We went to our rooms to find numerous bottles of water. As luxurious as Ashford is, it still falls prey to the vagaries of the local water system. Every so often, we were told, the water in County Galway is invaded by a local bacteria. Recent tests showed it “might” be present and so the phrase of the day for our two day stay was “Don’t drink the water.” For the next two days, we drank and brushed our teeth with bottled water. After a nap and a shower (perfectly safe, apparently), we donned our Sunday best and headed to the dining room.
Like much of Ashford Castle, the main dining room is resplendent with mahogany. The walls are covered with carved mahogany panels rising from the floor to a height of about ten feet where it is topped with a basket weave molding. Above that to a final ceiling height of about 16 feet, the walls are covered with a warm cream colored wall paper with a delicate floral pattern. The flat ceiling is criss-crossed with a dark oak lattice work trim with crown molding. Three small alcoves, each accommodating three or four tables, adjoin the main room. These have lower arched ceilings finished with the floral wall paper. The floors are covered with thick and intricately patterned Persian rugs. Wall sconces illuminate beautiful artwork on the walls. Great arched windows with wonderful views illuminate the room during the day. At night, huge Waterford crystal chandeliers bathe the room in a soft white light tinged with rainbow hues.
Dinner matched the setting. Service personnel were dressed in white tie and white gloves. The menu was varied and consisted of five full courses and a post dessert treat of petit fours served with perfect French roast coffee. After dinner, we walked around the castle for a while and then headed off to bed (these multi-course dinners last about two and a half hours and we finished after ten o’clock). Back at our room, we found chocolates and a decanter of mead, a honey based dessert wine, for which Galway is famous. We slept like royalty.
Morning brought more overcast skies but no rain. Breakfast is served beginning at 7:30am. We wandered down stairs at 7:00am and found that the side table in the bar lounge was covered with tall sterling silver coffee urns and fine china at one end and a lovely selection of scones and pastries at the other. We sat with our coffee looking out past the garden fountain at several small boats on the lake. At 7:30am on the dot, the dining room opened. As with all our breakfasts on this trip, there were tables with assorted pastries, fruit, cereals, cheeses, and salami. Helpful service staff, clad in pure white, dispensed eggs, omelets, that wonderful Irish bacon, roast beef, and ham.
Way too many calories later, we boarded our coach and set out for Kylemore Abbey. Kylemore is located in the Connamara region of County Galway. This area is known for its wonderful lakes and rivers…and fjords. As we drove along the mountains, on either side of us got closer and more vertical. Rock formations similar to the Burren began to appear. Occasionally the rocks would move. The sheep in this area were the same size and color as the rocks. The sun broke through just as we saw a glimpse of blue. It was the tip of the fjord. The mountains hugged ever closer until the road was a notch carved into the mountain side which went directly down into the fjord. At a wide spot, a tiny village clung precipitously. Now we were well along the fjord which was about a mile wide. On the far side, a similar notched road made its way along. We stopped at an overlook, where we saw numerous lobster traps. The fjord is fairly deep. According to our tour guide, during World War II, Ireland was neutral and American and German submarines were in this fjord at the same time making repairs. The Americans, the Germans, and the Irish all knew what was going on but nobody said anything. The fjord continued to widen and then we saw it on the far shore, Kylemore Abbey, peaking out of a wooded hillside adjacent to a quiet lake set back from the fjord. The Abbey started out life as Kylemore Castle, built between 1867 and 1871 by Mitchell Henry. After the untimely death of his wife, Henry built a beautiful gothic church about a quarter mile away along the shores of the bay in 1877. In the other direction he constructed a wonderful formal garden. In 1920 Irish Benedictine nuns took possession of the property and established an abbey and a girls’ secondary school. We crossed a long bridge and we were there. A grove of trees in the parking lot blocked or view until we walked out onto a smaller bridge to the main grounds. The view was stunning. The lake was absolutely still so the abbey was perfectly mirrored in the water. The abbey is constructed of light gray granite with both round and square turrets. It sits atop a great granite wall about twenty feet above the height of the lake.
Having determined that the stone bridge was quite strong and stable (at least a half dozen coaches worth of tourists were standing on it at the same time taking an exponentially greater number of photos) we entered the visitors center/gift shop/snackbar passed through a turnstile and made our way to the abbey. The asphalt path is fairly wide and affords wonderful views of the abbey exterior and the forested hills directly above it.
Inside you are able to view only a small number of rooms which have been preserved/restored to their Victorian splendor. The remainder are still used by the nuns and students as classrooms and dormitories. The rooms you see are gorgeous.
You enter through a great gallery hall. Unlike the castles, the walls are covered with dark brown oat and the floor is oak in a stunning parquetry. Dark red drapery matches the dark red velvet chairs and a circular sofa in the room’s center.
Much lighter is the dining room. The walls are painted cream white and accented in pale sage green. All the furniture, including the dining table, the great side table (set in its own little alcove) and the accent chairs and table, are of matching dark mahogany. The chair cushions are red velvet. The rug is another Persian wonder with hints of gold and red on a mostly sage green back ground that perfectly matched the wall accents. At the end of the room is a great curving bay window with hunter green drapes pulled back and secured by golden cords.
Much lighter still is the drawing room which has been restored to match the splendor of the original with beautiful rosewood furniture upholstered in the finest silk tapestry. The walls are painted a very pale yellow with slightly darker accents and appliqué panels. Carved serving tables abound. Floor to 12 foot ceiling windows let the light stream in through gauzy white curtains framed by great gold drapes. The floor was covered with a light teal blue Persian rug with a gold floral border that explodes at each corner into a twist of gilded vines. Lighting was from very ornate gold leaf chandeliers with etched glass globes.
But my favorite room was the Community Room. This room houses artifacts of the nearly 100 years the Irish Benedictine Nuns have been here. The room is bright but formal. The walls are painted in a very pale golden yellow. Alternating wide and narrow panels are covered in a patterned gold leaf wallpaper. Each panel is edged in wood trim painted cream white. Near the ceiling, a delicate painted vine wends its way around the room. Two great roman columns painted cream white support the ceiling and, at the end of the room, a small white fireplace with a gold leaf detailed screen is topped by a huge mirror. The floor, in stark contrast, is the dark mahogany parquetry. On the walls are paintings of the nuns who have been Mother Abbess over the years. Sealed behind glass are a beautiful illuminated hymnal and several other religious books. Atop one case is a stunning five panel painting on wood (quinquetych?). We finished looking around and decided to explore outside. As we walked out to the edge of the great wall and looked down at the lake…the sun came out.
Next: More Kylemore and our trip to “Inishfree”
Friday, September 14, 2007
Saturday, August 18, 2007
The Auld Sod, Iteration 8
We made our way out of the town of Galway and headed inland. Gradually the rolling fields with their ubiquitous stone walls were replaced with a more forested terrain…beautiful rolling hills covered in trees opening to velvet green pasture areas. I half expected to see medieval knights in full armor on magnificent steeds engaged in battle or, perhaps, Robin Hood eluding the Sheriff of Nottingham. The imagery wasn’t that far off. We rounded a corner and, exiting a complete canopy of trees, we saw a broad expanse of green, the golf course at Ashford, and beyond we could see Lough Corrib, Ireland’s second largest lake. And then we made a sweeping turn to the right and the 13th Century just popped up right before our eyes…Ashford Castle.
As I started to write this chapter of my journey, I got to the end of the previous paragraph and stopped, and sat, and had to think about how to describe Ashford. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then my mental images would fill several volumes. It is stunning. If you had never seen a castle but had read of Camelot and Ivanhoe and Galahad, the image you would likely conjure would be Ashford. It is a great stone edifice and it loomed up before us. It sits on the banks of the River Cong where the Cong empties into Lough Corrib. To get to the Castle, you cross the Cong over a stone bridge with great arched stone towers affixed with heavy green iron gates at each end. It gave the appearance of crossing a moat. Once across, you enter a beautiful courtyard which, on the day of our arrival, was littered with Rolls Royces, Bentleys, Mercedes, and one lonely BMW ( I guess they let the riff raff in). To the right was another smaller tower gate which led outside the castle’s low stone wall to a large expanse of grass with a large concrete circle. We thought this might be some ancient monument…until the helicopter landed, and several guests made their way in. Looking back to our left, we could see a tourist boat called The Spirit of Inisfree which can take you down the last few hundred yards of the Cong River and out into the lake. We walked toward the main entrance marveling at the great stone towers that seemed to be everywhere. As we approached two great oaken doors, two gentlemen in white tie and tails and white gloves, no less, opened the doors and welcomed us inside.
The interior of Ashford Castle can basically be summed up in one word…mahogany. The walls, the ceilings, the hand rails, the stairs, even the bulk of the custom furniture and nearly all the antiques were made of the finest mahogany. Much of it was intricately carved and all of it was beautifully stained and highly polished. This place created a big hole in a rainforest when it was being built. About the only things that weren’t mahogany were the great stone fireplaces. Large works of art and several great mirrors hung on the walls and the finest Persian rugs were under foot
We were escorted up to our room which, while beautiful, had an interior door to an adjoining room and we could hear the quiet conversation next door. Joan is a very light sleeper, and so she went off to see if anything could be done. I guarded the baggage and looked around. The large flat screen TV was on with a message welcoming Joan and I, by name, to Ashford Castle. Joan hadn’t been gone more that three minutes when the screen made a slight “boink” sound and went blank. Within seconds Joan had returned with new room keys. When we entered our new room (two doors down) this TV greeted us as well. The room was very comfortable with a sitting table and two large wingback chairs. It was painted in beautiful cream and rose colors with mahogany trim everywhere. We overlooked the entry courtyard and had a wonderful view of the entry bridge and the River Cong.
We left our bags and went exploring. Back downstairs we really began to take in our surroundings. The entry atrium opens to the right to the business/concierge area. This room had a stone fireplace and four small tables with chairs. If you had to wait for assistance (highly unlikely) you rested comfortably. A beautifully carved mahogany archway to the left led you to a long open hallway. Opposite the archway was a large open lounge, separated from the hallway by an ornately carved mahogany rail, with numerous overstuffed chairs and couches. To the left was a bar that looked as if it had been carved from a single piece of mahogany. The lounge had a vaulted ceiling covered with carved mahogany tiles. On the far side of the lounge, two story high windows overlooked the main garden. To the left of the bar, tucked in a corner was the magnificent dining room (more about this later). Stepping into the lounge we looked back and up to a second story overlook, the walls covered with photos of the famous visitors who have stayed here. We walked down the hall to a second room in which eight foot high china cabinets displayed historic serving pieces, china and crystal (Waterford, of course) which had been used by the castle over the centuries for state dinners. A little farther down the hall, I looked to my right and, to my delight, there was an inglenook. An inglenook is a small sitting area (nook) usually recessed into a main wall. This one was about six feet wide and four feet deep. On the back wall a small brick fireplace, to the sides, built-in mahogany benches with seating pads. What a lovely place to quietly sit and sip a cognac with your significant other. The hall ended in a second smaller dining area which was available for large private parties. The rain, which had been on again off again all day, had stopped and so we went out back to the main garden, known as the Terraced Garden.
The Terraced Garden is very large and formal, but simple. It is longer than a football field and half again as wide. The perimeter to the left is a 10 foot high stone wall which runs from the castle to a two story tall half circle stone tower rounded outward. The inward facing curvature was designed for defense by archers who could fire through small slits in the wall. Running the length of the garden, from the tower, is a smaller stone wall with a number of stairway passages through to Lough Corrib which glistens some 100 feet beyond. The interior of the walls are lined with roses. Walkways encircle the perimeter and lead to the center of the garden and a wonderful large fountain which sits in the middle of a 50 foot diameter reflecting pool. As you walk out of the castle, the view of the garden, fountain, and lake beyond, is both breathtaking and serene. We walked to the lake side of the garden and looked out. On a point, some 100 yards to our right, we saw a living breathing postcard picture. It was a fisherman, wearing a tweed hat and rain gear, sitting in an Adirondack chair, completely mindless of the rain. To the right were two paths. The smaller curving one led into a forested area along the lake. The larger straight one led to the other gardens (more later). At this point we turned around and looked back at the castle…it is HUGE!
