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
Friday, July 27, 2007
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
