, here’s the fabulous view from the front of Farm House Villa, over the sheep fields, and down to the harbor by the village, through a little Irish Sea haze.
Not too shabby. The inside of the house wasn’t bad, either. Like being at grandma’s. Here we are at breakfast the following morning. Maggie asked us on arrival when we liked to eat breakfast. Alice asked, when do you usually serve? Maggie responded, “Well, when would you like it?” So, Alice said we’d typically been eating between 7:30 and 8:00 a.m. “Oh,” says Maggie, “that will never do – that’s way too early.” We settled on 8:00, with Maggie quickly becoming one of the memorable characters of our trip. And, yes, she could cook. She’d even attended a culinary school when she was first starting up her B&B.
Also like grandma’s, the rooms (not just here, but in virtually all the B&B’s we stayed at) are not uniform. Bigger, smaller, “nicer,” etc. We began to trade off from place to place, with whoever got the “lesser” room the previous stay got first choice in the next location. This time we drew the second choice. Quite comfortable, but very small. As Chuck remarked when he saw it, one “couldn’t swing a dead cat” without hitting every surface. The bathroom was actually smaller than the one in our RV. Now, that’s small. We were only there to eat and sleep, so no biggie. It was dead quiet at night.
One thing that did plague us throughout our trip was the 19th century sink faucets that we encountered almost everywhere. They all still use separate hot and cold taps, even in plumbing that obviously is new. If you’ve ever tried to wash your face with warm water by quickly alternating your hands under each, you know what I mean. Scald, freeze, scald, freeze. And, to boot, they mount them so that the end of the tap is right up against the side of the basin, so it’s nearly impossible to get your cupped hand underneath. Who designs these things? British plumbing: oxymoron. We got settled in and Maggie told us the best bet for getting a meal was back in the town of Cushendall, as “den” was bereft of eateries. It was only a few miles. When we got there, Chuck looked around for a car wash. Nothing that we would recognize as such, but an enquiry at the gas station led us behind a building where there was a cracked-pavement lot and a guy with a hose, bucket, and sponges. The deal was sealed, and he went to work with a water conservation ethic that would do any Californian proud in our current drought. Still, with minimal use of resources, he did a credible job, and we were fit to be seen on the open road once again. Leaving the car in his “lot,” we walked across the (only) street and checked out the menu at
Upstairs At Joes. The offerings looked surprisingly fancy, so we gave it a try and were glad we did. Sometimes the best of meals comes from the most unlikely of places. UAJ was one of those. It was minimally staffed, to say the least, with one gal serving twenty or so people, but doing it so well that we never felt ignored. We were there at 7, and the bar didn’t open until 8, so we could only have bottled beer (Harp). Alas, no Guinness on tap my first night in Ireland. We could see the kitchen through a small window, and when I went over for a better look I found the proverbial one-armed paperhanger doing all the cooking. And cook he did. I had salmon with a crab risotto while Loni opted for an Irish lamb stew. Both were excellent. That blackened salmon skin was crispy good, and the flesh was nice and moist.
Dessert was orange & vanilla pana cotta with shortbread cookies and clotted cream. Arterial clots no extra charge. Chuck wanted the special rhubarb crumble, but even though we were early diners, they were all out. So, the amazing chef said he’d whip up a plum one if we’d give him a moment. It came out amazingly good. Five stars for Upstairs At Joe’s! When we came out, the street was still, and looked like something out of a tourist brochure. UAJ is directly above where the dark figure is standing on the left. A nice end to our first day in Eire.
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