Your initial view of Ashford is a tip of the iceberg experience. What you see is the end of the castle, and because of the angles of the walls you can’t see how big it is…and how diverse.
Time for a little history lesson. The castle was started in 1228 by the de Burgos Family after the defeat of the O’Connors of Connaught. In 1589, English Lord Bingham seizes power and adds a fortified enclave. In 1789, the Oranmore and Browne families add a French style chateau. In 1853 Sir Benjamin Lee Guiness adds two Victorian-style extensions. In 1868, Lord Arduilan (Guiness’s son) rebuilds the entire west wing. SO…from the first building there have been four extensions and a rebuild. And even without a blueprint it’s easy to see what’s what, as roof lines change from medieval turrets to Victorian peaked roofs. As you move from section, the size and shapes of the windows and their treatments change. The great commonality is the ivy creeping up the sides in hues of green and red, Mother Nature showing no preference as to style. And while one might expect that such a pedigree would yield an architectural nightmare, the fact is it is…beautiful! And if you look at the mixture of sizes and shapes of the buildings in almost every charming Irish town, Ashford may well be the most “Irish” of Ireland’s castles.
It started to rain again and we were tired. It was time for a nap and dinner was a few hours away.
Next: More Ashford and Kylemore Abbey
As I started to write this chapter of my journey, I got to the end of the previous paragraph and stopped, and sat, and had to think about how to describe Ashford. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then my mental images would fill several volumes. It is stunning. If you had never seen a castle but had read of Camelot and Ivanhoe and Galahad, the image you would likely conjure would be Ashford. It is a great stone edifice and it loomed up before us. It sits on the banks of the River Cong where the Cong empties into Lough Corrib. To get to the Castle, you cross the Cong over a stone bridge with great arched stone towers affixed with heavy green iron gates at each end. It gave the appearance of crossing a moat. Once across, you enter a beautiful courtyard which, on the day of our arrival, was littered with Rolls Royces, Bentleys, Mercedes, and one lonely BMW ( I guess they let the riff raff in). To the right was another smaller tower gate which led outside the castle’s low stone wall to a large expanse of grass with a large concrete circle. We thought this might be some ancient monument…until the helicopter landed, and several guests made their way in. Looking back to our left, we could see a tourist boat called The Spirit of Inisfree which can take you down the last few hundred yards of the Cong River and out into the lake. We walked toward the main entrance marveling at the great stone towers that seemed to be everywhere. As we approached two great oaken doors, two gentlemen in white tie and tails and white gloves, no less, opened the doors and welcomed us inside.
The interior of Ashford Castle can basically be summed up in one word…mahogany. The walls, the ceilings, the hand rails, the stairs, even the bulk of the custom furniture and nearly all the antiques were made of the finest mahogany. Much of it was intricately carved and all of it was beautifully stained and highly polished. This place created a big hole in a rainforest when it was being built. About the only things that weren’t mahogany were the great stone fireplaces. Large works of art and several great mirrors hung on the walls and the finest Persian rugs were under foot
We were escorted up to our room which, while beautiful, had an interior door to an adjoining room and we could hear the quiet conversation next door. Joan is a very light sleeper, and so she went off to see if anything could be done. I guarded the baggage and looked around. The large flat screen TV was on with a message welcoming Joan and I, by name, to Ashford Castle. Joan hadn’t been gone more that three minutes when the screen made a slight “boink” sound and went blank. Within seconds Joan had returned with new room keys. When we entered our new room (two doors down) this TV greeted us as well. The room was very comfortable with a sitting table and two large wingback chairs. It was painted in beautiful cream and rose colors with mahogany trim everywhere. We overlooked the entry courtyard and had a wonderful view of the entry bridge and the River Cong.
We left our bags and went exploring. Back downstairs we really began to take in our surroundings. The entry atrium opens to the right to the business/concierge area. This room had a stone fireplace and four small tables with chairs. If you had to wait for assistance (highly unlikely) you rested comfortably. A beautifully carved mahogany archway to the left led you to a long open hallway. Opposite the archway was a large open lounge, separated from the hallway by an ornately carved mahogany rail, with numerous overstuffed chairs and couches. To the left was a bar that looked as if it had been carved from a single piece of mahogany. The lounge had a vaulted ceiling covered with carved mahogany tiles. On the far side of the lounge, two story high windows overlooked the main garden. To the left of the bar, tucked in a corner was the magnificent dining room (more about this later). Stepping into the lounge we looked back and up to a second story overlook, the walls covered with photos of the famous visitors who have stayed here. We walked down the hall to a second room in which eight foot high china cabinets displayed historic serving pieces, china and crystal (Waterford, of course) which had been used by the castle over the centuries for state dinners. A little farther down the hall, I looked to my right and, to my delight, there was an inglenook. An inglenook is a small sitting area (nook) usually recessed into a main wall. This one was about six feet wide and four feet deep. On the back wall a small brick fireplace, to the sides, built-in mahogany benches with seating pads. What a lovely place to quietly sit and sip a cognac with your significant other. The hall ended in a second smaller dining area which was available for large private parties. The rain, which had been on again off again all day, had stopped and so we went out back to the main garden, known as the Terraced Garden.
The Terraced Garden is very large and formal, but simple. It is longer than a football field and half again as wide. The perimeter to the left is a 10 foot high stone wall which runs from the castle to a two story tall half circle stone tower rounded outward. The inward facing curvature was designed for defense by archers who could fire through small slits in the wall. Running the length of the garden, from the tower, is a smaller stone wall with a number of stairway passages through to Lough Corrib which glistens some 100 feet beyond. The interior of the walls are lined with roses. Walkways encircle the perimeter and lead to the center of the garden and a wonderful large fountain which sits in the middle of a 50 foot diameter reflecting pool. As you walk out of the castle, the view of the garden, fountain, and lake beyond, is both breathtaking and serene. We walked to the lake side of the garden and looked out. On a point, some 100 yards to our right, we saw a living breathing postcard picture. It was a fisherman, wearing a tweed hat and rain gear, sitting in an Adirondack chair, completely mindless of the rain. To the right were two paths. The smaller curving one led into a forested area along the lake. The larger straight one led to the other gardens (more later). At this point we turned around and looked back at the castle…it is HUGE!
Your initial view of Ashford is a tip of the iceberg experience. What you see is the end of the castle, and because of the angles of the walls you can’t see how big it is…and how diverse.
Time for a little history lesson. The castle was started in 1228 by the de Burgos Family after the defeat of the O’Connors of Connaught. In 1589, English Lord Bingham seizes power and adds a fortified enclave. In 1789, the Oranmore and Browne families add a French style chateau. In 1853 Sir Benjamin Lee Guiness adds two Victorian-style extensions. In 1868, Lord Arduilan (Guiness’s son) rebuilds the entire west wing. SO…from the first building there have been four extensions and a rebuild. And even without a blueprint it’s easy to see what’s what, as roof lines change from medieval turrets to Victorian peaked roofs. As you move from section, the size and shapes of the windows and their treatments change. The great commonality is the ivy creeping up the sides in hues of green and red, Mother Nature showing no preference as to style. And while one might expect that such a pedigree would yield an architectural nightmare, the fact is it is…beautiful! And if you look at the mixture of sizes and shapes of the buildings in almost every charming Irish town, Ashford may well be the most “Irish” of Ireland’s castles.
It started to rain again and we were tired. It was time for a nap and dinner was a few hours away.
Next: More Ashford and Kylemore Abbey
Thursday, August 02, 2007
The Auld Sod, 7th Edition
We left the Cliffs of Moher and headed north along the west coast of Ireland. The amazing black limestone that creates the cliffs extends up the coast in dramatic fashion in an area known as the Burren. The Burren, from the Irish “bhoireann,” means stony place. And stony it is. As we drove along, suddenly all the topsoil and vegetation we had been seeing…stopped! We entered this otherworldly area that looked like a cross between a moonscape and a lava plain. As far as the eye could see there was flat black fractured rock. From the road to the sea the rock swept gently downward, the fractures growing in size and depth until it dropped straight off like a mini Cliffs of Moher. Across the road the rock swept gently upward to the base of a hill. The hill had eroded such that it looked like a series of giant stairs or the side of a Mayan pyramid. If you didn’t know what you were looking at you might think you were looking at a really beat up asphalt parking lot. Despite the lack of soil, flowers abound. Every crack was filled with tiny yellow and red and blue flowers. Tiny cypress plants mimicked massive trees…Nature’s Bonsai. Nearby were succulents usually found only in Mediterranean climates. The juxtaposition of the black rock and the colorful plants in every crack made it look like a vast black cloak sewn together with the most colorful of thread. After many pictures, we journeyed on.
The Burren goes on for miles. As we road along we spied a castle ruin sitting off to our left on the Burren cliffs above the ocean. We were told that the locals from Galway had taken over the place and turned it into a regional theater. We didn’t have time to stop but I can only imagine the experience of seeing a play in a venue like that.
The City of Galway rose in the distance. Galway is a seafaring town and we drove along next to the port with its dozens of fishing boats nearby and small freighters in the distance. We made a hard right turn and there, looming above the town, was the Galway Cathedral. Officially known as The Cathedral of Our Lady Assumed into Heaven and St. Nicholas, the cathedral sits on a small hill with its great green Renaissance dome towering 145 feet in the sky. Built between 1958 and 1965, it sits upon the site of the former city jail…redemption replaces incarceration. Built with attention to classical detail, this great stone church offers its visitors a virtual time machine experience. To look at this spotless edifice is to get an idea of what the other great churches in Ireland may have looked like in their youth. The Cathedral has four great rose windows and the walls are adorned with wonderful mosaics and the floor is inlayed with at least 10 different kinds of stone and marble. The pews are of carved mahogany stained a warm russet color. The aisles along side the nave are separated from the pews by a series of great stone arches. There are magnificent stained glass windows absolutely everywhere. The choir loft is unique. The choir and organist are on a mezzanine level looking down on the congregation. Directly above them on a separate level sit the pipes of the huge organ…stunning! The altar sits on a large raised area made of cream colored travertine. The access to the altar area is through wonderful sculptured gates made of polished brass. We took pictures, lit candles, and knelt and said a prayer. I know God is supposed to be everywhere, but I’ll bet he (she?) enjoys spending time here. You could make a day of this place.
Back on the coach everyone was eager to continue as we were now on our way to one of the highlights of our tour… Ashford Castle.
Next: Ashford Castle
The Burren goes on for miles. As we road along we spied a castle ruin sitting off to our left on the Burren cliffs above the ocean. We were told that the locals from Galway had taken over the place and turned it into a regional theater. We didn’t have time to stop but I can only imagine the experience of seeing a play in a venue like that.
The City of Galway rose in the distance. Galway is a seafaring town and we drove along next to the port with its dozens of fishing boats nearby and small freighters in the distance. We made a hard right turn and there, looming above the town, was the Galway Cathedral. Officially known as The Cathedral of Our Lady Assumed into Heaven and St. Nicholas, the cathedral sits on a small hill with its great green Renaissance dome towering 145 feet in the sky. Built between 1958 and 1965, it sits upon the site of the former city jail…redemption replaces incarceration. Built with attention to classical detail, this great stone church offers its visitors a virtual time machine experience. To look at this spotless edifice is to get an idea of what the other great churches in Ireland may have looked like in their youth. The Cathedral has four great rose windows and the walls are adorned with wonderful mosaics and the floor is inlayed with at least 10 different kinds of stone and marble. The pews are of carved mahogany stained a warm russet color. The aisles along side the nave are separated from the pews by a series of great stone arches. There are magnificent stained glass windows absolutely everywhere. The choir loft is unique. The choir and organist are on a mezzanine level looking down on the congregation. Directly above them on a separate level sit the pipes of the huge organ…stunning! The altar sits on a large raised area made of cream colored travertine. The access to the altar area is through wonderful sculptured gates made of polished brass. We took pictures, lit candles, and knelt and said a prayer. I know God is supposed to be everywhere, but I’ll bet he (she?) enjoys spending time here. You could make a day of this place.
