Ireland


22
Feb 16

Pics from the weekend

A friend was sick and complaining on social media. I leaped to the rescue! With milk and chocolate sauce.

She looked pretty good when I dropped it off at her place, though …

Autumn shows off the rally hat and rally sunglasses ensemble at the baseball stadium:

We gave it a try, and if anyone asks I did not invent the rally sunglasses:

Aubie doesn’t wear sunglasses, so he made it work with Upside Down Batman Goggles:

(I did invent those.)

We are painting. Well, we hired painters. Allie is helping:

At least we don’t have to pay The Black Cat for her painting services. She has paint on her tail.

We took my mother-in-law to the Irish pub tonight. I could go there a lot more than we do, actually. And I want to take their poster home with me:

Which is one of the reasons I took a picture of it. That’s actually a poster of which I’d buy a reproduction. Ordinarily I’d only want the authentic stuff, but that’s a good one. Ireland was amazing, having a poster of it in the office would be a nice reminder. Maybe a motivation to get back.


1
Jul 13

The last Irish post

Since it was a travel day, and since I’d been saving this one up …

When we were in that restaurant and pub on Inisheer in the Aran isle I found this newspaper story framed on the wall. I read it over a steaming bowl of beef stew and thought I’d like to share it. There’s no masthead or other note about where the story was published, but it appears several years old. He wrote a fine tale, which was titled “The landlord that time forgot.” It has a second deck headline: “Heard the one about the island with no police and the pub that never closed?”

Geraint Jones writes:

The switchboard light flashed angrily at the Aran Islands’ only police station. Sergeant JJ Bourke stiffened when he heard the voice at the other end. “Yes sir. We’ll get something done straight away. Leave it to us now.” JJ looked hard at the young constable who shared his office. “Sean, it’s those Sandies on Inisheer again,” he said. “The Super wants a result. I think it’s a job for you.”

Ad so, here in their station at Inishmore, the largest island, the two policemen hatched their plan. One that would ensure Garda Sean McCole’s place in the rich folklore of Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer, the three lumps of limestone off Ireland’s remote west coast that make up the Aran isles.

Over the centuries the islanders, a robust and independent breed, have learnt to put up with just about everything – grinding poverty, winds from hell, and the British, to name but a few. But through it all, one cherished pastime remained secure. A drop of something to cheer was always available, be it morning, noon, night or well into the wee small hours of the following day. The men of Aran like a drink. And they don’t like anyone telling them when they should stop.

So when JJ Bourke told Sean McCole how the Superintendent in Galway was tired of getting phone calls from Inisheer women complaining that their menfolk were seeing more of the inside of Padraic Conneely’s bar than of their own homes, Sean said he would do whatever was required. Sean, a strapping 30-year-old, is new to the islands. He came a year ago, after a stint patrolling the mean streets of Dublin, and he believes the law is the law. As he says: “Once you start choosing which bits to enforce and which not to bother with, you’re lost.”

Inisheer, at only two miles long, is the smallest of the islands. There are just 270 people, one shop and three pubs. But this pimple on the ocean has an intelligence network to rival that of Josef Stalin. Nobody arrives or leaves Inisheer without everybody knowing about it. Since there is no police presence on the island, the Gardai have to rely on a less-than-regular ferry from Inishmore to get there. JJ knew that if Sean went over in uniform the words immortalised during the days of illicit poteen – “Ta an garda ag teacht” (the policeman is coming) – would be ringing in the ears of the island’s three landlords long before yer man stepped off the boat. By the time he arrived at the pubs, everything would be “in order.”

The police plan was for Sean to travel to Inisheer undercover, disguised as a backpacker, one of hundreds that visit the island in summer. To cover his tracks, Sean would take the ferry from County Clare on the mainland and not the one from Inishmore, where spies abound.

It was a balmy Saturday evening in August when the cheery traveler set foot on the white sands of the island which give its people their nickname – Sandies. Sean went to the campsite, pitched his tent and waited. At 12:55 a.m. he strolled along the moonlit beach to Padraic’s bar. There was a crowd outside, singing the old songs of Aran under the stats. He went in. The tourists were enjoying themselves noisily. In the recesses, ruddy-cheeked locals wrapped fingers the size of Cumberland sausages round their glasses and supped with a silent rhythm.

