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.