First off, I have to appologize to anyone who managed to read yesterday's blog. I wrote it in a hurry, and didn't have a chance to go back and edit at all. Hence, mounds and mounds of typos, mis-spellings and errors in general :)
So, sorry....try it again, it's much better now :)
I’ve been trying to express how I personally feel about all that is ancient and historical, and I have come across an excerpt (from the Blarney Castle guide-book we bought, written by Dr. Sean Pettit) that I think sums it up concisely:
“All of us are touched in our imaginations by the sight of an ancient ruin, be it castle or abbey or great house…We have an instinct to explore it and to catch some glimpse of the people whose voices were heard there as they built it and lived in it.”
Simply and succinctly phrased, as I have been striving unsatisfactorily to articulate myself.
Here we are in Cork, and Matt has walked off up the block to his interview with Siemens SG leaving me to blog away in the nearest internet cafe with a coffee maker :)
Matt and I are both very nervous about this interview.... because we've both fallen in love with Cork. The city appears much less modernized than Dublin, much more Irish feeling. I guess you could call it character. Not that Dublin doesn't have character, its just that here, you feel much more like you are walking around in Ireland. Much of Dublin makes you feel as if you could be walking in any westernised city.
Anyhow, it’s been a great trip. Like I mentioned before, Matt chose the hotel, and did all the dirty work to get us here, leaving me in the same state I was for our honeymoon; knowing roughly where we were going, but knowing nothing else until we arrived. We even walked up to a nice hotel, and while I admired it (situated facing one of the two quays that encircle the city), and after pausing I kept walking, he stopped and said, "this is it." Everyone loves a surprise :)
So, we had a really nice hotel (a Clarion partner) in which the staff immediately tried to help us with everything from our baggage and what restaurants are good, yet reasonably priced, to who to talk to about our work situation. And of course, warned us about talking to loudly on dark streets in our American accents, because in any big city (and Cork is Ireland’s second largest) tourists are targets for pick-pockets and worse.... although we haven't had any trouble worse than people in Dublin thinking we were Spanish so far.
We wandered around the town for a bit, our baggage stowed at the registration desk, while our rooms were made ready (we got in long before check in time). The City center is comprised of two major quays (the place used to subsist of 13 separate islands until they joined them all buy quays) that shelter the three main streets. All the waterways serve as readily identifiable landmarks, making the city very easy for non-residents to traverse. So we haven't gotten lost :) I have to admit that there is a lot less to see in Cork compared to Dublin, as far as historically important sights, and touristy things to do. Most of those types of things lay a few kilometres outside the city (i.e.: Cobh (pronounced "cove") Harbour, where many Irish fled death by potato famine for the USA, and where the Titanic sailed from; Blarney Castle, Fota Island). But, Dublin also has the advantage of being the place that Vikings first landed in the 600's ---I think---, whereas Cork was first chartered in the 1100's; thus, less history to re-count.
The best things in town that we saw were the English Market, and a place called St. Ann's Shandon.
The English Market has my heart. Its set up with stalls lining intertwining pathways winding through the center of one block in town. It's as though Pike Market, Seattle melded with the family butchers (Matt's favorite), all the homey coffee shops, bakeries, cheesemongers and best of all, the olive stall. Olives from Spain, Greece, France.... the best I've ever tasted. The olive stall also sells handmade olive oil and olive soaps, flavored with home-grown lavender, almond, honey...and bags of dried lavender from Provencal French towns.... sundried tomatoes by the garland, feta, and goat cheese topped with edible flowers. It was one of the most visually pleasing things I've ever seen. I'm strange that way :) Then there was the stall selling tea, dried fruits and nuts. The tea is brought in by a lady who lives in Cork county (in the country part of it, I assume) and grows all her own herbs, then dries and blends them to create her own brand of teas. Sooo tasty. I got one with cloves.....