Nobody paid the stranger any attention when he left a few minutes later. Sean went back to his tent, pulled his uniform out of his backpack, smoothed out the creases as best he could, and strode purposefully back to Padraic’s. It was 2:20 a.m. The night air was still full of songs and the drink was flowing. Until, that is, they saw the police uniform. Ignoring suggestions that he would be better employed fighting crime than stopping people enjoying themselves, Sean completed the formalities of the charges and left.

Padraic

(Caption: No man is an island, but landlord Padraic Conneely and locals like Eanna O’Conghaile remain defiant of the law.)

The island’s other two pubs also received a visit, and their landlords, Mairtin Flaherty and Rory Conneely, met the same fate. Each was fined by Judge John Garavan at Kilronan District Court on Inishmore last month. Padraic was hit with 100 pounds, Rory 30, and Mairtin, who refused to appear in court, was given a 200 pound penalty. No Aran Island pub had ever been raided by the police before.

“It’s not our job to make the law, only to enforce it,” says Sean McCole. “Also, there are two sides to every story. You have to remember that for every 60 men sitting on the tall stools, there are 60 wives back home waiting for them.” He cannot stop a smile of satisfaction creeping across his face as he recalls the reaction of the drinkers to his uniform. “They were so shocked. They couldn’t believe what was happening.”

And what of Padraic Conneely and the men who enjoyed a pint? And what of their wives back home? Who was it who blew the whistle? At Conneely’s bar the questions are debated with gusto. Padraic – slight, dark and eloquent – is the spokesman for his florid-faced, luminous-eyed companions who depart from their native Gaelic tongue only when absolutely necessary. “Fancy coming here undercover … it’s ridiculous,” he says. There are nods of approval from the locals at the bar.

These men are proud of their island, its heritage, and, most of all their independence. Outsiders have not done much to help them over the years, they say, so why do they want to interfere when the locals are only trying to help themselves? As Padraic explains: “We have a short summer season. You have to make your money while you can. If I tried to close at 11 o’clock, the customers would laugh at me. There’s nowhere else for people to enjoy themselves and they know full well there isn’t a police man on the island.

“It’s not as if I run a disorderly house. There’s no trouble here. People just like a drink and a singsong and the crack. I do try to get them out eventually. Then they take their drinks outside and sing under the stars and I pick the glasses up in the morning. This way everyone is happy.”

Not quite everyone is happy though. Galway police apparently received several complaints from wives on Inisheer. But true to the islanders’ tight-knit traditions, no one will admit to spilling the beans. “No one will want it said that his wife is giving him trouble over him liking a few drinks,” says Padraic. “Me? I’ve got no clue.”

Anyway, Padraic wants the good Gard to know that there will be no more late drinking at his bar. He has learnt his lesson. He has bought one of those clocks where the numerals go backwards. “Now,” he says, his eyes twinking, “the longer we drink, the earlier it gets.”


30
Jun 13

We’re staying in Ireland

Room service for breakfast, and then the last packing of our things, this time for airline inconvenience. Funny how that little detail means everything must change.

We settled up at the hotel — Adam and Jessica had their flowers preserved from their engagement, the local photographer he hired had already produced a DVD with all of their photographs, so they came home with everything. People here are so incredibly accommodating — and went down the hill into Enniskerry for lunch.

We finally settled on eating at the same little pub were we dined before starting our trek across the country. And as a last meal here I had the fish and chips. And it was the best fish I’ve had in all of our adventures in London and Ireland. So light and crispy:

fish

The best mushy peas, though, were back in London.

So we ventured on out to the airport, dropped off our trusty rental car at the lot far removed from any airport activity. They shuttled us over to the terminal, which looks a lot different than I remember from the other day. Because we are in a different place.

We’re standing in line and a lady comes up and asks us if we’d like to catch a later flight. They incentivize that, you know. We bantered some numbers, checked our mental calendars and finally got to a deal that everyone liked. We were demoted to standby. And we might make this flight, or we might be taking a different plane tomorrow.

There was a long period of “will we or won’t we?” Adam and Jessica left because they had a tighter schedule than we did.

We did not make the flight The airline put us up in a business traveler’s hotel, shuttled us there and comped us some hotel meals. The hotel was fine for what it was, high ceilings, weird lights, post modern design. The food was reasonable. There was nothing around except light industry, so we stayed in the room all evening, watched television and calculated our Delta dollars.

