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 . . .