Ireland

I left for Ireland on April 22nd. When I landed in Dublin that afternoon, I realized I had no way to find my mother. We had never been in that airport, so I had no clue how it was laid out or where she might be. Luckily, I stayed in one spot and she found me :) After wandering around two terminals, we found our way to the car hire place. I volunteered to drive, since Mom and Michie were so tired.


Let's talk about driving on the left.


It's like being in the passenger seat with a steering wheel. My brain is trained to look right toward the mirrors, and now I had to force myself to look left. With the steering wheel on the left, it's like my depth perception was all of a sudden dyslexic. Driving on the highway wasn't bad. We had to drive about a half hour out to Dun Laoghaire to the B&B. The signs were fairly easy to get used to. We found the B&B with only a little trouble. The real trouble was the courtyard. It's tiny. Really tiny. Long story short, I thought I had cleared the wrought iron gate and scrrrrrrraaaaaattch! Yeah, that was 100 Euros (thank you nice car hire man for talking us into the full insurance!) and I wasn't allowed to drive anymore. Mom got used to driving pretty well on those narrow roads, except for that time in Kilkenny when she almost took off the sideview mirror ;)


My first real taste of Ireland was Dun Laoghaire. It's a coastal town, reminded me a bit of New Hope with it's boutiques, quaint restaurants, and cute buildings. After dinner, I meandered about the shorefront by myself. It was quiet, and people walked by the water, played with their kids and their dogs, and seagulls dove in and out of the water. It was slightly chilly, and smelled of saltwater and fresh grass. I had been waiting months for that smell. I caught the sunset; it's one of my favorite sights.

The next day, we took the train into Dublin. I've become accustomed to skyscrapers and tall office buildings, so Dublin seemed rather...short...in contrast. Then again, it's a lot older. 1800's is considered new in Ireland. After almost getting run over by a double decker bus, Mom, Michie, and I jumped the hop on/ hop off tour to get a lay of the land. Our first stop was Christchurch, a huge 11th century medieval monolith in the middle of the city complete with Gothic stained glass and a rose window.

The main chapel was amazing. There were tombs and statues spanning centuries in there. We went down into the crypt, where they kept some religious artifacts and the coffee shop ;) They had the wedding costumes from the Tudors from the scene where Henry married Jane Grey; they were on loan due to the upcoming royal wedding.

After Christchurch, we toddled off to Kilmainham jail but were sorely disappointed with the two hour wait to get in. It was a holiday weekend, so there were tons of tourists in town. We saw the line to get into the Guiness factory. It went around the block. That had to be a three hour wait which was fine with me as I planned on having my first Guinness someplace more amiable. Instead, we headed off to Trinity College. The college itself was begun by Elizabeth the first back in the day. The buildings are all different architectural styles, which makes the place rather disconcerting visually. Our tour guide was a professor at the college and had a rather dry and droll sense of humor. The lecture itself as we wandered about the courtyard was rather boring. We were really there to see the Book of Kells, which is actually not one book but four. The Book of Kells is is an illuminated manuscript Gospel book in Latin, containing the four Gospels of the New Testament together (borrowed that bit from Wikipedia because they said it best). It was created supposedly by Celtic monks during the eighth century. Now, only a few pages are actually on display. They had one page of Latin text and one page of illumination open. The detail and artistry boggle the mind. It's a strange and intricate juxtaposition of Celtic art Christian iconography. Google it to see some of the pages because unfortunately we were not allowed to take pictures. Trinity also has what is called the Long Room, which is in fact the original library. They have kept it in it's 1800's state. Some of the books are hundreds of years old. There are medical tools from the 1800's on display, as well as books which reflect the subjects taught at the college during that time. They also have the oldest harp in Ireland, thought to be about 900 years old. The shelves were twelve feet tall, and stacked with books so old that they were tied together to keep them from falling apart. I could have hung out in the library with a cup of tea just admiring the old dark wood and the echoes of old knowledge and wisdom. But Michie was bored so we moved on :)

We had dinner at a fast food place, and meandered down the road looking for a mini market to get some snacks to carry around. During our wander, we saw some protesters with signs against Ghaddafi. We also saw some Chinese people protesting against Chinese government mistreatment of those who practiced a certain kind of meditation. It was a good weekend to be heard, because the streets were packed with people.