Back on the coach everyone was eager to continue as we were now on our way to one of the highlights of our tour… Ashford Castle.
Next: Ashford Castle
Friday, July 27, 2007
The Auld Sod, Stanza Six
We awoke to dark skies and a very light mist. Breakfast at Dromoland was a comfortable yet elegant affair. A large hallway off the main dining room was set up with all the cold goodies we had come to expect. Lots of fresh and dried fruit, a world of scones, muffins, and sweet rolls, four kinds of fresh juice, cheeses, salami, lox and a selection of cereals. Take as much as you want and then step inside for a wonderful full menu of hot breakfast items. One perfect omelet later and I was ready for the road.
As our coach started away, I looked back at Dromoland. The mist had started to shroud the castle. As it began to fade in the distance, it was almost as if our stay had been a reverie, a brief daydream, the place was so magical. Happily, it had been real.
We made our way out to the west coast of Ireland, a hard, rugged and awe inspiring part of this wonderful island. As we drove, the landscape began to change. The terrain became more rolling and almost treeless. And the ubiquitous stone walls…were nowhere to be seen, just low lying shrubs and grass as far as the eye could see. Ahead we could see a great headland but, as we approached, something else caught my eye…a golf course, but not just any golf course, it was Lahinch. Lahinch is one of the two or three most famous and respected courses in all of Ireland. This 36 hole complex sits hard against the Atlantic Ocean. It is what is known as a links course. Links courses are the earliest kind of courses. They were laid out on “links land” which was the un-arable grass land that linked the beach sand to the farmland. Arguably, the most famous links course in the world is St. Andrews in Scotland. Anyone who has ever watched the British Open being played there has seen the rough and tumble fairways, which appear as almost a continuous flat plain, pock marked by small deep sand bunkers. Lahinch is different. It sits atop great heaving sand dunes, the fairways looking like beautiful green roller coasters and greens sitting perched high above. The wind was blowing hard and it was raining…perfect Irish golf weather. The course was packed with players. I tried to stifle my whimpers as we drove by. I must return and play this beast.
We started to climb up toward the headland and passed through a rather simple gate with a sign welcoming us to the Cliffs of Moher. We drove a little farther…and then we saw the cliffs. Now breathing, as any student of anatomy will tell you, is an autonomic function. We don’t think about it; we just do it. We inhale and we exhale. And each of us does this at his or her own rate depending upon our level of exertion… 36 people all gasped for breath in perfect unison. We were at the end of the world. I have seen sights where the best of photographs can never come close to the majesty of the first hand experience (the Grand Canyon, the Hubbard Glacier, Yosemite Valley); this is one of those places.
The cliffs tower some 700 feet high and seem to rise almost straight up from the ocean. Just off the cliffs are remnant spires jutting out of the water looking like giant chess pieces. The area visitors are allowed to visit is a long concave arc walkway of about a third of a mile in length which sits at about the mid point of the 5 miles of cliffs. At the highest point on the cliffs sits O’Brien’s Tower a round stone tower built in 1835 by Cornellius O’Brien, a descendant of Ireland’s High King Brian Boru. For better or worse, the area has been developed to accommodate the 1,000,000 visitors per year, who all, no doubt, gasp as did we when first seeing the cliffs. You used to be able to crawl over to the edge of the cliffs, and lying flat on your belly, look over the edge. However, because these cliffs tend to erode from the bottom up, it isn’t easy to see if the place you are lying has any underlying support, and people have fallen as recently as 2004. Now you are restricted to a walkway behind a wall of the very slate that makes up these cliffs. No matter, you are close enough to experience the wonder of the place.
As we made our way to the north end, near the tower and looked south, it started to rain. The cliffs, a dull dark gray, turned jet black and shiny. They looked like huge pieces of polished onyx. In the distance, we could see the Aran Islands, three small islands off the coast where the Irish language is spoken almost exclusively, and tourists can virtually step back in time a century or so and see the Ireland of yore. To the north, we could see Galway Bay, our next destination. As we walked to the south end of the viewing area and looked north we got a better view of the sentinel spires in the ocean. The tops had been dusted with soil over the millennia and low lying vegetation gave several a Kelly green toupee and what appeared to be thousands of black and white polka dots. Binoculars revealed the polka dots to have specks or red and orange…puffins covered the spires and the cliffs.
We made our way to the stunning new visitors’ center. In an effort to not let the center detract from the natural beauty of the cliffs, the center was, literally, cut back into the mountainside. Like a giant hobbit house, windows and doors peak out from the grassy hillside. Inside are a variety of exhibits which tell the geologic and cultural history of the Cliffs of Moher, highlighted by a 15 minute widescreen movie shot mostly from a helicopter giving you breathtaking views of the cliffs you could see no other way. One final little detail… in keeping with the whole natural scheme of the center, the sinks in the restrooms had motion sensor faucets that were small waterfalls tumbling off tiny copper cliffs…appropriate.
Next: The Burren and Galway
As our coach started away, I looked back at Dromoland. The mist had started to shroud the castle. As it began to fade in the distance, it was almost as if our stay had been a reverie, a brief daydream, the place was so magical. Happily, it had been real.
We made our way out to the west coast of Ireland, a hard, rugged and awe inspiring part of this wonderful island. As we drove, the landscape began to change. The terrain became more rolling and almost treeless. And the ubiquitous stone walls…were nowhere to be seen, just low lying shrubs and grass as far as the eye could see. Ahead we could see a great headland but, as we approached, something else caught my eye…a golf course, but not just any golf course, it was Lahinch. Lahinch is one of the two or three most famous and respected courses in all of Ireland. This 36 hole complex sits hard against the Atlantic Ocean. It is what is known as a links course. Links courses are the earliest kind of courses. They were laid out on “links land” which was the un-arable grass land that linked the beach sand to the farmland. Arguably, the most famous links course in the world is St. Andrews in Scotland. Anyone who has ever watched the British Open being played there has seen the rough and tumble fairways, which appear as almost a continuous flat plain, pock marked by small deep sand bunkers. Lahinch is different. It sits atop great heaving sand dunes, the fairways looking like beautiful green roller coasters and greens sitting perched high above. The wind was blowing hard and it was raining…perfect Irish golf weather. The course was packed with players. I tried to stifle my whimpers as we drove by. I must return and play this beast.
We started to climb up toward the headland and passed through a rather simple gate with a sign welcoming us to the Cliffs of Moher. We drove a little farther…and then we saw the cliffs. Now breathing, as any student of anatomy will tell you, is an autonomic function. We don’t think about it; we just do it. We inhale and we exhale. And each of us does this at his or her own rate depending upon our level of exertion… 36 people all gasped for breath in perfect unison. We were at the end of the world. I have seen sights where the best of photographs can never come close to the majesty of the first hand experience (the Grand Canyon, the Hubbard Glacier, Yosemite Valley); this is one of those places.
The cliffs tower some 700 feet high and seem to rise almost straight up from the ocean. Just off the cliffs are remnant spires jutting out of the water looking like giant chess pieces. The area visitors are allowed to visit is a long concave arc walkway of about a third of a mile in length which sits at about the mid point of the 5 miles of cliffs. At the highest point on the cliffs sits O’Brien’s Tower a round stone tower built in 1835 by Cornellius O’Brien, a descendant of Ireland’s High King Brian Boru. For better or worse, the area has been developed to accommodate the 1,000,000 visitors per year, who all, no doubt, gasp as did we when first seeing the cliffs. You used to be able to crawl over to the edge of the cliffs, and lying flat on your belly, look over the edge. However, because these cliffs tend to erode from the bottom up, it isn’t easy to see if the place you are lying has any underlying support, and people have fallen as recently as 2004. Now you are restricted to a walkway behind a wall of the very slate that makes up these cliffs. No matter, you are close enough to experience the wonder of the place.
As we made our way to the north end, near the tower and looked south, it started to rain. The cliffs, a dull dark gray, turned jet black and shiny. They looked like huge pieces of polished onyx. In the distance, we could see the Aran Islands, three small islands off the coast where the Irish language is spoken almost exclusively, and tourists can virtually step back in time a century or so and see the Ireland of yore. To the north, we could see Galway Bay, our next destination. As we walked to the south end of the viewing area and looked north we got a better view of the sentinel spires in the ocean. The tops had been dusted with soil over the millennia and low lying vegetation gave several a Kelly green toupee and what appeared to be thousands of black and white polka dots. Binoculars revealed the polka dots to have specks or red and orange…puffins covered the spires and the cliffs.
We made our way to the stunning new visitors’ center. In an effort to not let the center detract from the natural beauty of the cliffs, the center was, literally, cut back into the mountainside. Like a giant hobbit house, windows and doors peak out from the grassy hillside. Inside are a variety of exhibits which tell the geologic and cultural history of the Cliffs of Moher, highlighted by a 15 minute widescreen movie shot mostly from a helicopter giving you breathtaking views of the cliffs you could see no other way. One final little detail… in keeping with the whole natural scheme of the center, the sinks in the restrooms had motion sensor faucets that were small waterfalls tumbling off tiny copper cliffs…appropriate.
Next: The Burren and Galway
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
The Auld Sod, Unit Five
We awoke to rain our last morning in Killarney and went down to the dining room at Aghadoe Heights for breakfast. As with many of the breakfasts we had eaten on this journey, there was a table with all sorts of pastries, scones and breads, fresh fruit, cereal, and a selection of juices. They also had lox and things you don’t expect at a breakfast buffet like a selection of salamis. After you take your fill, you order your hot items from the menu. After several days of omelets, I wanted to try something different. The menu had sautéed kippers served with potatoes and a rice vegetable mixture…sounded interesting. A short while later everyone got their food and I got…two lonely small kippers on a plate. I stopped my waiter who appeared to be in a hurry and he insisted I got what I had ordered. I tried to say something but he insisted my order was right. I called the head waiter over and showed him the menu and my plate. He apologized, called the waiter over and showed him the menu. Without saying a word to me he quickly took my plate and returned about 60 seconds later with the same two kippers, now accompanied by about a half a cup of a mixture of cubed potatoes, vegetables, and rice. Good thing I ate the scones. A final word about the Aghadoe Heights Hotel. This place is veeery expensive. Our meals were included but they would have run about 120 euros per person for dinner. In the closet of our room, they had posted the seasonal room rates. Our room, this time of year goes for 1,250 euro per person per night double occupancy. For my wife and I that would be $3,500.00 per nights. Yikes!
We boarded our coach and headed to the seaside town of Foynes. In the 1930’s Trans-Atlantic flight, on a commercial scale was under serious consideration. In the late ‘30’s amphibious aircraft called “flying boats” were being developed by America and Britain. The closest safe harbor, on the edge of Europe, was Foynes. From 1939 until 1945, Foynes was the gateway to Europe. On July 9, 1939 Pan Am’s world famous “Yankee Clipper” landed in Foynes. We visited the Flying Boat Museum which has a full size replica of the Yankee Clipper…rather Spartan accommodations but great legroom. Foynes other claim to fame is that one night in 1942 a flying boat took off in a cold downpour. After several hours of flying the pilot deemed the head winds too severe and returned. One very tired, cold and wet passenger asked the bartender for a cup of coffee. The bartender poured a hot cup, added a shot of Irish Whiskey and a dollop of cream and handed it to the weary traveler who allegedly asked “Is this Brazilian coffee?” “No” replied the bartender, “That’s Irish Coffee.” And one of the world’s great toddies was born. Oh yeah! Our tour included Irish Coffees all around!
