Part 5a, Waterford

In the morning we have just time for a van-load to hop over to Kells Priory for a look around, before heading to Waterford for the Tall Ships Festival and Hogeye’s gig at 6:30.

The place is huge, and fully accessible to humans and sheep alike. Well, except for the bits with scaffolding where they’re doing some restoration work. There’s no guide today, and no plaques explaining anything. They’ll probably put something up later, once the repair work is more advanced.

It’s a nice walk around, though. The sheep in the south meadow don’t mind visitors. To the north there’s an old cemetery. In a cared-for cemetery sometimes the tall tombstones seem very large. In this overgrown field the taller ones are barely visible, and I bark my shin against one leaning at a sharp angle, hidden by the nettles.

There are two mills along the stream, one right after the other. In this day of renewable energy, I wonder why they don’t use them still. In a modified version, of course, no need for the great wooden wheels and creaking gears. A smaller, streamlined version would do to keep the lights on.

After the mills, the little trail leads through the village of Kells to take us back to the priory parking lot. Here’s a big sign explaining the mills and the Priory with its monks. The Book of Kells was from here, though it now lives in Dublin, at Trinity College. Today Kells is a two-shop town. I buy a bottle of water from one. I have my choice, but it amuses me to go for the Volvic. I can hike to Volvic from where I live. Next to the shop is a pub. I don’t count how many pubs there are, but this one has a sign to tell you what’s in the mixed drinks, just in case A Pint isn’t your thing. I think I will skip the Black Russian : they take a regular black Russian and add whatever other black liquids are at hand - coke and Guinness. No thanks.

Now to Waterford for the Tall Ships. Half the country will be in Waterford for the Tall Ships, they say. Getting ready to go, milling around the vans as the Navvys trickled out of their cottages, we see our hosts also packing up to go. Their boy is admonished to get in the car already, and he asks, what, are they late ?

Very late.

Hundreds late ?

Hundreds and hundreds ! the response. The child runs to his place.

Finally the cats are herded into the vans and it’s off to Waterford. After much pausing for strawberries. And a peek at the livestock. And a pet for the dogs, Poppy and Bella. And a final pee. And a forgotten this or that.

Two vans go to the Red car park. The third has a pass to take the musicians and their instruments down close to the venue. Turns out the pass doesn’t get them anywhere due to street closures for a different event, and they end up parking on the far side of town and taking the Green shuttle in, which puts them on the wrong side of the river. That’s a mile to schlepp the instruments, while our Red shuttle lets us off just a block away. Go figure.

The Tall Ships making their stop in Waterford on their route around the British Isles, up toward Norway and down through the Baltic Sea, are Quite the Event. They don’t stop here every time (next race, Dublin gets the honor), so the town makes the most of it. Aside from being able to visit many of the ships, there’s a carnival and music and food and craft booths of every kind about, filling the quays up and down the river as well as the warren of pedestrian streets in the old town. Waterford town with its towers and old churches and cobbled streets is barely visible for all the tents and excited tourists.

Darrell wants to board ships. I want to score some local yarn. I visit one ship with him, the Maybe, before we part for the afternoon. Strolling down the quay to pick out our ship, he tests a kangaroo kabob from one of the food booths (excellent), a miniscule chocolate cake (excellent) and a Bulmer’s cider on tap. It’s the most popular cider on this part of the island ; every bar has it on tap. As far as we’re concerned, they can keep it.

As we spend 40 minutes in line waiting for our turn at the ships moored at the eastern part of the south quay, we hear Coming through ! Make way ! Coming through ! Three heaping shopping carts are parting the crowd to provision one of the ships. So that’s how they do it.

The music at the stages in this area isn’t at all the sort we’ve come for. It’s all terribly amplified and modern. Apparently different stages have different themes, and all the traditional Irish music is happening elsewhere. More interesting are some of the wandering minstrels - an old man playing a pipe near the Norwegian ship, a fiddler and bodhrain pair loitering near the noisy main stage, other fleeting sound sources unidentified in the crowd.