So we have one last day in Ireland. In a hotel that offers not much to do. There are worse ways to make travel money.


29
Jun 13

Back at Enniskerry

So we’re back at the Ritz-Carlton on the Powerscourt Estate in Enniskerry. You remember, a week ago we were here and we had a television in our bathroom mirror. We can’t afford a Ritz, and are clearly out of our element. We cashed in a lot of hotel points. The place is amazing.

There are two shower heads in the shower, one above you and one for the body. The shower is made of marble, and so is a perfectly echoed singing chamber. The television in the bathroom mirror, well, ours didn’t work at first, but they fixed it.

Also the wallpaper was peeling and there was a definitive wear pattern in the carpet. We want our money back.

Adam and Jessica though, of course, had the nicest suite in the joint. They’d just gotten engaged there nine days before, after all. And, despite there being a wedding going on at the hotel that very evening, despite their week long absence, they were still the talk of the entire hotel. We had a good time pointing out how inferior our amazing room was compared to their rooms. They had two entrances, and almost as many square feet as our house. The place is incredible.

Here is one of the lesser chandeliers:

Everyone is amazing. Gordon Ramsay has a restaurant in the basement. The pool was cut out of the earth with Swarovski crystals, and then lined with better Swarovski. The beds are all feather down. The window shades have remote controls. You can set the thermostat by the door or from the remote in the nightstand.

And here’s the mountain view that commands the surrounding area:

So the place is amazing. Down the hill in Enniskerry we had dinner at one of the three or four restaurants there. It is a small little village, all surrounding a square. The grocery store, which we also visited, is like a middling convenience store back home. But everything else has a dignified air of yuppiedom to it.

We saw a lot of cyclists shredding their legs on the hills. And, in sympathy, we spent most of the day at the pool, repacking bags and eating cookies. It was a good time for a day like this. After so many days of vacation we all realized we needed a little break.

Life. Is. So. Hard.

What a great trip though, and it is a terrible shame that it has to end tomorrow. We’ll get up, have breakfast here and lunch elsewhere and then be on our way to the airport in Dublin for the long flight back to the States. The trip will end, the memories and the scenery and the jokes and all of the wonderful adventure of will just play in our heads on a loop for a while. Two friends got engaged, we realized we should have counted how many times we said “Wow” at every incredible view these amazing landscapes offered and we had a nearly perfect trip, all planned by The Yankee.

I don’t think she’s willing to hire herself out to plan your itineraries, but if you offered her enough money she’d make you an awesome one. You’d see all the best places and come back with a lifetime of memories. She plans a great trip.


28
Jun 13

On Inishmore, the Aran Islands

We took the ferry from Galway over to Inishmore, which was a trip not without its are-we-going-the-right-way-will-we-make-it-on-time-where-are-our-ferry-tickets drama. We did go the right way. We made it on time, but only barely. There was a situation with the tickets, but it wasn’t the end of the world. We made it onto the ferry, a different kind of vessel entirely, this time bouncing over the same types of waves. But not as big. And people still got sick.

Adam and Jessica did some shopping and relaxing. We wanted to see a bit more of the island and ride bikes. First we saw a horse:

And then I got to ride in this. People don’t believe me when I say how much I enjoy the weather, but this is the most fun kind of riding:

And since I didn’t bring any sunglasses — no sun! — I just rode in my glasses, which looked like this instantly and constantly:

My rental, an almost brand new Felt mountain bike. That’s the same company as my road bike. And while I have no desire, ever, to do mountain bike riding, this is a sweet little rig. Though it is heavy.

The other problem? I can’t see the cassette. I have no idea what gear I’m in back there!

But we got to ride on roads like this. How perfect is this?

And down here is a rock beach where the seals come in. We saw one down there, but he scurried off before we got close:

Some of the other brave road warriors that we met in the rain:

I mentioned the Burren region the other day, here’s an interesting example of the sheets of rock you see here. And, for whatever reason, the grass that grows through there is incredibly nutrient-rich for the livestock.

We rode up to one tail end of the island, until we could ride no more, and then we walked up to Dún Aengus, which has been called “the most magnificent barbaric monument in Europe.”