All in all, I didn't find Dublin to be overly interesting. It was an international city with Irish flavor. What I really wanted was to get out into the countryside.
I must mention here that I did so enjoy the porky goodness that was heaped upon me at breakfast. I had missed pork, and very much loved the chance to have real pork sausages and the thinly sliced ham that passes for bacon over there.
The next morning, we packed the car up and headed out to Cashel. It was about a two and a half hour drive, and I found the constant green of pastures, cows, and sheep to be very easy on the eyes. We only got turned around for a minute. The Rock of Cashel appeared suddenly like an old stone giant sitting on a hill. I was so excited that I couldn't wait to get to the Lodge and plunk our stuff down so we could run out the door again. I was even more delighted to see that there was an old ruined monastery directly across the street from the Lodge.

The Lodge was an old grain storage barn that had been converted into a B&B. We got settled in and left Michie to enjoy the Wifi as she had been suffering withdrawal. The landlord had said there was a path we could use as a shortcut up to the Rock. What he really meant was that if one were to jump the fence into the sheep pasture and make your way up the hill that it was faster than walking around. For the sake of adventure, I dragged Mom up through the sheep pasture. We dodged little piles of sheep poo like we were in a mine field. The Rock itself is a formidable fortress, built during the 12th century and supposedly the seat of power for the kings of Munster. There's also the story that the King of Munster was converted by St. Patrick on that spot. The king also happened to be the Archbishop. There are still a number of buildings left to this sight, in fair condition given how old they are. They've erected scaffolding over the top in hopes that the limestone will dry out and prevent the roof from giving way.

I'm a big fan of medieval architecture, and this place was full of Gothic windows and Romanesque archways. Oh, it was lovely. The holes where support beams one lay were visible; pigeons peeked out of these holes and swooped in through the open roof of the main chapel. The Archbishop's chapel was very interesting because some of the frescoes were still visible. Out in the cemetery, Celtic crosses dotted the hillside. There are still people slated to be buried there. The last people to be buried there are on a list created in 1930. According to the tour guide, there are only a few people left. The round tower is facing the cemetery, it's narrow windows looking out onto the Plains of Tipperary.

After we visited the Rock of Cashel, we headed downhill (we took the long way instead of gallumphing back through the pasture) to the ruins of the monstery. The tour guide had told us that it was originally a Benedictine monastery that was eventually taken over by Cistercians and dated from around the same time as the Rock. The monks came from France to train the Irish monks. It's my favorite kind of ruins. Unguarded. No guys in sweater vests with name tags to tell me I can't touch something...or climb it.