Walking about the town I don’t see much in the way of yarn, but there is one shop, at last, that I would never have found without asking, and they have a delightfully rich red merino I must have. Alas, they don’t have any of that wonderful mohair that so many of the blankets in the boutiques are made of.

I’m back at the venue for Hogeye’s show an hour before time, early enough to catch the group before them just setting up. It’s sea captains ! Eight old guys in matching captain’s garb and white hair sing chanteys for half an hour, including a few that I’ve heard our group do. The same songs, but different. Words are changed, the tunes have undergone little mutations. It’s strange sometimes to hear a familiar song a different way.

Here’s Darrell. He says he got on the French ship and had a great look around at their navigation gear without understanding a word of it. A go on the Irish drug-buster boat was a success. And the Columbians are partying up a storm. They are - you can hear them from here.

It’s unfortunate there’s no place to sit near the music stages. Hogeye Navvy is playing at a wide spot in the road leading to the carnival ride section and to the really big ships from Russia and Columbia. A lot of people pass by, but very few stick around for more than one song.

Carole and Ken dance one song in the space just in front of the stage, a real toe-tapping jig whipped out there by Deb on the fiddle. It’s a joy to see them dance, tiny Carole light as a bird carefully spun about the potholes by her attentive husband. This does make people stop and watch, those who don’t walk right through the ‘dance floor ‘ eyes glued to their feet on their way to the carnival.

The set continues, hopping from tunes I know to those I don’t. Garry the Shantyman is not with us this trip, but Deb’s voice rings out strongest of the group and carries the day. She could do opera, this woman. When Hogeye’s 30 minutes are up Mac gathers us up for the evening plans. One van is going back right away with those too knackered or young for an evening of pub revelry. The rest of us are to gather at the Wander Inn on the other side of town for a singalong. Music starts at 8, food will be provided at 9, shuttle buses run back to the vans at 10 :30 or 12 :30. Wander Inn at Johnson and Parnell, check. Be there. She waves in a general direction. Find it.

(gotta run - photos and the rest of part 5 tomorrow)

Part 4, Kilkenny

Next day is a « free » day. D and I have ordered a dish of cottage pie for his cottage, delivery around 8, so that’s dinner plans for 6 of us already. Looking forward to it.

The three vans go off separately. Ours goes to Jerpoint Abbey, which we all ooh’d and ahh’d at on the grocery run. You come around this bend in one of those green tunnels, where the hedges and trees are so close to road, mowed vertically to about 10 feet, and then allowed to close over, and suddenly instead of hedge there’s this magnificant ruin right there. And then you’re past it. Immediately you know you have to stop there next time.

In a spot of luck, a guided tour is just starting, turning a half-hour superficial wander into more than an hour of discovering its secrets. Claudia is one of those great guides : she knows everything about the place, but keeps it interesting and fascinating without going on too long. The tour is just right. Normally I don’t go in much for guided tours, but I’m reminded here I should try it more often.

Then on to Kilkenny town. The big things for our group here are St Catherine’s Cathedral with its monks’ tower in the yard, Kilkenny Castle, and Kyteler’s Inn, one of the oldest pubs in Ireland still going strong.

D and I climb the Monks’ Tower for the view over all Kilkenny. We spy no Viking raiders rowing up the river, alas. Then we skip the cathedral in favor of lunch. Kyteler’s is having live traditional music tonight and half the group wants to stay for that, having dinner there too. We have cottage pie with our name on it coming, so we check out this pub for lunch. Just to say we’ve seen it too - there are some things you gotta do or see, just to keep in the conversation with everyone else.

It’s sometimes not the best idea to eat at a place that caters to tourists (and this entire street is Tourist Row), but the food is wonderful. My tomato-basil soup is spicy and thick, the bread is great, and our shared plate of roast pork with stuffing, spuds, and veg is perfect. At the end we even opt to test the « Hot Powers » drink we’ve seen advertised so often. It’s quite good !