St. Ann's Shandon (sean: Old dun: Fort) is a clock tower built in 1722 attached to a church (raise your hand if you knew that was coming). It has four sides, with four clock faces. The tower now standing was erected over the 1100’s sight that was once held Shandon Castle, and its chapel, both of which were destroyed in the 1690 Siege of Cork. The clock tower was constructed out of remaining red sandstone from the castle and the grey and white limestone from the Franciscan friary, on alternating sides. For eons it was called the "four-faced liar" because all the clocks showed a slightly different time dye to the thickness of the numbers differing enough to affect how the hands clicked by. That has since been remedied. Anyways, here's the cool part: You can ring the bells!
Matt and I went in, after having our lunch of ham and cheese stuffed croissants, olives and coffee (all from the English market) sitting on the front steps looking down a steep alley lined with pubs, over the River Lee to one side, and green sheep covered hills to another. When we entered, the man behind the counter (mid-crossword puzzle) treated us to a story or two (and a post card and a pen!) for having a sense of humor. He made me think of the phrase we keep hearing here, that “the Irish still have time to talk”; it seems to be rubbing off on us too :) We told him that most people we met tell us straight out that they don't like Americans, but we're alright :) He laughed his head off at our stories of people in Dublin thinking we were Spanish and then telling us when asked what they would have done if we were that there was no ill-will (Side-story: There was a man in Dublin who, while climbing a statue on O’Connell street trying to pin a Spanish flag on top, was pulled down and beaten by 20-some Irish people in green team-jerseys. Garda stood nearby, and instead of trying to stop the mob, merely called in an ambulance. In their defence, they were only two against 20. No ill will, my big toe.) Our host introduced himself as Declan Brady, and told Matt the first thing he should do here is not tell people he's living in Dublin (some animosity including the name "jakeens"?) and change his name to Tomas McAllen/O'Allen. Maybe Matthew is too much of an English name? He also kindly offered to assist us in finding accommodation should Matt land the job, so that we don't end up in the wrong parts of town. All in all we left him with our love of humanity well intact, and feeling happy about our whole adventure, for meeting people with a story makes our own story so much more memorable.
And I got to play "Don't cry for me Argentina" rigging out across Cork, as my statement that I think Brazil will win the world-cup. I know Argentina is nowhere near Brazil, but they didn't have the sheet music for Girl from Ipanema. And it’s safe to say team names other than Ireland and England now, since they have both been eliminated.... USA plays Germany later today...
After retiring to our hotel for a break, Matt and I walked to the opposite side of town, crossing both quays, and hopped a bus to Blarney. We had bought tickets to this tour from the Tourist Info center near our hotel in the morning on our way to visit the Bishop Lucy Park (which was supposed to be neato, because while building it, they uncovered the original 13th century walls that used to surround the town. In my liking of old stuff, I wanted to see the remains, and was saddened to see that this seems to be where most of the local itinerants have chosen to set up camp, and the wall, a few feet down, and lovingly enclosed by a guard rail and enhanced by a pond at the bottom, is where they have chosen to deposit their collective garbage.). The girl behind the counter seemed new, and I didn't question her about the tour to the extent that I should have, because upon reaching the bus depot, no one seemed to know much of anything about tours. They just pointed us to a bus with its sign flashing Blarney in yellow letters. So Matt and I got on, and showing the bus driver our tickets, asked if we were on the right bus. He asked where we were going, and said we were good to go when we replied Blarney. Thinking we were just a little early (the tourist info lady told us to be early to be sure of getting a seat on the time we chose), Matt and I were both a little worried when the bus left the station 15 minutes before we were even supposed to be there to catch our ride.... So, we figured we were going to the right place, and arriving before the tour, would just wait for them to show up. I was irked.... Matt didn't seem concerned, so I tried to let go the fact that the bus driver didn't seem to know what he was about. Anyhow, we waited and waited for a tour bus to show. We shopped, and walked, and walked and shopped. Matt bought me a beautiful necklace by a local craftsman, made from silver and brass. Gorgeous swirls hanging from a thick circlet of silver. We got tired of waiting, (and shopping :) so we decided to go in after all. Turns out that the tour IS exactly what we did. What we paid for was just a bus ride to the town and back. So, oh well.