Next it was on to the little town of Adare. Adare is one of those little dots of town I mentioned earlier. However, it has a heritage center where visitors can research their family histories. We had time for a brief visit and then lunch in town. It was raining so we didn’t stray too far. We selected a little pub about a block away on the other side of the street. Believe it or not, this was our first chance, as pedestrians, to cross traffic in Ireland. Even with the rain, nobody slows down much, and there was a surprising amount of traffic. As we got ready to cross we noticed the Irish acknowledgement that they, like the Brits, drive on the wrong side of the road. Painted on the street in large letters at every possible crossing point are the words “Look Right”. We looked right and started to cross and every car on both sides of the street stopped Very polite, these Irish.
Lunch was another hearty affaire with Shepherd’s Pies all around. After lunch we had a few minutes so we went into a small market to see what it was like. What we saw was a lot of brands we recognized but not the products. Candy bars and chewing gum by Mars and Wrigley but not Snickers and Doublemint, familiar brands of soda but in odd size and shaped bottles were the norm. Interesting!
Back on the coach we were on the road again. Everyone had a great deal of anticipation because we were now on our way to spend the night in our first genuine, certified, castle…Dromoland. The road from Adare was much more wooded than we had been experiencing. As we neared the castle, we saw something we hadn’t seen much of, hedge rows…very tall hedge rows. We turned off the main road, down a narrow road with 15 foot high hedge rows on either side. We turned onto another road, same thing. For a minute I thought maybe the castle sat at the center of an elaborate maze. One more turn and then a large open area appeared. It was the golf course which surrounds the castle. As a golfer, I was drooling all over the coach window, with tears in my eyes knowing that the time constraints would not afford me the opportunity to play. We drove through some enormous oak trees and there it was, Dromoland Castle.
Dromoland dates back to the 16th century and was the ancestral home of the O’Brien clan. The present structure dates to 1935. It was the O’Brien home until 1962 when it was sold to American, Bernard McDonough, who turned it into a five star hotel. The driveway curves around the main tower of the castle revealing great gray stone walls draped with a delicate shawl of ivy. You turn to the right, past a beautiful formal fountain and enter a large terraced courtyard. The facility is shaped like a U with the main entry to the right through huge mahogany doors. It was pouring when we arrived and a phalanx of courteous staff created a canopy of umbrellas between the coach and the door. Inside everything is made of stone, marble or wood, in perfect proportion and in perfect condition. Lots of towering ceilings and overstuffed chairs…very comfortable. The staff had our rooms ready, and we were quickly escorted away. Our room, which we affectionately dubbed “the Dungeon” was down stairs through a narrow corridor. The room was delightful. Like Hayfield Manor in Cork, it was Victorian by design but 21st Century in execution. The one wonderful anachronism was the room key. Rather than your typical electronic card, this was a massive brass key attached to a large leather fob…a proper key for a castle. Our room overlooked a small formal garden.
After getting our luggage, we took a walk in the rain which was now a light mist. We visited the formal walled garden which was resplendent with roses, small fountains and ponds. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel you should sit down and write a sonnet or something. As we left, we noticed a small sign beside the gate asking visitors to close the gate so the local deer can’t get in to browse…charming. We paid a brief visit to the golf shop and then headed back to our room. We wanted to rest and freshen up because tonight was to be our first coat and tie dinner of this trip.
Dinner in a castle is…well…dinner in a castle. Everyone dressed for the occasion including Devin and Gavin, our two youngest touring companions at 11 and 13, who wore nice blue blazers over their t-shirts. The dining room had a vaulted ceiling adorned with numerous Waterford crystal chandeliers. All the waiters were young, and most were French. The five course two and one half hour meal was elegant and excellent. Afterward, we wandered around the castle, marveling at the stained glass windows. When we returned to our room, we found chocolates and a decanter of fine port to finish off a perfect day.
Next: The Cliffs of Moher
We boarded our coach and headed to the seaside town of Foynes. In the 1930’s Trans-Atlantic flight, on a commercial scale was under serious consideration. In the late ‘30’s amphibious aircraft called “flying boats” were being developed by America and Britain. The closest safe harbor, on the edge of Europe, was Foynes. From 1939 until 1945, Foynes was the gateway to Europe. On July 9, 1939 Pan Am’s world famous “Yankee Clipper” landed in Foynes. We visited the Flying Boat Museum which has a full size replica of the Yankee Clipper…rather Spartan accommodations but great legroom. Foynes other claim to fame is that one night in 1942 a flying boat took off in a cold downpour. After several hours of flying the pilot deemed the head winds too severe and returned. One very tired, cold and wet passenger asked the bartender for a cup of coffee. The bartender poured a hot cup, added a shot of Irish Whiskey and a dollop of cream and handed it to the weary traveler who allegedly asked “Is this Brazilian coffee?” “No” replied the bartender, “That’s Irish Coffee.” And one of the world’s great toddies was born. Oh yeah! Our tour included Irish Coffees all around!
Next it was on to the little town of Adare. Adare is one of those little dots of town I mentioned earlier. However, it has a heritage center where visitors can research their family histories. We had time for a brief visit and then lunch in town. It was raining so we didn’t stray too far. We selected a little pub about a block away on the other side of the street. Believe it or not, this was our first chance, as pedestrians, to cross traffic in Ireland. Even with the rain, nobody slows down much, and there was a surprising amount of traffic. As we got ready to cross we noticed the Irish acknowledgement that they, like the Brits, drive on the wrong side of the road. Painted on the street in large letters at every possible crossing point are the words “Look Right”. We looked right and started to cross and every car on both sides of the street stopped Very polite, these Irish.
Lunch was another hearty affaire with Shepherd’s Pies all around. After lunch we had a few minutes so we went into a small market to see what it was like. What we saw was a lot of brands we recognized but not the products. Candy bars and chewing gum by Mars and Wrigley but not Snickers and Doublemint, familiar brands of soda but in odd size and shaped bottles were the norm. Interesting!
Back on the coach we were on the road again. Everyone had a great deal of anticipation because we were now on our way to spend the night in our first genuine, certified, castle…Dromoland. The road from Adare was much more wooded than we had been experiencing. As we neared the castle, we saw something we hadn’t seen much of, hedge rows…very tall hedge rows. We turned off the main road, down a narrow road with 15 foot high hedge rows on either side. We turned onto another road, same thing. For a minute I thought maybe the castle sat at the center of an elaborate maze. One more turn and then a large open area appeared. It was the golf course which surrounds the castle. As a golfer, I was drooling all over the coach window, with tears in my eyes knowing that the time constraints would not afford me the opportunity to play. We drove through some enormous oak trees and there it was, Dromoland Castle.
Dromoland dates back to the 16th century and was the ancestral home of the O’Brien clan. The present structure dates to 1935. It was the O’Brien home until 1962 when it was sold to American, Bernard McDonough, who turned it into a five star hotel. The driveway curves around the main tower of the castle revealing great gray stone walls draped with a delicate shawl of ivy. You turn to the right, past a beautiful formal fountain and enter a large terraced courtyard. The facility is shaped like a U with the main entry to the right through huge mahogany doors. It was pouring when we arrived and a phalanx of courteous staff created a canopy of umbrellas between the coach and the door. Inside everything is made of stone, marble or wood, in perfect proportion and in perfect condition. Lots of towering ceilings and overstuffed chairs…very comfortable. The staff had our rooms ready, and we were quickly escorted away. Our room, which we affectionately dubbed “the Dungeon” was down stairs through a narrow corridor. The room was delightful. Like Hayfield Manor in Cork, it was Victorian by design but 21st Century in execution. The one wonderful anachronism was the room key. Rather than your typical electronic card, this was a massive brass key attached to a large leather fob…a proper key for a castle. Our room overlooked a small formal garden.
After getting our luggage, we took a walk in the rain which was now a light mist. We visited the formal walled garden which was resplendent with roses, small fountains and ponds. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel you should sit down and write a sonnet or something. As we left, we noticed a small sign beside the gate asking visitors to close the gate so the local deer can’t get in to browse…charming. We paid a brief visit to the golf shop and then headed back to our room. We wanted to rest and freshen up because tonight was to be our first coat and tie dinner of this trip.
Dinner in a castle is…well…dinner in a castle. Everyone dressed for the occasion including Devin and Gavin, our two youngest touring companions at 11 and 13, who wore nice blue blazers over their t-shirts. The dining room had a vaulted ceiling adorned with numerous Waterford crystal chandeliers. All the waiters were young, and most were French. The five course two and one half hour meal was elegant and excellent. Afterward, we wandered around the castle, marveling at the stained glass windows. When we returned to our room, we found chocolates and a decanter of fine port to finish off a perfect day.
Next: The Cliffs of Moher
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Auld Sod, Segment 4
We awoke to another overcast day, but a nice breakfast, served by the occasionally distracted staff (More coffee…PUH-leeeze) and we were on our way. Before leaving for the Ring of Kerry, we had one more place to visit in Killarney National Park, Muckross House.
Built in 1843 for Henry Arthur Herbert, a large landholder in the area, Muckross House sits on the edge of Muckross Lake and is a magnificent Victorian structure. Sadly, it was the “Victoria” in Victorian that spelled the Herbert Family downfall. At the docent at Muckross House tells it, Herbert wanted a title and the additional lands and wealth that would come with it. In August of 1861, Queen Victoria made her first visit to Killarney. The Herberts spent a fortune completely re-doing 5 rooms of the house to accommodate “Her Majesty”. Victoria spent two nights and returned to England. And then her beloved Albert died and she became a virtual recluse and forgot about the Herberts…no title was forthcoming.
The Herberts never recovered from the expense and finally sold the house to Lord Ardilaun (of the Guinness brewing family) who in turn sold it to a wealthy American, William Bowers Bourne, who purchased it as a wedding present for his daughter, Maud. When Maud died very young, her husband Arthur Vincent and his in-laws, the Bournes, gave the property to the people of Ireland. This 10,000 acre tract forms the backbone of Killarney National Park. Nice story!
The house is wonderful with much of the original furniture (and some near-perfect replicas) giving the visitor a look back in time. For those of you old enough to remember the Masterpiece Theatre production of “Upstairs Downstairs,” the layout of the house and the near complete isolation that it affords between the masters of the house and their “help” was amazing. Except for the occasional intrusion of the butler or maid the vast majority of the staff was neither seen nor heard. Class society at its finest?!?!
Back to the coach, we set out for the Ring of Kerry which is a road the winds around the beautiful Iveragh Peninsula on Ireland’s south west coast. The countryside is beautiful. Ireland is, essentially, a large chunk of sedimentary rock with a dusting of topsoil in some places and an abundance of peat bogs in others. Over the millennia, the Irish have had to clear the land of millions of rocks to create patches that are arable. And the stones became walls. The landscape everywhere, and I mean everywhere outside of the towns and cities, is a patchwork quilt of varying shades of green denoting farm land, grazing land, and fallow land. And separating them are stone walls. Most are about 3 feet high and are made of hand stacked free standing stones, no mortar. They are even-sided and usually very straight. And they go everywhere. As we drove along, I noticed a wall that went up the side of a hill. The hill rose some 1,500 feet from its base and about half way up the incline was very nearly 45 degrees. The remarkable thing was not that this perfectly straight and smooth wall went all the way up the side of the hill (which, of course, it did), what blew my mind was that about 300 feet from the crest, there was a large rock outcropping and the wall went up and over it, never varying in height or alignment. The countryside of Ireland, so torn apart by invasion and occupation over the centuries is held together great rugged seams of stone.
The quilt imagery continues when one looks between the stone walls. Factoid: there are 3 sheep and 2 cows for every man woman and child in Ireland, and there are 4.5 million people. So, everywhere you look, something is grazing and ruminating…but usually in its own separate little patch. Now I live in the suburbs of Los Angeles, not exactly sheep country, so I don’t if this is how things are done in America, but one of the things I found fascinating about the sheep in Ireland is how they tell what belongs to whom…they spray paint them. Ireland is covered with “punk” sheep with wool in every color of the rainbow…sometimes two-tone. Not a lot of paint but it certainly was easy to tell the shocking pink sheep didn’t belong to the same guy as the sky blue sheep.