After lunch we tour Kilkenny Castle, what you can see of it. Not much to report. It was pretty strange to enter this one wing that had been rearranged by one of the latter owners into a single huge gallery, and see the wooden ceiling and its numerous crossing rafters all carved and painted. It was just the sort of decoration you’d expect in Viking territory, from the overall the style down to individual motifs. Though maybe I just haven’t seen enough Irish castles with their decorations intact.

There’s no yarn to be found on the main streets of Kilkenny, so we spend the balance of the afternoon walking at random and up the path that goes along the river. Nice and green, peaceful, and walking on the grass feels good on the feet after a lot of pavement. At one point we see a large black dog coming down the path. It comes near, then goes for a dip in the river, keeps on a ways, then turns around and trots back where it came from. Out for his walk without his people.

The deal was whoever wanted to return to the cottages early should meet at the van at 6:45 - 7 pm, and Joe would run us back there. Nobody is sure if Fred was intending to return early or not, but he is inclined to change his mind so at 7:05 we leave without him.

He was never late for a van again.

We’re back at our digs just in time to settle in and prepare a salad when our cottage pie is delivered, piping hot from the oven.

Ohhhh, that is some good stuff. We’re not sure what all is in it. Beef and lamb for sure, but there’s something else - gotta be venison. Gamey, but not too much, only enough to be Not your Usual Food. Just when we’re nearing the end of the main dish, Mac comes in to announce a van is leaving for a Session at the village pub nearby. There’s a village nearby ? Sprung on us in the middle of dinner, only Darrell joins them. I opt for a walk in the soft late evening light, instead.

It’s hard to go walking around here. The country roads don’t have a lot of traffic, but when there is a car, or a truck or a bus, there’s nowhere to get off the road. The high hedges and stone walls leave you just a few inches on either side. In France, I wouldn’t be walking on the road anyway. Hiking paths abound, and the farm roads between fields are generally accessible to walkers. There are even stiles provided to cross pastures. Not here, as far as I’ve seen.

When I get back, nobody much is around, all either gone to the pub or sleeping off jetlag or deep in their journals and blogs. So I do the same for an hour before turning in to my lovely soft bed.

Part 3, Cork

Our first full day is spent going down to Cork, and we do miraculously manage to get on the road by 9 :20. The two stragglers aren’t at all happy to be told to hurry it up, but the vans go together or they don’t go. We aren’t very clear on where to head once we actually get to Cork. Separation could be fatal.

It’s a couple hours’ drive, straight down toward Waterford, turn right at the big bridge, then straight on to Cork. Now the backs of the vans aren’t full of luggage, Darrell and I make the trip on the jumpseats in the back. There aren’t any seatbelts back there, but there is a great view out the windows. Whoever named this thing Van of the Year had obviously never been a passenger trying to see over the high headrests or out the side windows that are blocked just at eye level by the frames of the sliding windows. Dumbest windows I’ve ever seen. If you’re the unfortunate soul in the center seat, just nod off now.

Anyway, having seen a bit of the spectacular view of the country (to me ; I’ve not been to this part of Ireland before) and small parts of Cork, we find (eventually) space to park. This is in a multilevel lot just tall enough for the vans as long as you don’t mind the sound of the antennae dragging along the ceiling. Height, however, is just one parameter. This is just about the largest vehicle you could manoeuvre in a lot full of steep ramps and tight turns made for typical European compacts. Our driver scores a spot at the end of a row easy enough to pull into, but backing out will take us several tries in front of an impatient but bemused crowd. Look, Ma : No scratches !

One of the differences in the reasons we travel comes to the surface here. One of the group, who has travelled abroad several times, explains that the easiest thing for lunch would be to pop into the nearby Marks & Spencer and grab something quick and cheap from their sandwich counter. Bagels, wraps, they’ve got good stuff.