It's not that I'm being disrespectul or sacriligious. Quite the contrary. I have so much love of old buildings and want to hear what the old stone has to stay. I'm keeping it's memory alive. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. This was is much poorer condition than the Rock, but the main chapel, smaller chapel, and cemetery are still there. Now, with Ireland being an island a basically just a big rock,  space is at a premium. So I shouldn't have been surprised to see recent graves from the 1930's and 50's inside the main chapel. The whole place is holy ground, so they made good use of the space. I loved peeking my head into the frames of old Romanesque windows and walking around the old stone archways. It was a grey day, and a bit chilly which kind of leant itself to the medieval feel of the place.
I had my first pint of Guinness at a restaurant called the Brian Boru. I took a friend's advice and had it with a a shot of blackcurrant cordial added to it. I am not a dark beer person, but the foam on it was actually quite creamy which I had never experienced before. The cordial added a bit of sweetness to what was already a rather unique full flavor. I liked it. We all ordered bangers and mash, which was about five sausages on a heaping pile of mash potatoes. I expected this, but wasn't expecting the huge mound of food. We had the extra sausages wrapped up for lunch the next day. BTW, in Ireland, the pubs can't serve food on Sundays, only alcohol. Funny, it's the exact opposite at home.
We headed out to Dingle the next morning. That was a good three hour drive. The roads in Ireland aren't straight. They rise, fall, twist, and turn with the land. Everywhere you look, the land is parcelled off by tall hedges and stone walls enclosing green farmlands with fluffy sheep and cows. We could tell we were close when the land started to flatten out a tad and coast came into sight. Dingle has some of the most beautiful coastline I have ever seen. We drove along it for a good hour, dodging tour buses on the narrow roads. Mom drives really well there, I must say. We got settled into our B&B there and went off in search of tourist information. What we found was that the Pan Celtic festival that we had been dying to see didn't even really start until the following weekend. Bummer. No worries. Mom and I meandered into the old medieval church to look at what we thought were the Diesart windows. Later, we headed down to John Benny's pub for dinner and Irish music. The shepherd's pie was good, about two inches thick of mash potatoes on a heap of ground beef and gravy. Their idea of salad was a few greens of undetermined origin (must have stole them from the nearby pasture) and a tablespoon of crushed olives. Oy, the whole meat and potatoes thing was starting to wear on my stomach. The music was traditional Irish, toe tapping and lively. It would have been even better had we not had an obnoxious bunch of French young'uns at one table and a loud family from New York on the other side. Still fun, though. It rained on the walk back, which I savored even though it was cold. I enjoyed the cloudiness, the damp, the smell of fresh grass, and the light rain. It's a change, as opposed to the constant harsh sun and dull brown of the desert.
We decided to try to find Minard Castle the next morning. The nice landlady gave us directions as best she could, but that far out in the countryside most of the signs were in Gaelic. However, they didn't differ too too much from the English so when the tiny sign cropped up out of the grass we turned off into the tiny backroads of Dingle and wended our way down to this little piece of coastline. The water had weathered the stones into smooth oval shaped rocks. Feeling in a mountain goaty mood, I skipped and hopped along the rocks closer to the water so I could get a better look at Minard Castle. Cromwell (think Reformation Cromwell) had attacked the Castle and it was unstable, so no one could get too close to it. But one of the walls had come down completely so I could see into it. I could tell where the floors had been, could see the hint of stairs. Birds perched in the windows and dove down to the beach from atop the broken walls.

The castle actually sits on someone's property. There was a soccer net set up not too far from it. The house had boats upturned on the grass and fishing nets hanging off the side. I walked down a ways and saw a pier, quite clearly marked dangerous but obviously still in use down the road. Some German girls were smart enough to find the gate that led up a grassy path to a "fairy fort". It is actually an Iron Age well. It's surrounded by trees, brush, and a stream. I swore at one point we were being followed by leprechauns. There was a plastic ladle by the well, presumably should one want to drink from the old well. Considering the leaf litter and mud, that would be a no.
That afternoon we took a tour around Dingle with a very nice man named Tim Collins. He and his wife run a B&B in town. He's a retired Dingle police officer and knows everything there is to know about Dingle, right down to the names of the plants, which house the lead singer of the Cranberries lived in, and where to find 7th century ruins. He drove his minivan with a small group of American tourists down the winding roads of Dingle and along the coastline. We saw the uninhabited Blasket Islands, as well as the Skelligs off in the distance. The Island of the Sleeping Man does indeed look...well, just as the title implies.

Tim took us around the coastline, showing us 7th century huts, ogham stones, and telling us about the local history. It was marvelous, but even I had to admit that it was a bit too long. Two and a half hours later, I was saturated in local lore. Meant it was time for a pint. So we took a trip back to the church, because it turns out that what we had seen previously were German windows, not the Diesart windows. Those were in the old convent on the other side of the church grounds. I will post a few here, and I ask that you look closely at the detail, the delicate lines, and the facial expressions captured in colored glass. The texture and patterns are astounding. You haven't seen it's like before unless you've been to Dingle.