Blarney Castle floored me. I expected it to be a good deal like Bunratty, that is to say, tourist packed, and rather uninteresting in a historical sense. I was very wrong. Although it is a tourist destination, we had much of it to ourselves entirely, being the middle of the week, and a little pre-rush season. So, the castle is mostly a hull, but the stairs are all in tact, so you can clamber through the remains of rooms (marked to tell you what they were, like “young lady’s room” “great hall” “kitchen” “garderobe” aka: potty) and up through the storeys all the way to the top, wherein lies the Stone. The famous Blarney Stone which got its name (although not its mystique) from Queen Elizabeth the first who, desiring all Irish property to be held under legal tenure to the crown of England, ordered Lord Blarney to donate the Castle to the Crown. Lord Blarney was so good at refusing graciously, and in a manner that left the Queen so unsure of what he had actually promised (sounds like a lawyer to me), that after years of this going on, and finally realizing that he had absolutely no intentions of ever giving up the castle, she coined the phrase "that’s a bunch of blarney", denoting exaggerated babble, that by all means should be recognized as insulting, yet is not. Basically, prevaricating politely…
The grounds of the castle are what impress most about the place. I guess so far we have been visiting places, castles and cathedrals alike, that were the life-center of town for its history, and have continued to be physically located in the center of a living vibrant community. Blarney is a small sleepy hamlet, and the castle is not visible from it. Hence the town is not visible from anywhere inside the castle grounds, outside of the top of the battlements. It is entirely secluded from modern life. Included in the grounds lies a place called the Rock Close, in which the rock formations stand much as they have for over two thousand years. It is an ages old garden that is thought to have held some relevance to Druidic worship. That aside, it's one of the most perfectly unspoilt places I've ever been. It reminded me of the overgrown woods that my roomies and I used to drive to and sleep in once in a blue moon in Washington State. You can imagine with little effort how people would have lived there long before the castle was built. It’s home to a pre-historic dolmen, a tiny cave with windows, and steps down to a river; a place mysteriously named the witches kitchen (thought to be at lest 1000 years old), which is a manmade cave built with stones stacked in an upward and inward pattern, creating a chimney over a rock hearth, and built in shelves. From the backside, you don't even notice that it’s not natural. Then, there is an otherworldly stairwell, in the middle of this perfect glade, going from the base of one slope to its crest. It is enclosed, like the kitchen, by huge stones capped with more large stones. The steps are dressed slate and limestone, and look like they could have come from the inside of the castle, not this bizarre outdoors leading to nowhere that they are. They've been named the Wishing Steps, keeping alive a myth that whoever walks them, from top to bottom with eyes closed while making a wish, will have it granted. And Matt and I were left entirely to ourselves, making us both quite glad that we had missed whatever kind of tour we may have embarked on, that inevitably would have had us elbow to elbow with strangers the whole session.