And I’m sure they do. For sandwiches. But this plus the self-catering, when do we dive into the local cuisine ? You can get a sandwich back home. I like to eat my way across a new country.

Darrell and I decide to skip the Butter Museum where the rest of the group is heading, in favor of fish&chips and Irish stew and a glass of stout at a nearby pub. Murphy’s or Guinness ? We’ll test them head to foamy head. Score 1 for Uhrhammers. And 1 for Murphy’s.

The other reason for skipping the Story of Irish Butter is my camera has suffered a terminal breakdown and I’m looking for a replacement. The photos on the blog are all taken with the point&shoot backup that I only packed for its capacity to record short movies. There’s a Sony boutique on the main shopping street, but they don’t have anything on hand that’s both compatible with my lens collection and affordable, so I guess I’ll just not take good photos of this trip. That’s fine. I’ll just pay more attention in other ways.



Darrell discovering The Real Cork.

After success for lunch and failure shopping, we go off in search of this church where you’re allowed to ring the bells. That sounds cool. It’s right near the Butter Museum, too, so we figure we’ll catch up with some of the group around there too.

Indeed, as we pass a corner café there’s a knocking on the window. A good part of the Navvies have gathered there for lunch or at least dessert, and I’m treated to a hearty round of Happy Birthday. They would have gone on with the Special Hogeye Navvy Birthday Song, but I plead we should do that back at the cottages. Mac says, Oh yes, with the full force of the band present. That should be great.

Now for the bell-ringing at St Shandon’s, just up the hill. It’s half-price today because the top part of the tower is closed for maintenance and you can’t go up there and hear the bells up really really close, or enjoy the view over the city. For 2.50 you get up to the lower level, where eight bell ropes await. A collection of tunes written out in rope numbers is available, including Don’t Cry For My Argentina (apparently written for the bells of this very church), Three Blind Mice, You are my Sunshine, and a dozen others. I choose the Bells of Saint Shandon, and pull the ropes as Darrell calls out the rope numbers. I don’t know what it’s supposed to sound like anyway, but it can’t have been a very good rendition, as the number five bell doesn’t seem to be well balanced and I have to pull on it twice to get it to ring.

Bell number 8 is never called for in the tune, so D gives it a ring at the end, just to hear it. It’s surprising how faint the bells sound from here, just a few yards from them.

Once the 24 of us are gathered back at the mall where the vans are parked., we have our little unparking adventure and it’s off to Cobh (pronounced « cove ») Heritage Site. This was one of the main points of embarcation for Irish emigrants fleeing the potato famine and various other troubles or just looking for a new life in America. It was also the Titanic’s last port of call, and the Lusitania was a frequent visitor. There’s a statue of Mary somebody, the very first person registered at Ellis Island, because she set off from here too. Some in our group have ancestors who made the same trip.



Exhibits at the Cobh Heritage Site.



Cobh is a nice harborside town with colorful rows of shops and then houses hugging the hillside down to the water. There aren’t any big ships putting in here any more, though we can see freighters across the way serving factories. An assortment of small fishing and pleasure boats adorn the marina.

Cobh marina

Getting in the vans to head back to the cottages is another adventure. This will always be an adventure. 3 vans for 24 people, 11 seats per van, 6 possible drivers but each one is assigned to a particular vehicle. You can’t just assume that there will be a ride for you if you wander off. Everybody might think you hopped into one of the other vans. Just now a ride is guaranteed, because everybody is waiting. Impatiently. With their own plans. So people wander off, and when they get back somebody else has wandered off, and others are undecided or change their minds yet again.

Eventually it is decided.

One van is going to stay out late, looking for a pub with music. One van is going back now (it’s 7), stopping for dinner on the way. One van is going back now, stopping at a grocery store and for photo ops. But who is in which van ? Are we sure Fred, who has wandered off, really wants the late van, or has he gone in search of a snack before catching an early van ?