Sprinkled among the walls and the cows and the sheep were houses. Most were a basic box design, many had fireplaces at both ends, all had flowers, flower pots, flower beds, flower boxes. Very few had garages. And maybe being an urban guy has made me paranoid but one other thing I noticed was that even though, in many cases, no one appeared to be home, all the curtains and drapes were pulled back so we could see everything inside.
We finally reached the coast, and I had a sense of déjà vu. Much of this area reminded me of the coast of central and northern California, rugged and breathtaking with the color of the ocean constantly changing as we drove along.
We turned inland and then we came upon an absolutely quintessential Irish inn where we stopped for lunch. The place was painted white, had flowers everywhere…and it had an honest to goodness thatched roof. We ordered Irish stew (just like ours but with mutton) and shepherd’s pie (think of a deep dish Sloppy Joe served over cooked vegetables and then topped with mashed potatoes and heated under a broiler, yum!)
Back on the coach, we started to climb into the low lying clouds and the rain started. As we reached the peak, we realized that we were at the top of a long and narrow peninsula. From there we could look down to our right and left and see the ocean below. The view to the left had a small bay with another finger of land curving out and around to shelter it. It was pouring and we stood outside the coach mesmerized.
We continued on down to the left and back to sea level and then turned inland. Now the area became more mountainous and forested. And then, as if Mother Nature thought we might be getting bored, a series of beautiful lakes appeared. We moved through a narrow canyon with a myriad of small bridges crossing an impossible number of brooks and streams. And then, familiar surroundings, the edge of Killarney National Park…and then we were back to Aghadoe Heights.
That evening, we had a quick dinner of the flat out best fish and chips I have ever had and then caught a shuttle into Killarney where the national touring troupe of “Riverdance” was performing. The performance was exhilarating. We made our way back to the hotel…a wonderful end to a wonderful day.
Next: Dromoland Castle
Built in 1843 for Henry Arthur Herbert, a large landholder in the area, Muckross House sits on the edge of Muckross Lake and is a magnificent Victorian structure. Sadly, it was the “Victoria” in Victorian that spelled the Herbert Family downfall. At the docent at Muckross House tells it, Herbert wanted a title and the additional lands and wealth that would come with it. In August of 1861, Queen Victoria made her first visit to Killarney. The Herberts spent a fortune completely re-doing 5 rooms of the house to accommodate “Her Majesty”. Victoria spent two nights and returned to England. And then her beloved Albert died and she became a virtual recluse and forgot about the Herberts…no title was forthcoming.
The Herberts never recovered from the expense and finally sold the house to Lord Ardilaun (of the Guinness brewing family) who in turn sold it to a wealthy American, William Bowers Bourne, who purchased it as a wedding present for his daughter, Maud. When Maud died very young, her husband Arthur Vincent and his in-laws, the Bournes, gave the property to the people of Ireland. This 10,000 acre tract forms the backbone of Killarney National Park. Nice story!
The house is wonderful with much of the original furniture (and some near-perfect replicas) giving the visitor a look back in time. For those of you old enough to remember the Masterpiece Theatre production of “Upstairs Downstairs,” the layout of the house and the near complete isolation that it affords between the masters of the house and their “help” was amazing. Except for the occasional intrusion of the butler or maid the vast majority of the staff was neither seen nor heard. Class society at its finest?!?!
Back to the coach, we set out for the Ring of Kerry which is a road the winds around the beautiful Iveragh Peninsula on Ireland’s south west coast. The countryside is beautiful. Ireland is, essentially, a large chunk of sedimentary rock with a dusting of topsoil in some places and an abundance of peat bogs in others. Over the millennia, the Irish have had to clear the land of millions of rocks to create patches that are arable. And the stones became walls. The landscape everywhere, and I mean everywhere outside of the towns and cities, is a patchwork quilt of varying shades of green denoting farm land, grazing land, and fallow land. And separating them are stone walls. Most are about 3 feet high and are made of hand stacked free standing stones, no mortar. They are even-sided and usually very straight. And they go everywhere. As we drove along, I noticed a wall that went up the side of a hill. The hill rose some 1,500 feet from its base and about half way up the incline was very nearly 45 degrees. The remarkable thing was not that this perfectly straight and smooth wall went all the way up the side of the hill (which, of course, it did), what blew my mind was that about 300 feet from the crest, there was a large rock outcropping and the wall went up and over it, never varying in height or alignment. The countryside of Ireland, so torn apart by invasion and occupation over the centuries is held together great rugged seams of stone.
The quilt imagery continues when one looks between the stone walls. Factoid: there are 3 sheep and 2 cows for every man woman and child in Ireland, and there are 4.5 million people. So, everywhere you look, something is grazing and ruminating…but usually in its own separate little patch. Now I live in the suburbs of Los Angeles, not exactly sheep country, so I don’t if this is how things are done in America, but one of the things I found fascinating about the sheep in Ireland is how they tell what belongs to whom…they spray paint them. Ireland is covered with “punk” sheep with wool in every color of the rainbow…sometimes two-tone. Not a lot of paint but it certainly was easy to tell the shocking pink sheep didn’t belong to the same guy as the sky blue sheep.
Sprinkled among the walls and the cows and the sheep were houses. Most were a basic box design, many had fireplaces at both ends, all had flowers, flower pots, flower beds, flower boxes. Very few had garages. And maybe being an urban guy has made me paranoid but one other thing I noticed was that even though, in many cases, no one appeared to be home, all the curtains and drapes were pulled back so we could see everything inside.
We finally reached the coast, and I had a sense of déjà vu. Much of this area reminded me of the coast of central and northern California, rugged and breathtaking with the color of the ocean constantly changing as we drove along.
We turned inland and then we came upon an absolutely quintessential Irish inn where we stopped for lunch. The place was painted white, had flowers everywhere…and it had an honest to goodness thatched roof. We ordered Irish stew (just like ours but with mutton) and shepherd’s pie (think of a deep dish Sloppy Joe served over cooked vegetables and then topped with mashed potatoes and heated under a broiler, yum!)
Back on the coach, we started to climb into the low lying clouds and the rain started. As we reached the peak, we realized that we were at the top of a long and narrow peninsula. From there we could look down to our right and left and see the ocean below. The view to the left had a small bay with another finger of land curving out and around to shelter it. It was pouring and we stood outside the coach mesmerized.
We continued on down to the left and back to sea level and then turned inland. Now the area became more mountainous and forested. And then, as if Mother Nature thought we might be getting bored, a series of beautiful lakes appeared. We moved through a narrow canyon with a myriad of small bridges crossing an impossible number of brooks and streams. And then, familiar surroundings, the edge of Killarney National Park…and then we were back to Aghadoe Heights.
That evening, we had a quick dinner of the flat out best fish and chips I have ever had and then caught a shuttle into Killarney where the national touring troupe of “Riverdance” was performing. The performance was exhilarating. We made our way back to the hotel…a wonderful end to a wonderful day.
Next: Dromoland Castle
Sunday, July 08, 2007
The Auld Sod, Chapter 3
We left Blarney Castle and headed toward Killarney, the lakes region of Ireland. Maybe it was the increasingly threatening skies but the road to Killarney, and the area of Killarney itself, conjured up the images I had from “The Luck of the Irish”…dark green woodsy, mossy. I was sure I would see a leprechaun…which I did!!!(kinda). We arrived in Killarney in the early afternoon. It was a beautiful, and fairly large town, as compared to what we had seen along the way.
At this point I need to digress, briefly. Except for major cities like Dublin and Cork, Ireland is one big countryside, dotted with the tiniest of towns. Each of the towns is distinct and yet identical. Each is about three blocks long. All have very narrow streets, none of which intersect at a right angle. All the buildings are two story, flat fronted and painted in a cacophony of colors. And each has some local festival which makes it a focal point for several days each year. Someday, I will return and visit them.
OK…so Killarney is more than that. As the gateway to Killarney National Park, it is a major tourist stop that doesn’t look like one. The town, from my view, was shaped like a “T”. The road in was the staff of the T and was lined with many wonderful looking little shops and restaurants which, sadly, we didn’t get to visit. As you reached the intersection of the T, you come to the Cathedral which was started in 1842 but not finished until 1912. It was stunning, both inside and out. The top bar of the T is hotel row with at least 6 very up-scale hotels on the opposite side of the road from the cathedral. The road left leads you to Killarney National Park. Just before the entry road there is a small town square and there we discovered one of the delightful anachronisms of Killarney…A Jaunting Car! A What?!?!
Back to “The Quiet Man”. A jaunting car is that horse drawn cart/ wagon, driven by Barry Fitzgerald, that took John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara on their first date. (“No patty- fingers, if ya please, the proprieties at all times”). We were supposed to ride them the next morning, but the weather forecast called for downpours and we had arrived early, so we hopped off the coach and onto the cart. Back in paragraph 1, I mentioned the leprechaun…he drove our cart. He was a wonderful little fellow with a real gift of the Blarney. As we rode, he told us the history of the park. We made our way out of the center of town and into the park. It started to rain but we scarcely got wet because the trees along the road almost completely canopied our path.
We rode for about 15 minutes to the ruins of Ross Castle, a 15th Century tower built on the shores of Lough Leane, one of the three major lakes in the park. I don’t know if you know who Maxfield Parrish was. He painted these images of gods and goddesses set in these incredibly impossible idyllic settings. This was one of his paintings come to life. The lake was glassy. The rain had stopped but the clouds gently shrouded just the tops of the surrounding mountains, making them seem as if they had been gently erased. The lake had numerous small islands which made perfect mirror image reflections. Breathtaking!!!
The jaunting cars took us back to town and we re-boarded our coach. Remember that road at the T? Now we took the road to the right. It led us past the edge of town and we started to climb. We were told that we would be staying at the 5-star Aghadoe Heights Hotel. From what I had seen of Killarney, I expected an honest-to-god incarnation of a Thomas Kinkade painting (in fuzz focus, naturally!) We made our way from one narrow road to a narrower one. As we crested the final hill, we noticed a metal and glass industrial office building off to our right. Rather out of the way, I thought, and totally out of place in such a magical setting. The coach pulled through the gates…this was the Aghadoe Heights Hotel. UH-gly!
While we were jaunting, the coach had delivered our bags, so we walked in, grabbed our keys, and headed to our room. Aghadoe’s history was virtually the opposite of the Hayfield Manor. Aghadoe was ultra-modern with lots of nice techy touches in the rooms. It was built in 1969. Our room was a suite, with a large LCD TV and the TV control could also control the lights and temperature (neat!). It was so techy, that we couldn’t initially turn on the lights. A call to the desk brought a nice young man who must have thought I was the Geico caveman. He patiently showed me the slot next to the door where you must insert your room keycard to make the lights work (duh). The view was spectacular. One entire wall was floor to ceiling glass. You looked out over an old graveyard (ubiquitous in Ireland) across a meadow with a mare and her foal and then out over the second of the three major lakes. Near the lake’s edge, we could see the fairways of the Killarney Country Club. I would have given anything to have my clubs and the time to play (next trip).
Dinner was excellent. It was five courses and took 2 hours. We made our way to our room and, after much button pushing, the lights and the TV went off and we nodded off.
Next: The Ring of Kerry
At this point I need to digress, briefly. Except for major cities like Dublin and Cork, Ireland is one big countryside, dotted with the tiniest of towns. Each of the towns is distinct and yet identical. Each is about three blocks long. All have very narrow streets, none of which intersect at a right angle. All the buildings are two story, flat fronted and painted in a cacophony of colors. And each has some local festival which makes it a focal point for several days each year. Someday, I will return and visit them.
OK…so Killarney is more than that. As the gateway to Killarney National Park, it is a major tourist stop that doesn’t look like one. The town, from my view, was shaped like a “T”. The road in was the staff of the T and was lined with many wonderful looking little shops and restaurants which, sadly, we didn’t get to visit. As you reached the intersection of the T, you come to the Cathedral which was started in 1842 but not finished until 1912. It was stunning, both inside and out. The top bar of the T is hotel row with at least 6 very up-scale hotels on the opposite side of the road from the cathedral. The road left leads you to Killarney National Park. Just before the entry road there is a small town square and there we discovered one of the delightful anachronisms of Killarney…A Jaunting Car! A What?!?!