And the Blarney Stone itself. SCAREY. I wasn't going to kiss it just because it seems so very unsanitary. But, once all the way at t he top, I didn't think I could help myself. Matt took off his coat, and glasses, lay down on his back and leaned his upper torso over the nothingness that was below, arching back to kiss the stone. As he did the wind came up, caressing his bare neck, making him acutely aware of just where he was dangling. When he got up and told me that, I just couldn't bring myself to do it too. I had already scared myself while waiting in line, by stepping up to a stone higher than the pathway on the top of the castle cat-walk (I still had a few feet of stone parapet to lean on, I'm not that dumb or that much of a risk taker), to take a picture of the edifice known as the Blarney House in the distance across the fields, behind a line of trees. As I snapped away, Matt told me to look down at my feet, not over the wall. Nice of him, huh? I'm not usually what you would call scared of heights, but I sure was at that moment. Every few feet, on the battlements, there is a two-foot by one-foot wide hole opening to the ground, meant to supplement the castles defences, leaving the defenders able to drop missiles on any attackers with ease. These have long since been slatted with the protection against falling of two horizontal 2" wide iron bars inserted into the stone of the wall, at, maybe a ten-inch interval. Does that make you feel safer? 'Cause it did nothing for me. I could still see, on either side of the square foot of stone outcropping that I was rooted to, the deathly drop down the height of the fort. So, I stepped back down, wondering at how I didn't even think twice to prop myself up there in the first place, and felt the jitters creeping through my bones. It didn't help that I was already feeling clumsy because earlier that morning at St. Ann's Shandon, I had effectively knocked over a postcard rack (which Matt deftly caught, even though he hadn't been looking at the time) by stepping back from a closet that closed in the trash can, twisting my ankle on a cantankerous stone (I think it was out to get me) jutting out of the ancient flagstones, and me, forgetting that I was wearing a backpack. So, I was in no hurry to further test my agility by back flexing my Blarney-kisser.
Adding further to the un-forgetableness of the whole experience of castle and stone, rock close and grounds, banded by lady-of-Shallot streams, as we left we passed an ancient yew tree that was singing. Halting, I retraced my steps back up a hill to the spot I heard the whispery sounds, and figured out that a tiny bird nest was hidden away from the hordes of tourists, and the dangerous wild life of the environment. The tree had little pockets, not so much knots, as elongated shelters, up and down its height. When I put my ear up to one of them, a tiny little singer serenaded me. I'm sure it was a baby nestling expecting its mother, because when it realized it was being watched (although I never could see it clearly) the warbling ceased, as though the miniature soloist took fright. I moved on down the path arm in arm with Matt, thankful for all the wonders Jehovah saw fit to bless us with. The views from the various levels of the castle steps were breathtaking in every sense of the word. I will not quickly forget how moved I was by visiting that place. I finished off a whole role of film in the process, so I hope I was able to capture some of the magical feeling of that time-forgotten era, and garden.
Here's a corker (I don't know about the offensiveness of using that term in the city of Cork, but oh well):
Matt and I went to a the Blarney Woollen Mills pub (called “Christy's” after the guy who worked in the mills as a young boy (c. 1930's), bought the old site after the trade had closed and the building was abandoned (c. 1975), and lovingly restored it, adding a hotel, shops, and restaurant) after we did the whole Blarney castle exploration, and get this.....
WE FORGOT TO PAY OUR TAB!
I myself, not being much of a dine-and-dasher previously, hadn't a clue until Matt realized it much later back in Cork and we were paying for dinner there. I guess I have grown too accustomed to Matt paying for things, so when we rushed out the door running to catch the bus up the street back to Cork city which was due in 5 minutes, it never crossed my mind to think about the bill. Fortunately all we had had was a pint of Guinness and an Irish coffee, so the barman won't be held accountable for a huge amount. The worst part is that the gent behind the bar had already started getting fuddled about cash with the two guys sitting next to Matt and I at the bar. They obviously live nearby, and new the staff. He had poured a pint for the guy, turned around, and back, been handed a twenty, and already forgot what he was being paid for. In all fairness, we were distracting him, unintentionally through conversation. But, he was ready for a break, and it was scarcely 6PM.
So, I wrote a note on our Clarion provided letterhead, and will send him recompense. I just can’t believe we did that. I've never dined and dashed before, and hope never to again :)
Matt should be back any minute from his interview, and I think I'm more nervous than him. I'm a little surprised that I've been writing for this long (two hours) and he's still gone.... I take that back, he's just walked in....I'll let you know how it went when I find out :)
Matt and I are both very nervous about this interview.... because we've both fallen in love with Cork. The city appears much less modernized than Dublin, much more Irish feeling. I guess you could call it character. Not that Dublin doesn't have character, its just that here, you feel much more like you are walking around in Ireland. Much of Dublin makes you feel as if you could be walking in any westernised city.