Part 2, Croan Cottages

We stop for lunch in a very cute town whose name escapes me. It’s nobody’s lunchtime but mine, and the pubs and restaurants (such as there are in such a tiny place) aren’t really serving yet but one place does kindly rev up the kitchen and get some hot sausages going. Darrell and I would rather walk around than sit, rather see the sights than the inside of a pub, so we keep looking.

There’s a ruined « castle » (just a tower as far as I can see), an old arched stone bridge over a stream, and a pub on the far side with its door open and a couple of tables in the yard. The guy inside may be a customer, may be an employee, hard to tell, but he tells us there’s a gas station down the way that does sandwiches. He declares he just ate one, as proof of the existence of this glorious but thus far theoretical establishment. He directs us to this source of comestibles, but looks doubtful when we admit we are on foot. It’s far ! That worries us a minute, though it turns out to be less than a mile altogether. No problem.

I have chicken with brown sauce, and Darrell has ham, and we walk around seeing the town as we eat. We even have time to admire the chapel and mess around by the riverside and discover Murder Street before having to be back at the vans.

The view from inside the van.

Croan Cottages.

Round back of the big house there are five adorable cottages, 2 or 3 bedrooms each, and Hog Eye Navvy has them all for a whole week. We can do all the running back and forth we want, make music, etc, and nobody else will be bothered.



View from near Croan Cottages



It’s a great place, part of a working farm in the middle of county Kilkenny. The countryside spreads out around the place like a patchwork - green below, blue-white-grey above. There are fresh strawberries and lettuce we may pick as we please in the walled garden (no wasting, please !), and a small assortment of livestock. It’s peaceful and gorgeous and self-catering.

Ah, self-catering. There’s no place to eat for miles, so after settling in it’s off to a nearby town for a grocery run. The directions to the supermarket are quite simple, only the town is not laid out simply at all and we’re not used to this right-left thing. We drive a whole block the wrong way on a one-way street and none of the locals watching makes a sign.

Ah, here’s the store at last. Just an ordinary market, not very large. But it takes us ages. There are so many new and strange things to eat. Brands we have never heard of. We must look at it all. And decide ; we have to decide what to take back with us. It isn’t easy.

It’s funny what people bring back. Some stock up as if to eat in every day for the week we’ll be here. Others take only enough for tonight’s dinner and a few breakfasts, counting on eating while we’re away on our day trips. Darrell and I are staying in different cottages, and I peek into each of our fridges.

My fridge :

Salad, vegetables, milk, orange juice, yogurt, fruit yogurt, eggs, 1 Guinness, cheese. Plus apples, bread, muesli, wine, and olive oil on the counter.

D’s fridge :

6 apple ciders, 6 pear ciders, 2 berry ciders, 6 Guinness, jam, lemon curd, butter, ham, cream, milk, eggs. Plus Nutella, bread, coffee, muesli, and potato chips on the counter.

Guess who saw all those different kinds of cider at the store and didn’t know which one to try ! So we got them all, or most of them (some in several copies), and will be having a cider test.



On top of my cottage.

Tomorrow: Cork.



Ireland 2011, Part 1

I have to admit I kind of like Schipol Airport. When I have a little more time, that is. Today it’s just good for a bit of exercise as I speedwalk through its kilometer-long, shiny-clean halls of shops and bars and restaurants, dodging luggage obstacles and bewildered or bored travellers. It's sale season, though, and all the books in English are calling to me to stop and look.

70 minutes to change flights is down to 40 by the time I clear the passport check, but the bank of ticketing kiosks right after that has no waiting, yea ! When I tell it I checked a bag in Clermont, however, it tells me I have a Baggage Discrepancy. Um, I did check a bag, I did I did. And it has my toothbrush in it. Please somebody here be expecting it and tuck it gently into the underbelly of the only Aer Lingus shamrock jet to be seen. There’s jam in there that must get through.