We found a bakery (om nom nom), and headed back to the B&B for a nap and down time before we headed out to the pub again for more music. Again, Dingle disappointed us because most of the pubs had foregone their music that night to show a soccer game. Small groups and pairs of tourists wandered the streets looking for music, but little was to be had. So we settled for a pint and some apple cake at John Benny's before packing it in for the night.
The next leg of the trip was loooong. My sinuses were starting to give me trouble, as it was spring in Ireland. We drove out to catch the car ferry across the River Shannon. We were lucky enough to catch a glimpse of a pod of Shannon River dolphins. Unfortunately, I was too slow to get out my camera. And too lazy to chase them along the pier. I was quite satisfied just having seen them.
The massive affair that is the car ferry dropped us in Country Clare. Down more winding, narrow, rocky walled roads toward Liscanoor and the Cliffs of Moher. As we got closer, we saw more and more tour buses from Galway. These buses take blind corners entirely too fast. I swore we were going to drive off a cliff. We got to Liscanoor in one piece, dropped our stuff and drove out to take a boat ride around the Cliffs of Moher. Granted, we could have paid the 8 euros and seen them from the top. Trust me, they are more impressive from below. The boat plodded past the cliffs. Seagulls no more than little white dots surged up and down the sheer rock. Waves crashed at the base of the cliffs, and I looked up and saw tiny little figures walking across the top. The cliffs are dramatic in a way I can't quite describe, too awe inspiring actually for someone of my limited vocabulary to put into words. That's why I take so many gosh darn pictures.

Mom and Michie decided to crash when we got back. I wasn't ready to pack it in just yet. I knew tomorrow we would see a bit of the Burren and then head back to Dublin to catch our flights. It was coming to an end, but I still had some time so I set out on foot to check out an old ruined church I had spied on our way into Liscanoor. There was only a scant bit of sidewalk, so I had to jump into the hedges whenever a car or tour bus went by. I was wondering if I would have to jump the stone wall, but luckily someone had left the old gate open. The church sat on the drop off near the beach. There were no other buildings around it. A horse was grazing nearby, Liscanoor's one horse of their one horse town. It looked like there had been an explosion in the cemetery, or someone had picked up all of the slabs and just thrown them all over the place. The stone slabs were almost five feet long, and the jutted out of the ground at all angles. There were Celtic crosses sticking crookedly out of the ground. You literally cannot place a foot without stepping on a grave. The church itself was small. I ducked my head under the low archway into the main chapel. Ivy crept over the walls and hung over Gothic looking arches. The church was not marked, there were no signs, nor were there any words anywhere that named it. Just like the Cistercian monastery in Cashel, there were people buried in the chapel. There were some as new as 2000. The oldest I found was from 1834. The rest might have been older but they were illegible.

The sun was going down. The horse across the gravelly road munched away on his grass. I found a tiny path down to the beach. Kelp covered the stones. The skies were grey, and off in the distance I could see the ruined tower of Liscanoor castle. I sat on the beach for a bit and looked back at the week's experiences. What had I really wanted from this trip? I had always wanted to go to Ireland, to immerse myself in old history and the colorful culture. Indeed, the people are friendly and kind. But I think more than anything I had wanted to go somewhere where it was spring, where I could smell grass, see fresh flowers, and feel cool breezes. It's amazing how one's priorities change. More than anything, I had wanted to see my mother, and I got to snuggle her, pinch her, and blow bubbles on her face all week! The wind got chilly on the beach, so I headed back. Liscanoor being a one horse town, I shared an apple with the horse on the way.

The next day, we drove through the Burren. There was a huge stone fort that I would have loved to explore, but the smart farmer put his bull in the pasture in front of the fort. Spoilsport. We also stopped to look at a Neolithic stone table. Table is kind of a misnomer. It's actually a tomb. People died, were left to decompose, and then their remains were deposited at the table. The Burren itself is a limestone plateau reaching ten square miles. One of Cromwell's surveyors commented "There is no tree to hang a man, nor water to drown him, nor soil enough to bury him". It's a unique, bleak landscape.

After seeing the Burren, we made the long trek back to Dublin. We turned in the car, and Mom heroically filled out all of the paperwork for the scratch I had put on it. I gave her the 100 euros for it :) We took the shuttle to our hotel and spent a quiet night before leaving in the morning. When I got back to Dubai, the heat hit me in the face and evening prayer was being called.

Yep, I know this music. But it didn't bother me anymore. In the few weeks before I left Dubai for Dublin, I hadn't wanted to see anyone or do anything. I forced myself to. I was depressed, discontented, and homesick. I feel like I can handle it now. One thing this trip has taught me is that I can't go eleven months without seeing family and friends. I had already planned on buying my ticket home for Christmas. This trip just let me know that it isn't a whim, it is a necessity. So I will be home this Christmas.

Seven weeks to go, and then I'm off to Italy for eight days, then swinging by Liverpool to spend five days with a friend, and I will be home on July 24th.