They are so odd and yet so familiar. The Gaelic spelling and pronunciation of them is just off-English enough to set an anti-immigration dude’s teeth on edge. There are Saorise and Maeve and Cirran and Domnhall. There’s Siobhan and Aisling. They are just so fricking poetic. Our guide for the day went by the moniker Aoife. Try and sound it out. Go on. I’ll wait. It is pronounced Eeffe. An Irish sounding Eve. I knew as soon as we stepped off of the boat that we were finally in Ireland.
I have wanted to visit Ireland for so long. Favourite authors like Joyce and Binchy have given me such a clear mental picture over so many years that I really thought I could navigate the roads from Cork to Dublin all by myself. Of course, that is nonsense, but I will admit that there were times today that I wanted to jump out of the bus and yell “Ms. Binchy described this place to perfection.”
There are some things that do need to be seen with one’s own eyes to be believed. This place is really really really green. (I mean it. This isn’t a stupid cliche.) GREEN! In all possible hues and imaginable possibilities. Sometimes it felt as though I was looking through emerald-coloured glasses like in The Wizard of Oz. The meadows run the verdant spectrum from avocado to meadow to lime. It is a cornucopia of green. The trees, still in bloom, are the deepest shade of kelp and the buses are decked out like leprechauns on St. Paddy’s day. Green isn’t a colour here. It is a lifestyle choice.
The hills here really do roll. And undulate. And crest. The roads curve through the towns like somebody purposefully bent them. There were times today when I honestly thought I was in a scene from The Quiet Man and Barry Fitzgerald was about to pop his head out of the first shop we wandered into in Kinsale with Maureen O’Hara working as a shopgirl. This was the Ireland of my dreams and while there is some measure of that still here, in reality it is an IT hub with some of the best food and restauranteurs in the world. Ireland is a foodie’s paradise. If only I were a foodie.
The Irish are also the only people who seem more infatuated with the weather than are Canadians. In Ireland it doesn’t just rain. They get all manners of rain, sometimes within hours of each other. There is no such thing as a good weather day. It is about how much can we get done before the rain hits.
Today it is Twin Son’s Better Half’s birthday.
And in order to celebrate all things her, we decided to visit her ancient homeland for the very first time. Watching her set foot on Irish soil for the first time was all the birthday glory we needed. She even removed her shoes on a grassy knoll to truly feel the earth. She was so very happy and it made the grey skies of Ireland so very worth it. I told her that if we ever visit Poland, I’m pretty sure that I won’t have a similar attachment but I suppose it is possible that I will crave cabbage borscht and pirogies when the time comes.
We took a coach (nobody dares drive in Cork if they want to live) over to Blarney in order to visit the famed castle. Built by King Cormack McCarthy (not the author), Blarney castle is but a shell of the old medieval haunt. The famous stone that everybody seems to want to neck with is at the very top of the only turret still standing and it requires some real gymnastics to access it. We asked one of the guys who worked there if the place is ever not teeming with tourist and his answer was quick and concise winter. A continual single-file line moves slowly up the ancient steps and through the very claustrophobic tube. Once at the top, one is treated to the most magnificent views of the surrounding countryside and vistas near Cork. But then, it is your turn to press lips with a rock….and it requires the motions of a contortionist. Lying prone on your back, the idea is to slip your upper half through the open turret and then lean up in a half-crunch to kiss an obviously very germ-laden stone, all while a bored young man is holding onto your belt with your life literally in his hands. I pity the asshole who doesn’t slip this guy a euro or two. The lineup was a bit of a frustrating challenge, but I have to admit that there was something truly exhilarating in completely a challenge that is truly the stuff of legends and the gardens surrounding the castle are simply breathtaking.
One last thing that I promised Twin Son’s Better Half I would do in honour of her special day…I tried a sip of a dark ale called Murphy’s. Apparently, it is lighter and sweeter in taste than is Guinness, but I honestly thought I was eating pine tar. If this shit is the poor man’s Guinness, then I am doomed come Dublin.
Happy Birthday, dear friend. We were so happy to journey to the land of shamrocks and leprechauns in order to share in your special day.
A few postscripts from the day.
**The Irish, like the Brits, are very fond of honouring shipwrecks. There are monuments and museums for both The Titanic and The Lusitania which went down just outside of Kinsale. I must say that cruising to these destinations has not gotten any less unnerving.
**We were treated to some traditional Irish folk music today and manage to hear Danny Boy for what I expect will not be the last time on this trip. It reminded me of my all time favourite rendition which you can hear below.
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