Anyhow, it’s been a great trip. Like I mentioned before, Matt chose the hotel, and did all the dirty work to get us here, leaving me in the same state I was for our honeymoon; knowing roughly where we were going, but knowing nothing else until we arrived. We even walked up to a nice hotel, and while I admired it (situated facing one of the two quays that encircle the city), and after pausing I kept walking, he stopped and said, "this is it." Everyone loves a surprise :)
So, we had a really nice hotel (a Clarion partner) in which the staff immediately tried to help us with everything from our baggage and what restaurants are good, yet reasonably priced, to who to talk to about our work situation. And of course, warned us about talking to loudly on dark streets in our American accents, because in any big city (and Cork is Ireland’s second largest) tourists are targets for pick-pockets and worse.... although we haven't had any trouble worse than people in Dublin thinking we were Spanish so far.
We wandered around the town for a bit, our baggage stowed at the registration desk, while our rooms were made ready (we got in long before check in time). The City center is comprised of two major quays (the place used to subsist of 13 separate islands until they joined them all buy quays) that shelter the three main streets. All the waterways serve as readily identifiable landmarks, making the city very easy for non-residents to traverse. So we haven't gotten lost :) I have to admit that there is a lot less to see in Cork compared to Dublin, as far as historically important sights, and touristy things to do. Most of those types of things lay a few kilometres outside the city (i.e.: Cobh (pronounced "cove") Harbour, where many Irish fled death by potato famine for the USA, and where the Titanic sailed from; Blarney Castle, Fota Island). But, Dublin also has the advantage of being the place that Vikings first landed in the 600's ---I think---, whereas Cork was first chartered in the 1100's; thus, less history to re-count.
The best things in town that we saw were the English Market, and a place called St. Ann's Shandon.
The English Market has my heart. Its set up with stalls lining intertwining pathways winding through the center of one block in town. It's as though Pike Market, Seattle melded with the family butchers (Matt's favorite), all the homey coffee shops, bakeries, cheesemongers and best of all, the olive stall. Olives from Spain, Greece, France.... the best I've ever tasted. The olive stall also sells handmade olive oil and olive soaps, flavored with home-grown lavender, almond, honey...and bags of dried lavender from Provencal French towns.... sundried tomatoes by the garland, feta, and goat cheese topped with edible flowers. It was one of the most visually pleasing things I've ever seen. I'm strange that way :) Then there was the stall selling tea, dried fruits and nuts. The tea is brought in by a lady who lives in Cork county (in the country part of it, I assume) and grows all her own herbs, then dries and blends them to create her own brand of teas. Sooo tasty. I got one with cloves.....
St. Ann's Shandon (sean: Old dun: Fort) is a clock tower built in 1722 attached to a church (raise your hand if you knew that was coming). It has four sides, with four clock faces. The tower now standing was erected over the 1100’s sight that was once held Shandon Castle, and its chapel, both of which were destroyed in the 1690 Siege of Cork. The clock tower was constructed out of remaining red sandstone from the castle and the grey and white limestone from the Franciscan friary, on alternating sides. For eons it was called the "four-faced liar" because all the clocks showed a slightly different time dye to the thickness of the numbers differing enough to affect how the hands clicked by. That has since been remedied. Anyways, here's the cool part: You can ring the bells!