Back to “The Quiet Man”. A jaunting car is that horse drawn cart/ wagon, driven by Barry Fitzgerald, that took John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara on their first date. (“No patty- fingers, if ya please, the proprieties at all times”). We were supposed to ride them the next morning, but the weather forecast called for downpours and we had arrived early, so we hopped off the coach and onto the cart. Back in paragraph 1, I mentioned the leprechaun…he drove our cart. He was a wonderful little fellow with a real gift of the Blarney. As we rode, he told us the history of the park. We made our way out of the center of town and into the park. It started to rain but we scarcely got wet because the trees along the road almost completely canopied our path.
We rode for about 15 minutes to the ruins of Ross Castle, a 15th Century tower built on the shores of Lough Leane, one of the three major lakes in the park. I don’t know if you know who Maxfield Parrish was. He painted these images of gods and goddesses set in these incredibly impossible idyllic settings. This was one of his paintings come to life. The lake was glassy. The rain had stopped but the clouds gently shrouded just the tops of the surrounding mountains, making them seem as if they had been gently erased. The lake had numerous small islands which made perfect mirror image reflections. Breathtaking!!!
The jaunting cars took us back to town and we re-boarded our coach. Remember that road at the T? Now we took the road to the right. It led us past the edge of town and we started to climb. We were told that we would be staying at the 5-star Aghadoe Heights Hotel. From what I had seen of Killarney, I expected an honest-to-god incarnation of a Thomas Kinkade painting (in fuzz focus, naturally!) We made our way from one narrow road to a narrower one. As we crested the final hill, we noticed a metal and glass industrial office building off to our right. Rather out of the way, I thought, and totally out of place in such a magical setting. The coach pulled through the gates…this was the Aghadoe Heights Hotel. UH-gly!
While we were jaunting, the coach had delivered our bags, so we walked in, grabbed our keys, and headed to our room. Aghadoe’s history was virtually the opposite of the Hayfield Manor. Aghadoe was ultra-modern with lots of nice techy touches in the rooms. It was built in 1969. Our room was a suite, with a large LCD TV and the TV control could also control the lights and temperature (neat!). It was so techy, that we couldn’t initially turn on the lights. A call to the desk brought a nice young man who must have thought I was the Geico caveman. He patiently showed me the slot next to the door where you must insert your room keycard to make the lights work (duh). The view was spectacular. One entire wall was floor to ceiling glass. You looked out over an old graveyard (ubiquitous in Ireland) across a meadow with a mare and her foal and then out over the second of the three major lakes. Near the lake’s edge, we could see the fairways of the Killarney Country Club. I would have given anything to have my clubs and the time to play (next trip).
Dinner was excellent. It was five courses and took 2 hours. We made our way to our room and, after much button pushing, the lights and the TV went off and we nodded off.
Next: The Ring of Kerry
Thursday, July 05, 2007
The Auld Sod, Part Deux
We awoke the next morning to threatening, but dry, skies. Our stay at the Hayfield Manor had been delightful. When we arrived the day before, we had followed a rather circuitous path through the city of Cork. We turned down a quiet residential street and approached a large ivy covered brick wall. The motor coach gingerly slid between great brick pillars which supported a beautiful wrought iron entry gate. We passed through the gate and about 130 years melted away. Here was a picture perfect Victorian garden. The circular driveway was cobblestone, at its center a large tree. To one side was a formal garden with benches, to the other, a sunroom/breakfast nook and an aviary. It was perfect. The staff came out to greet us led by a spry old gentleman in a cut-away coat, ascot, and top hat. The Manor itself was wonderful. The hallways twisted and turned with steps going up and down and an occasional ramp as if to imply that the ”journey” to one’s room should be a bit of an adventure. The ceiling heights changed from place to place as if you were walking under a stairway. The rooms were great…absolutely Victorian in design and 21st century in execution.
I haven’t a clue in the world what Victoria and Albert ate for dinner…but I know how they dined. A sumptuous 5-course meal, overlooking yet another formal garden, was served on finest bone china end eaten with beautiful silverware. Breakfast the next morning was a similar affair, with the freshest of scones and wonderful Irish bacon which is quite similar to Canadian bacon but with more of the American bacon flavor.
As we boarded the coach to begin our day, the staff came out into the courtyard to bid us farewell. The gentleman in the top hat came on board, sang us a short Irish song and bid us adieu. Hayfield Manor had been the perfect sojourn. We also learned, as we drove away, that it was one family’s successful (by my standards, anyway) time machine. You see, this wonderful anachronism was built way back in…1997!!!They had painstakingly reproduced a manor of a bygone era. I’m so glad they did.
We made our way our way to the seaside town of Cobh (pronounced Cove) and formerly known as Queenstown. The name had been changed to honor Queen Victoria. Once the Irish got independence, the name quickly reverted. For many Irish in the 1840’s, Cobh was a town of both hope and sadness because it was the seaport from which most European sailing ships left for the new world. The heritage center chronicles the extreme hardships of that journey. Many actually held wakes for the family members who departed. Cobh was also the last port of call for the Titanic. Lots of ghosts here.
We next made our way to the ultimate “tourista” destination of our tour, Blarney Castle and its infamous “stone”. The place was quite pretty and the experience was a lot of fun. The main tower is about 90 feet high. To get there, you ascend a spiral stone staircase. The width of the stairs is about 2 feet. The treads where you step are 3 inches deep on the outside of the spiral and 0 inches at the center. Each step takes you up 7 to 8 inches. Vertical clearance is about 5 feet 6 inches. At 6 foot 3 inches, I climbed in a permanent crouch. At the top, a nice gentleman has you lie down on a blanket, bend over backwards, grab two rails and kiss the external parapet wall. It is over in a heartbeat but, not to worry, at the bottom you will find beautiful digital photos (suitable for framing) for sale. Afterwards, we visited the adjacent Blarney Woolen Mills, a shameless tourist trap, had a nice lunch and then we bid farewell to Blarney. Thinking I might have gotten something magical by kissing the Blarney Stone, oye troyed out me Brogue, and me darlin’ woife whacked me with her purse.
Tomorrow…Killarney.
I haven’t a clue in the world what Victoria and Albert ate for dinner…but I know how they dined. A sumptuous 5-course meal, overlooking yet another formal garden, was served on finest bone china end eaten with beautiful silverware. Breakfast the next morning was a similar affair, with the freshest of scones and wonderful Irish bacon which is quite similar to Canadian bacon but with more of the American bacon flavor.
As we boarded the coach to begin our day, the staff came out into the courtyard to bid us farewell. The gentleman in the top hat came on board, sang us a short Irish song and bid us adieu. Hayfield Manor had been the perfect sojourn. We also learned, as we drove away, that it was one family’s successful (by my standards, anyway) time machine. You see, this wonderful anachronism was built way back in…1997!!!They had painstakingly reproduced a manor of a bygone era. I’m so glad they did.
We made our way our way to the seaside town of Cobh (pronounced Cove) and formerly known as Queenstown. The name had been changed to honor Queen Victoria. Once the Irish got independence, the name quickly reverted. For many Irish in the 1840’s, Cobh was a town of both hope and sadness because it was the seaport from which most European sailing ships left for the new world. The heritage center chronicles the extreme hardships of that journey. Many actually held wakes for the family members who departed. Cobh was also the last port of call for the Titanic. Lots of ghosts here.
We next made our way to the ultimate “tourista” destination of our tour, Blarney Castle and its infamous “stone”. The place was quite pretty and the experience was a lot of fun. The main tower is about 90 feet high. To get there, you ascend a spiral stone staircase. The width of the stairs is about 2 feet. The treads where you step are 3 inches deep on the outside of the spiral and 0 inches at the center. Each step takes you up 7 to 8 inches. Vertical clearance is about 5 feet 6 inches. At 6 foot 3 inches, I climbed in a permanent crouch. At the top, a nice gentleman has you lie down on a blanket, bend over backwards, grab two rails and kiss the external parapet wall. It is over in a heartbeat but, not to worry, at the bottom you will find beautiful digital photos (suitable for framing) for sale. Afterwards, we visited the adjacent Blarney Woolen Mills, a shameless tourist trap, had a nice lunch and then we bid farewell to Blarney. Thinking I might have gotten something magical by kissing the Blarney Stone, oye troyed out me Brogue, and me darlin’ woife whacked me with her purse.
Tomorrow…Killarney.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
The Auld Sod, Part One
A large portion of my heritage is Irish. Sadly, no one ever wrote anything down or kept any records and so the farthest I can go back is to my great-grandfather Jeremiah Healy who came to America in the 1870’s. And while I knew of this, we were so assimilated that there wasn’t a trace of “Irishness” in my upbringing. My only Irish quality is a penchant to melancholy and sentimentality.
As a kid, my notions of Ireland came from three movies. 1948’s “Luck of the Irish” showed me a dark and woodsy Ireland…complete with a leprechaun. “Darby O’Gill and the Little People” (staring two Scots, saints preserve us!) was a little brighter…and with lots more leprechauns. And then I saw John Ford’s love letter “The Quiet Man”. No leprechauns (unless you count Barry Fitzgerald) but, my God, what a beautiful place. And I knew, one day, I would have to see it.
And so off we went… and Ireland did not disappoint. The pouring rain at Dublin Airport was inconvenient and a little uncomfortable…but it was perfect. Dublin sparkled with her coat of rain; the old stone buildings just glistened. Every corner revealed a park, a church, a statue…and sometimes all three. Rows of old Georgian style homes, all completely identical except for the front doors which were of every color of the visible spectrum, lined narrow but heavily traveled streets. On a Friday, at 10:00am in the pouring rain, the streets were packed with pedestrians. The place was alive. Sadly, we had to make our way to our hotel which was away from the center of the city but we knew we would be back for an extended stay at journey’s end.
Ireland is a mystical and ancient place. Burial mounds in Ireland pre-date the pyramids by a thousand years. St. Patrick arrived in the year 432 followed by the Vikings, and then more Vikings. St. Kevin built a monastic village at Glendalough, and, on this first day of our tour, we visited the ruins which had been sacked by one of the invasions. This place is truly spiritual on many levels. It is set in a narrow valley with the mountains on either side disappearing into the low hanging mist. Everything is relentlessly green except for the shards of the village complete with small church and round watch tower. There was a presence here, not just Christian, but ecumenical in the broadest possible sense. I almost felt that, if I could have come back at night…alone…I would be in the presence of the spirits of Christians and Druids and Vikings. It is a profound and moving place. It was one of my favorite stops.
We made our way out of Glendalough along a series of very narrow country roads…and I mean narrow. At one point, I asked our driver how wide the road was. He said it was 11 feet wide. I asked about the width of the motor coach and he replied “8 feet 4 inches” (Gulp!). Surprisingly, we saw only one accident the whole time we were on our tour. Two things contribute to this. One is that, for the most part, the Irish drive these wonderful little econo-boxes we can’t get here in the states. Marques I have not seen in America for years, Peugeot, Opel, Alfa Romeo abound, as well as Hondas, Toyotas, and Nissans we don’t get. The second thing is actually two-fold, the Irish are patient and they have an absolutely cat like sense of where a car will fit and where it won’t. At one point, on a road about 30 feet wide, there were two lanes of traffic going in each direction…four cars abreast…no problem. And then I would look ahead and a car would pull over and stop until we passed, and then proceed. Oh yeah, the speed limit on that 11 foot road was 100kph…62mph!!!