At the gate with supposedly just 20 minutes before we lift off, I get my boarding pass and am assured that everything is fine. It’s just those silly computers. They’ll send your luggage from one company to another ; they just won’t tell you about it on the way. Now it is time to hurry up and wait.

Tic-toc and here I am in Dublin. Er, not really Dublin, just a convenient and fairly reasonable hotel near the airport. Just what I love on vacation, right ? My fellow travellers are arriving tomorrow bright and early and it’s off to Kilkenny straight away, so it’s airport lodging tonight.

No bother. A pint of Guinness and a glorious soak in the tub, and I’m good for the evening anyway.

Though I wonder if there’s anywhere to go for a walk outside.

Heading one direction, the sidewalk peters out after a hundred yards. The hedges on either side of the road don’t leave any margin for pedestrians, so that’s not the way to go. So much for the small road. Along the much bigger road the sidewalk keeps on, probably all the way to Dublin. There’s even a margin between the concrete path and the traffic. I go about a mile, with an impenetrable hedge on one side and constant trucks and cars on the other, before getting too bored with it and turning back. Nothing to see. I’ll get my exercise lifting that pint.

Tuesday. In the lobby this morning are not quite so many members of some red-shirted American swim team. All snug in their beds recovering from a late night yelling back and forth down the hotel corridors, I think.

Time to go find Hogeye Navvy and company at the airport. Mac said to meet them at 7. Er, that would mean she expects to deplane, hike over to the passport check, get through that and on to the luggage area, pick up all the bags, and make it out to groundside in five minutes. I get there sometime after 7 but with plenty plenty time to spare, not because I think I risk holding the group up, but because I fully intend to find a good cup of coffee and a delectable pastry item for breakfast before discovering the proper car rental area.

Good idea, because Dooley’s car rental kiosk is tucked waaaay back under the stairs, out of sight of the more well-known rental agencies, with nary an arrow to point the last bit of the way. On the way over from the other terminal there are signs. But follow them, and you’ll get down to the space in front of the other rental cars with no Dooley’s in sight. It looks like they’ve packed up overnight without a trace. They haven’t ; they just haven’t shelled out for one last sign saying, Yes, Really, Way down that way where the janitors never sweep and it looks like employees-only.

Here they are at last, slowly trickling through the frosted doors of the air-side area in a haze of jetlag. Some want coffee, some want a restroom, some want to practice wandering off, but once we’re all more or less together it’s off to get our cars. Even with a third of the group wandered off someplace, we fill the sad space under the escalator. It rapidly becomes hot and stuffy down there, so they tell the non-drivers to gather outside, where a Dooley van will pick us up and take us to the place where the cars are, so we can at least wait in the fresh air.

Outside is much better, even if we do occupy a dull strip of sidewalk between a parking structure and the taxi stands. Where are these promised vans ? It takes ages for them to come get us. Long enough that we get worried we’re standing in the wrong place. D and I go on a reconn mission, but the other side of the parking structure is just for city busses. This is the place. And there is a white Dooley van at last. Off to Dooley’s Ford lot for more waiting.

For an hour we shift from foot to foot at the car lot, noticing how many Fords there are and how the rest of the cars are mostly Japanese, counting the red ones and then the blue ones, and then finding out what's in the vending machines down the road, when the six people sharing driving duty show up. But we’re still not ready to go. What were they doing at the airport all this time if not the paperwork to take possession of our vehicles ? All drivers to the office ! Apparently a green sheet of paper has gone missing, and we cannot leave without it. Another hour of waiting around.

We are driving three copies of 2007’s Van of the Year. Blue, grey, and silver. We name them after ships, but nobody agrees which (we know too many that went down - anybody know three that stayed afloat ?). I think mine is the Beagle. People start to get in the vans. And then out again. And then in.

And then, miraculously, we’re driving.

Driving on the left is not too bad. We get to start off on the big roads around Dublin where you just go with everyone else. There’s no occassion to go wrong. Later, when you have choices and nobody setting an example, it’s not so easy.