Matt and I went in, after having our lunch of ham and cheese stuffed croissants, olives and coffee (all from the English market) sitting on the front steps looking down a steep alley lined with pubs, over the River Lee to one side, and green sheep covered hills to another. When we entered, the man behind the counter (mid-crossword puzzle) treated us to a story or two (and a post card and a pen!) for having a sense of humor. He made me think of the phrase we keep hearing here, that “the Irish still have time to talk”; it seems to be rubbing off on us too :) We told him that most people we met tell us straight out that they don't like Americans, but we're alright :) He laughed his head off at our stories of people in Dublin thinking we were Spanish and then telling us when asked what they would have done if we were that there was no ill-will (Side-story: There was a man in Dublin who, while climbing a statue on O’Connell street trying to pin a Spanish flag on top, was pulled down and beaten by 20-some Irish people in green team-jerseys. Garda stood nearby, and instead of trying to stop the mob, merely called in an ambulance. In their defence, they were only two against 20. No ill will, my big toe.) Our host introduced himself as Declan Brady, and told Matt the first thing he should do here is not tell people he's living in Dublin (some animosity including the name "jakeens"?) and change his name to Tomas McAllen/O'Allen. Maybe Matthew is too much of an English name? He also kindly offered to assist us in finding accommodation should Matt land the job, so that we don't end up in the wrong parts of town. All in all we left him with our love of humanity well intact, and feeling happy about our whole adventure, for meeting people with a story makes our own story so much more memorable.
And I got to play "Don't cry for me Argentina" rigging out across Cork, as my statement that I think Brazil will win the world-cup. I know Argentina is nowhere near Brazil, but they didn't have the sheet music for Girl from Ipanema. And it’s safe to say team names other than Ireland and England now, since they have both been eliminated.... USA plays Germany later today...
After retiring to our hotel for a break, Matt and I walked to the opposite side of town, crossing both quays, and hopped a bus to Blarney. We had bought tickets to this tour from the Tourist Info center near our hotel in the morning on our way to visit the Bishop Lucy Park (which was supposed to be neato, because while building it, they uncovered the original 13th century walls that used to surround the town. In my liking of old stuff, I wanted to see the remains, and was saddened to see that this seems to be where most of the local itinerants have chosen to set up camp, and the wall, a few feet down, and lovingly enclosed by a guard rail and enhanced by a pond at the bottom, is where they have chosen to deposit their collective garbage.). The girl behind the counter seemed new, and I didn't question her about the tour to the extent that I should have, because upon reaching the bus depot, no one seemed to know much of anything about tours. They just pointed us to a bus with its sign flashing Blarney in yellow letters. So Matt and I got on, and showing the bus driver our tickets, asked if we were on the right bus. He asked where we were going, and said we were good to go when we replied Blarney. Thinking we were just a little early (the tourist info lady told us to be early to be sure of getting a seat on the time we chose), Matt and I were both a little worried when the bus left the station 15 minutes before we were even supposed to be there to catch our ride.... So, we figured we were going to the right place, and arriving before the tour, would just wait for them to show up. I was irked.... Matt didn't seem concerned, so I tried to let go the fact that the bus driver didn't seem to know what he was about. Anyhow, we waited and waited for a tour bus to show. We shopped, and walked, and walked and shopped. Matt bought me a beautiful necklace by a local craftsman, made from silver and brass. Gorgeous swirls hanging from a thick circlet of silver. We got tired of waiting, (and shopping :) so we decided to go in after all. Turns out that the tour IS exactly what we did. What we paid for was just a bus ride to the town and back. So, oh well.