Three dry-stone ramparts and part of a fourth, with the outermost closing in 11 acres.

If you’ll look to the left of that picture above it just seems as if the fort is floating in the air. For good reason. It overlooks the Atlantic Ocean and dominates the surrounding landscape as the highest point on the island. No sneaking up on this place, so it was both offensive and defensive. And also possibly cultural. Or religious. And, if anything like the mainland forts, it might have also once marked a territorial boundary.

Frustrating historians and archeologists, this site was a multi-generational endeavor. The dry-stone technique doesn’t yield a lot of clues. Weathering erosion isn’t very helpful. So they looked at how the walls are related to one another, the ground plan and exposed cross sections in some areas of the walls.

That’s given them three major phases, the first was in the late Bronze Age, perhaps between 1100 and 500 BC. Around 800 BC Dún Aengus was thought to be a cultural center for several related groups. In the Iron Age, between 500 BC and 500 AD, there was a decline of activity at the site and little evidence of what may have been taking place there. There were some defensive additions made which suggests the site’s importance had diminished. People may have just moved on, for a variety of reasons. It was a busy 1,000 years in Ireland, after all.

In the early medieval period, between 500 and 1100 AD there is evidence of the final major remodeling of the fort. Quarry work made a vertical plateau. The walls were thickened. Terraces were added inside. Evidence suggests that people were living at Dún Aengus once again.

Also, you’re more than 300 feet above the water here:

I didn’t want to say anything at the time to worry The Yankee, but the thought occurred to me, at the moment I took this picture, that people could have very unfortunate “accidents” here. When I told her later in the evening she said “I had the same thought.”

We both made it back without pushing one another. So did these two ladies:

Even the lichen growing on the rocks is beautiful:

Here’s the view from Dún Aengus.

And here’s a bit of video, just to give some ambiance:

About the name of the fort. In Irish mythology, Aengus — Óengus (Old Irish) or Áengus (Middle Irish) — is a member of the Tuatha Dé Danann and probably a god of love, youth and poetic inspiration. The Tuatha Dé Danann a race of people in the invasions tradition of Irish mythology the fifth group to settle Ireland, conquering the island from the Fir Bolg, whom we also learned about at the Cliffs of Moher. It is all starting to come together now, right?

The name Aengus stems from a Proto-Celtic origin, and if you’re really brave, Wikipedia will get you started.

Nearby were more cattle:

And then more riding. The rain stopped when we weren’t on the bikes and continued again for awhile when we got back in the saddle, almost like magic. So I chased her around the island some more:


We saw other tourists and locals alike. The next few shots are just of people pedaling:

At the far other end of the island we found a field of rabbits. I took several pictures in this sequence and tried to put them together. It isn’t quite right, but it is interesting:

More to the middle of the island again we passed the Lucky Star Bar, which looked like it hadn’t been lucky in some time:

The most prominent cemetery we found on Inishmore:

More of those beautiful rock walls that dot the landscape:

And this path isn’t on the map, nor is the ridiculous ridge we rode across trying to get over to the other side to see the ocean:

But here is the route we took, minus some scary and fun off road portions:

By comparative standards, a contemporaneous church:

Sadly turned our rental bikes back in. I grew to enjoy this thing pretty quickly. It was heavy, but great on hills. You could really sling it around well, and the shocks were a big novel fun:

After we vainly tried to dry off we walked back passed the closed Lucky Star Bar and found there were new tenants:

And we headed to Joe Watty’s pub, one of the view options on an island of 870 people. (There was also an “American restaurant” in a hotel that apparently came off like the 1980s place in Back to the Future III, just a hodge-podge, and full of locals.) This place was packed too. Our host told us that there was a big local sports and youth festival this weekend and tonight they were crowning the island’s pageant queen. It was all going down in Joe Watty’s, which became shoulder-to-shoulder and chest-to-back packed.

The food was delicious though. We realized we’ve eaten incredibly well in Ireland, despite a few too many desserts. The food has been good and not processed and hearty and I want it every meal.

Tomorrow morning we’ll have breakfast with our B&B hosts and then catch a ferry back to the mainland. We’ll drive back to Powerscort in Enniskerry for one more night before this incredible vacation has to, inevitably, come to an end. We’re having a blast. And going to start looking for jobs here.

We’re only slightly kidding about that.