We made our way to the town of Waterford and to its single greatest attraction, the Waterford Crystal Factory. The factory is fascinating and the artistry of the craftsmen unparalleled. Their museum is wonderful and, unlike most museums, they encourage you to touch the pieces. After an all too brief shopping opportunity, it was off to the town of Cork, which felt like two cities. On one side of the river is the older part of town which looks like a seaside village right out of the 1800’s. The other side is modern and cosmopolitan. We didn’t get to stop but someday I want to go back and explore. We made our way to the delightful Hayfield Manor Hotel and ended our first day of touring.
Coming next...Blarney and beyond.
As a kid, my notions of Ireland came from three movies. 1948’s “Luck of the Irish” showed me a dark and woodsy Ireland…complete with a leprechaun. “Darby O’Gill and the Little People” (staring two Scots, saints preserve us!) was a little brighter…and with lots more leprechauns. And then I saw John Ford’s love letter “The Quiet Man”. No leprechauns (unless you count Barry Fitzgerald) but, my God, what a beautiful place. And I knew, one day, I would have to see it.
And so off we went… and Ireland did not disappoint. The pouring rain at Dublin Airport was inconvenient and a little uncomfortable…but it was perfect. Dublin sparkled with her coat of rain; the old stone buildings just glistened. Every corner revealed a park, a church, a statue…and sometimes all three. Rows of old Georgian style homes, all completely identical except for the front doors which were of every color of the visible spectrum, lined narrow but heavily traveled streets. On a Friday, at 10:00am in the pouring rain, the streets were packed with pedestrians. The place was alive. Sadly, we had to make our way to our hotel which was away from the center of the city but we knew we would be back for an extended stay at journey’s end.
Ireland is a mystical and ancient place. Burial mounds in Ireland pre-date the pyramids by a thousand years. St. Patrick arrived in the year 432 followed by the Vikings, and then more Vikings. St. Kevin built a monastic village at Glendalough, and, on this first day of our tour, we visited the ruins which had been sacked by one of the invasions. This place is truly spiritual on many levels. It is set in a narrow valley with the mountains on either side disappearing into the low hanging mist. Everything is relentlessly green except for the shards of the village complete with small church and round watch tower. There was a presence here, not just Christian, but ecumenical in the broadest possible sense. I almost felt that, if I could have come back at night…alone…I would be in the presence of the spirits of Christians and Druids and Vikings. It is a profound and moving place. It was one of my favorite stops.
We made our way out of Glendalough along a series of very narrow country roads…and I mean narrow. At one point, I asked our driver how wide the road was. He said it was 11 feet wide. I asked about the width of the motor coach and he replied “8 feet 4 inches” (Gulp!). Surprisingly, we saw only one accident the whole time we were on our tour. Two things contribute to this. One is that, for the most part, the Irish drive these wonderful little econo-boxes we can’t get here in the states. Marques I have not seen in America for years, Peugeot, Opel, Alfa Romeo abound, as well as Hondas, Toyotas, and Nissans we don’t get. The second thing is actually two-fold, the Irish are patient and they have an absolutely cat like sense of where a car will fit and where it won’t. At one point, on a road about 30 feet wide, there were two lanes of traffic going in each direction…four cars abreast…no problem. And then I would look ahead and a car would pull over and stop until we passed, and then proceed. Oh yeah, the speed limit on that 11 foot road was 100kph…62mph!!!
We made our way to the town of Waterford and to its single greatest attraction, the Waterford Crystal Factory. The factory is fascinating and the artistry of the craftsmen unparalleled. Their museum is wonderful and, unlike most museums, they encourage you to touch the pieces. After an all too brief shopping opportunity, it was off to the town of Cork, which felt like two cities. On one side of the river is the older part of town which looks like a seaside village right out of the 1800’s. The other side is modern and cosmopolitan. We didn’t get to stop but someday I want to go back and explore. We made our way to the delightful Hayfield Manor Hotel and ended our first day of touring.
Coming next...Blarney and beyond.
Monday, June 04, 2007
My Wife, Minerva
OK… for those of you who have read my blog, you know that my lovely wife is named Joan, not Minerva. So I guess I should have said that my wife “is a Minerva.” Let me explain.
I looove the game of golf…it is my passion, but it was a passion interrupted. I took up the game in my late teens and got reasonably good (a 5 handicap) by the age of 25. But I got frustrated that I never got any better and completely quit the game until my mid 30’s, when I met my future wife, Joan. One day she saw my clubs gathering dust in the corner of a closet and asked about the game. She expressed some interest and so I took her to a professional tournament. She had a great time and I was bitten by the bug, once again…lessons seemed in order.
We went to our local course and she took a series of lessons. I then found a pro who would work with the both of us (for me lessons are cheaper than therapy). That was 20 years ago and we have each been taking one lesson a month, ever since. But, sadly, I can never get her to play with me, because of her Minerva complex.
OK…so back to Minerva. The great Seal of the State of California has the image of the Roman goddess of wisdom, Minerva, at its center. According to Roman mythology, Minerva was the daughter of Jupiter. She sprang, a full adult, from the forehead of Jupiter. California, like Minerva, sprang full born as a state without ever having to go through the childhood of being a territory. And that’s what Joan wants from her golf game.
Golf is a game that requires a lot of practice, and playing, just to be average. Joan doesn’t like to practice and she doesn’t want to play with strangers…unless she is reasonably good…which she won’t be unless she practices and plays, which…well, you get the picture. Like Minerva, she wants to be a full fledged average golfer without going through the “beginner” stage.
And so, the only time she will play is when we play in an annual family tournament that friends put on, or when we are on vacation and we go to some expensive resort course where we can play alone.
Many women complain about being golf widows. Minerva…Uh, er…Joan need not suffer that fate. I would love to have her out there with me…at least once in the while.
I looove the game of golf…it is my passion, but it was a passion interrupted. I took up the game in my late teens and got reasonably good (a 5 handicap) by the age of 25. But I got frustrated that I never got any better and completely quit the game until my mid 30’s, when I met my future wife, Joan. One day she saw my clubs gathering dust in the corner of a closet and asked about the game. She expressed some interest and so I took her to a professional tournament. She had a great time and I was bitten by the bug, once again…lessons seemed in order.
We went to our local course and she took a series of lessons. I then found a pro who would work with the both of us (for me lessons are cheaper than therapy). That was 20 years ago and we have each been taking one lesson a month, ever since. But, sadly, I can never get her to play with me, because of her Minerva complex.
OK…so back to Minerva. The great Seal of the State of California has the image of the Roman goddess of wisdom, Minerva, at its center. According to Roman mythology, Minerva was the daughter of Jupiter. She sprang, a full adult, from the forehead of Jupiter. California, like Minerva, sprang full born as a state without ever having to go through the childhood of being a territory. And that’s what Joan wants from her golf game.
Golf is a game that requires a lot of practice, and playing, just to be average. Joan doesn’t like to practice and she doesn’t want to play with strangers…unless she is reasonably good…which she won’t be unless she practices and plays, which…well, you get the picture. Like Minerva, she wants to be a full fledged average golfer without going through the “beginner” stage.
And so, the only time she will play is when we play in an annual family tournament that friends put on, or when we are on vacation and we go to some expensive resort course where we can play alone.
Many women complain about being golf widows. Minerva…Uh, er…Joan need not suffer that fate. I would love to have her out there with me…at least once in the while.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
The Dark Side
Many months ago, my lovely wife Joan (aka The Erstwhile Librarian) convinced me that I should write a blog. Now I am a complete techno-nerd. I send e-mail with great difficulty. I am convinced that computers are basically witchcraft. When my screen freezes, rather than go through the appropriate re-boot procedures (what do boots have to do with anything?), I reach for the power button and scream “Die Pig” and then I count to ten...“One velociraptor, two velociraptors” (such a shut down procedure worked in Jurrasic Park, but with dire consequences). I turn the power back on and I start over.
So anyway, when Joan suggested a blog I said, “Uh…Ok!?” Of course I was clueless as to the niceties of blogging. I just thought I would write a few essays now and then and, if anyone read them, cool! If not, no biggie. And, for a while, that’s how it was…until my wife, an erstwhile librarian, became THE Erstwhile Librarian. At that point, sadly, I lost her to the dark side. At first she did an occasional post and solicited comments from family and close friends. Then, as she began to read other blogs and comment on them, her fan base began to increase exponentially and she felt the need to not only blog every day but to comment on every blog she read as well. Now, when she gets up in the morning, before she gets the newspaper, she turns on the computer and heads for the blogosphere. If she isn’t eating or sleeping, she’s on the computer.
Regrettably, this is partly my fault. I love the game of golf. It is my passion. For years, I have tried to get Joan to play with me (she takes lessons regularly) but to no avail. I said I felt sorry for her because she had no activity in her life that she was passionate about…HUGE mistake! She has discovered her passion and now she wants to drag me in with her.
Recently she has been nagging me to blog again, and so I did…and a whole bunch of lovely people responded with nice comments. If any of you are reading this…thank you. And if you like the look of my blog, thank Joan, who not only re-did my blog and her own, but also did her cousin's Moose Buyer blog as well. I don’t expect I will blog as often as Joan, but I will try.
So anyway, when Joan suggested a blog I said, “Uh…Ok!?” Of course I was clueless as to the niceties of blogging. I just thought I would write a few essays now and then and, if anyone read them, cool! If not, no biggie. And, for a while, that’s how it was…until my wife, an erstwhile librarian, became THE Erstwhile Librarian. At that point, sadly, I lost her to the dark side. At first she did an occasional post and solicited comments from family and close friends. Then, as she began to read other blogs and comment on them, her fan base began to increase exponentially and she felt the need to not only blog every day but to comment on every blog she read as well. Now, when she gets up in the morning, before she gets the newspaper, she turns on the computer and heads for the blogosphere. If she isn’t eating or sleeping, she’s on the computer.
Regrettably, this is partly my fault. I love the game of golf. It is my passion. For years, I have tried to get Joan to play with me (she takes lessons regularly) but to no avail. I said I felt sorry for her because she had no activity in her life that she was passionate about…HUGE mistake! She has discovered her passion and now she wants to drag me in with her.
Recently she has been nagging me to blog again, and so I did…and a whole bunch of lovely people responded with nice comments. If any of you are reading this…thank you. And if you like the look of my blog, thank Joan, who not only re-did my blog and her own, but also did her cousin's Moose Buyer blog as well. I don’t expect I will blog as often as Joan, but I will try.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Process vs. Product
For years I’ve been driving by a local grammar school and something has bothered me. The school is in good shape, in a nice neighborhood, and has been there since the mid 1950’s. There have never been any problems, that I know of, on campus and the students seem well adjusted. And then one day I realized what bothered me. It was there plastered on the side of the school gym right next to the street. It was the school motto. The motto read “We strive for success.”
OK…I know…this sounds perfectly fine and noble, but it bugged me. It bugged me because it teaches, at least subliminally, that kids should focus on success which is, very often, an elusive product over which we, very often, have little control. From my perspective, I would like to replace the success with a word that emphasizes the process which can lead to the product (success)… a word like excellence.
Sadly, in today’s world, success can be had at the expense of ethics and honesty. Sports heroes take steroids. Business people pad or even completely falsify their resumes to achieve…success.
Excellence is internal, success is external. The child who cheats “successfully” on a test or copies someone else’s homework may succeed but will they ever excel?
The golfing great, Gary Player, was practicing hitting out of a greenside sand trap on day when a passer-by stopped to watch. Player had been practicing for hours when the man stopped. Player proceeded to hit his next three shots into the hole. The passer-by commented “You have to be the luckiest golfer in the world.” To which Player replied “and the harder I practice, the luckier I get.” Process led to product…excellence led to success. This is what we should teach our kids.
OK…I know…this sounds perfectly fine and noble, but it bugged me. It bugged me because it teaches, at least subliminally, that kids should focus on success which is, very often, an elusive product over which we, very often, have little control. From my perspective, I would like to replace the success with a word that emphasizes the process which can lead to the product (success)… a word like excellence.
Sadly, in today’s world, success can be had at the expense of ethics and honesty. Sports heroes take steroids. Business people pad or even completely falsify their resumes to achieve…success.
Excellence is internal, success is external. The child who cheats “successfully” on a test or copies someone else’s homework may succeed but will they ever excel?
The golfing great, Gary Player, was practicing hitting out of a greenside sand trap on day when a passer-by stopped to watch. Player had been practicing for hours when the man stopped. Player proceeded to hit his next three shots into the hole. The passer-by commented “You have to be the luckiest golfer in the world.” To which Player replied “and the harder I practice, the luckier I get.” Process led to product…excellence led to success. This is what we should teach our kids.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
The Knuckleball of Truth
Spin is a word with many meanings. A top spins. You can take your car out for a spin. You can spin the truth.
Spin is defined as a rotation around a fixed point. Physics dictates that an object moving through a resistive medium like water or air will bend if spin is present. Golfers are painfully aware of hooks and slices. A baseball pitcher puts spin on the ball to get a curve or a slider. In tennis, a topspin lob drops like a rock while a cut shot with backspin floats.
In the world of opinion, the truth is spun…by almost everyone…and people like it that way. Bill O’Reilly of Fox News claims his show is a “no spin zone” and yet clearly his truth is decidedly right leaning. When a recent letter to Bill indicated that the writer seldom agreed with Bill but did on a particular point, rather than acknowledge their common opinion, Bill said “That makes you a Secular Progressive. “ He had to make sure his core audience knew where he stood without actually saying so…Spin!
The more left leaning commentators on MSNBC do the same thing…spin! But in all fairness to both the Left and the Right, that is exactly what their audiences want. They can follow the truth if it has spin.
If a batter knows a pitcher is going to throw a curve, he can follow the start of the arcing flight of the ball and coordinate his bat position to hit the ball. The trouble is he doesn’t know what the pitcher is going to throw. If the tennis player knows a topspin forehand is coming, he will know how to adjust to the lower ball flight and the quicker bounce and he can return the shot…if he knows it is coming. Both athletes understand the spin and can be where they need to be. But ask a batter what is the hardest pitch to hit and he will say the knuckle ball. Ask a tennis player and they will say the absolutely flat shot is hardest to track. Why? Because they have very little spin and, as a result, the ball wobbles, sometimes up sometimes down sometimes left and sometimes right.
And so it is with the truth. Truth, delivered with no spin, bobs and weaves its way into our consciousness. Good people do bad things. Bad guys are not always that bad. It is this moral ambiguity that spun truth lacks. Sadly, pure truth is most often accurately portrayed in shades of gray. And as much as we want to think we want it, very often Col. Nathan Jessup (Jack Nicholson’s character in “A Few Good Men”) is correct when he observed “You can’t handle the truth.”
Spin is defined as a rotation around a fixed point. Physics dictates that an object moving through a resistive medium like water or air will bend if spin is present. Golfers are painfully aware of hooks and slices. A baseball pitcher puts spin on the ball to get a curve or a slider. In tennis, a topspin lob drops like a rock while a cut shot with backspin floats.
In the world of opinion, the truth is spun…by almost everyone…and people like it that way. Bill O’Reilly of Fox News claims his show is a “no spin zone” and yet clearly his truth is decidedly right leaning. When a recent letter to Bill indicated that the writer seldom agreed with Bill but did on a particular point, rather than acknowledge their common opinion, Bill said “That makes you a Secular Progressive. “ He had to make sure his core audience knew where he stood without actually saying so…Spin!
The more left leaning commentators on MSNBC do the same thing…spin! But in all fairness to both the Left and the Right, that is exactly what their audiences want. They can follow the truth if it has spin.
If a batter knows a pitcher is going to throw a curve, he can follow the start of the arcing flight of the ball and coordinate his bat position to hit the ball. The trouble is he doesn’t know what the pitcher is going to throw. If the tennis player knows a topspin forehand is coming, he will know how to adjust to the lower ball flight and the quicker bounce and he can return the shot…if he knows it is coming. Both athletes understand the spin and can be where they need to be. But ask a batter what is the hardest pitch to hit and he will say the knuckle ball. Ask a tennis player and they will say the absolutely flat shot is hardest to track. Why? Because they have very little spin and, as a result, the ball wobbles, sometimes up sometimes down sometimes left and sometimes right.
And so it is with the truth. Truth, delivered with no spin, bobs and weaves its way into our consciousness. Good people do bad things. Bad guys are not always that bad. It is this moral ambiguity that spun truth lacks. Sadly, pure truth is most often accurately portrayed in shades of gray. And as much as we want to think we want it, very often Col. Nathan Jessup (Jack Nicholson’s character in “A Few Good Men”) is correct when he observed “You can’t handle the truth.”
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Iraq’s New Bicycle
When I was 7 years old, I learned to ride a bike. Our next door neighbors, the Dodges, had two kids the same age as my brother and me, and they had bikes. My dad borrowed one of their bikes and, as I sat on the seat and, as my dad began to push and steady the bike, I started pedaling. Suddenly, I was aware that my dad was no longer behind me…I was riding…by myself! I made it to the corner and somehow managed to turn right. I rode about half way down the block when I started to lose my balance. I tried to pull over to the curb, which I hit, landing in a bed of ivy. I got up and made my way back to the curb. With one foot on the curb and one foot on the pedal, I pushed off and, after wobbling violently for a second, I got my balance and continued on. I made it around the next two corners, heading for home, when my balance again began to fail me. This time I was able to bring the bike to a stop, placing my foot on the curb, and then pushed again, returning to where I started.
Over the next few months, the Dodges were gracious enough to let me use Bobby’s bike to improve my skills which, despite numerous falls, scrapes, and bruises, did improve. That Christmas, I got a bike which ultimately became my magic carpet to the world around me.
Iraq just got a brand new bike. It was built with the fall of Saddam Hussein and delivered when the people of Iraq voted for a new government. And now they are learning to ride it. The problem is, Dad (The U. S. of A) won’t let go of the seat for fear Iraq will fall and yet that is exactly what must happen if the Iraqis are to learn to ride by themselves. Granted, the road is rough and slippery, which makes learning difficult, but the roads in this part of the world are all rough and slippery. The warring factions in Iraq must finally come to terms with each other if “the bike is to be ridden.” This will never happen as long as the USA functions to buffer their interaction. This democracy and nation building stuff isn’t easy. We, of all people, should know that. It takes time…sometimes a long time.
“Four score and seven years” after “our fathers brought forth on the continent a new nation”, that 87 year old nation was tearing itself apart in a bloody civil war. Ken Burns, in his documentary “The Civil War,” noted that, before the war, politicians referred to our nation as “These United States.” After the war, our nation saw itself as one nation and we referred to ourselves as “THE United States.” Iraq must go through the same process. No matter how much we may want to steer the outcome, they must learn to live with each other. The bottom line is…we have to let go of the seat.
Over the next few months, the Dodges were gracious enough to let me use Bobby’s bike to improve my skills which, despite numerous falls, scrapes, and bruises, did improve. That Christmas, I got a bike which ultimately became my magic carpet to the world around me.
Iraq just got a brand new bike. It was built with the fall of Saddam Hussein and delivered when the people of Iraq voted for a new government. And now they are learning to ride it. The problem is, Dad (The U. S. of A) won’t let go of the seat for fear Iraq will fall and yet that is exactly what must happen if the Iraqis are to learn to ride by themselves. Granted, the road is rough and slippery, which makes learning difficult, but the roads in this part of the world are all rough and slippery. The warring factions in Iraq must finally come to terms with each other if “the bike is to be ridden.” This will never happen as long as the USA functions to buffer their interaction. This democracy and nation building stuff isn’t easy. We, of all people, should know that. It takes time…sometimes a long time.
“Four score and seven years” after “our fathers brought forth on the continent a new nation”, that 87 year old nation was tearing itself apart in a bloody civil war. Ken Burns, in his documentary “The Civil War,” noted that, before the war, politicians referred to our nation as “These United States.” After the war, our nation saw itself as one nation and we referred to ourselves as “THE United States.” Iraq must go through the same process. No matter how much we may want to steer the outcome, they must learn to live with each other. The bottom line is…we have to let go of the seat.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Damn the Damnable?
New Years Night, I was flipping channels between bowl games and I caught a glimpse of a Marine Color Guard and Band. At first I thought it was another tribute to President Gerald Ford, but then I noticed it was film and not video tape. And then the credits started to roll. It was the beginning of “A Few Good Men”. I switched channels again and caught a talk news show discussing President Ford’s pardoning of Richard Nixon, an action which (if you accept the position of Ford’s supporters) simultaneously healed the nation and doomed Ford’s political future.
As I listened to the debate over Ford’s pardon (which many liberals will forever condemn as the action which allowed Richard Nixon to escape “public justice”), I thought about THE line from “A Few Good Men”. It was, of course, Jack Nicholson’s vitriolic response to Tom Cruise, “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth.” So I guess the question is “Can America handle the truth? Or maybe more importantly…do we want to?”
For many Americans, the image of the American policeman is Jack Webb’s Joe Friday; the image of the American soldier is John Wayne, the image of the American statesman is Jimmy Stewart’s Jefferson Smith. Obviously, these are extreme idealizations, but this is what we hope for…it’s the truth we want to believe. So, again, can we handle the truth...or do we want to?
Would a criminal conviction of Richard Nixon have improved the American Psyche? History proved that Nixon was a crook. Did America need the conviction? Would America have been better off if Ronald Reagan had been charged for the Iran-Contra scandal? Would America have been better off if Bill Clinton had been driven from office as a result of the Monica Lewinsky scandal? I don’t honestly know. I do know that there are people who despise all three of these men, and they will forever seethe over the notion that criminals were not brought to justice.
I do not like the Iraq War. I believe America was seriously misled (lied to?) about the threats to our security, and those lies have cost 3000+ lives, and have made the world a much less safe place in which to live. Some believe that this level of deception is criminal, and there has been talk of impeachment. The question is would this “truth” do anything at all to fix the horrendous mess in which we find ourselves? Would our nation be healthier? Not likely. Rather, I would hope that the new Congress will do its job of oversight and rein in the President and his inept policies.
In the end, I think Ford was right. Removing (or in the current instance, containing) the problem is of primary importance. Pursuing the creator of the problem, while providing some level of visceral satisfaction for vengeance (which often masquerades for justice), leaves a scar upon the office…and the land.
As I listened to the debate over Ford’s pardon (which many liberals will forever condemn as the action which allowed Richard Nixon to escape “public justice”), I thought about THE line from “A Few Good Men”. It was, of course, Jack Nicholson’s vitriolic response to Tom Cruise, “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth.” So I guess the question is “Can America handle the truth? Or maybe more importantly…do we want to?”
For many Americans, the image of the American policeman is Jack Webb’s Joe Friday; the image of the American soldier is John Wayne, the image of the American statesman is Jimmy Stewart’s Jefferson Smith. Obviously, these are extreme idealizations, but this is what we hope for…it’s the truth we want to believe. So, again, can we handle the truth...or do we want to?
Would a criminal conviction of Richard Nixon have improved the American Psyche? History proved that Nixon was a crook. Did America need the conviction? Would America have been better off if Ronald Reagan had been charged for the Iran-Contra scandal? Would America have been better off if Bill Clinton had been driven from office as a result of the Monica Lewinsky scandal? I don’t honestly know. I do know that there are people who despise all three of these men, and they will forever seethe over the notion that criminals were not brought to justice.
I do not like the Iraq War. I believe America was seriously misled (lied to?) about the threats to our security, and those lies have cost 3000+ lives, and have made the world a much less safe place in which to live. Some believe that this level of deception is criminal, and there has been talk of impeachment. The question is would this “truth” do anything at all to fix the horrendous mess in which we find ourselves? Would our nation be healthier? Not likely. Rather, I would hope that the new Congress will do its job of oversight and rein in the President and his inept policies.
In the end, I think Ford was right. Removing (or in the current instance, containing) the problem is of primary importance. Pursuing the creator of the problem, while providing some level of visceral satisfaction for vengeance (which often masquerades for justice), leaves a scar upon the office…and the land.
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