Blarney Castle floored me. I expected it to be a good deal like Bunratty, that is to say, tourist packed, and rather uninteresting in a historical sense. I was very wrong. Although it is a tourist destination, we had much of it to ourselves entirely, being the middle of the week, and a little pre-rush season. So, the castle is mostly a hull, but the stairs are all in tact, so you can clamber through the remains of rooms (marked to tell you what they were, like “young lady’s room” “great hall” “kitchen” “garderobe” aka: potty) and up through the storeys all the way to the top, wherein lies the Stone. The famous Blarney Stone which got its name (although not its mystique) from Queen Elizabeth the first who, desiring all Irish property to be held under legal tenure to the crown of England, ordered Lord Blarney to donate the Castle to the Crown. Lord Blarney was so good at refusing graciously, and in a manner that left the Queen so unsure of what he had actually promised (sounds like a lawyer to me), that after years of this going on, and finally realizing that he had absolutely no intentions of ever giving up the castle, she coined the phrase "that’s a bunch of blarney", denoting exaggerated babble, that by all means should be recognized as insulting, yet is not. Basically, prevaricating politely…
The grounds of the castle are what impress most about the place. I guess so far we have been visiting places, castles and cathedrals alike, that were the life-center of town for its history, and have continued to be physically located in the center of a living vibrant community. Blarney is a small sleepy hamlet, and the castle is not visible from it. Hence the town is not visible from anywhere inside the castle grounds, outside of the top of the battlements. It is entirely secluded from modern life. Included in the grounds lies a place called the Rock Close, in which the rock formations stand much as they have for over two thousand years. It is an ages old garden that is thought to have held some relevance to Druidic worship. That aside, it's one of the most perfectly unspoilt places I've ever been. It reminded me of the overgrown woods that my roomies and I used to drive to and sleep in once in a blue moon in Washington State. You can imagine with little effort how people would have lived there long before the castle was built. It’s home to a pre-historic dolmen, a tiny cave with windows, and steps down to a river; a place mysteriously named the witches kitchen (thought to be at lest 1000 years old), which is a manmade cave built with stones stacked in an upward and inward pattern, creating a chimney over a rock hearth, and built in shelves. From the backside, you don't even notice that it’s not natural. Then, there is an otherworldly stairwell, in the middle of this perfect glade, going from the base of one slope to its crest. It is enclosed, like the kitchen, by huge stones capped with more large stones. The steps are dressed slate and limestone, and look like they could have come from the inside of the castle, not this bizarre outdoors leading to nowhere that they are. They've been named the Wishing Steps, keeping alive a myth that whoever walks them, from top to bottom with eyes closed while making a wish, will have it granted. And Matt and I were left entirely to ourselves, making us both quite glad that we had missed whatever kind of tour we may have embarked on, that inevitably would have had us elbow to elbow with strangers the whole session.
And the Blarney Stone itself. SCAREY. I wasn't going to kiss it just because it seems so very unsanitary. But, once all the way at t he top, I didn't think I could help myself. Matt took off his coat, and glasses, lay down on his back and leaned his upper torso over the nothingness that was below, arching back to kiss the stone. As he did the wind came up, caressing his bare neck, making him acutely aware of just where he was dangling. When he got up and told me that, I just couldn't bring myself to do it too. I had already scared myself while waiting in line, by stepping up to a stone higher than the pathway on the top of the castle cat-walk (I still had a few feet of stone parapet to lean on, I'm not that dumb or that much of a risk taker), to take a picture of the edifice known as the Blarney House in the distance across the fields, behind a line of trees. As I snapped away, Matt told me to look down at my feet, not over the wall. Nice of him, huh? I'm not usually what you would call scared of heights, but I sure was at that moment. Every few feet, on the battlements, there is a two-foot by one-foot wide hole opening to the ground, meant to supplement the castles defences, leaving the defenders able to drop missiles on any attackers with ease. These have long since been slatted with the protection against falling of two horizontal 2" wide iron bars inserted into the stone of the wall, at, maybe a ten-inch interval. Does that make you feel safer? 'Cause it did nothing for me. I could still see, on either side of the square foot of stone outcropping that I was rooted to, the deathly drop down the height of the fort. So, I stepped back down, wondering at how I didn't even think twice to prop myself up there in the first place, and felt the jitters creeping through my bones. It didn't help that I was already feeling clumsy because earlier that morning at St. Ann's Shandon, I had effectively knocked over a postcard rack (which Matt deftly caught, even though he hadn't been looking at the time) by stepping back from a closet that closed in the trash can, twisting my ankle on a cantankerous stone (I think it was out to get me) jutting out of the ancient flagstones, and me, forgetting that I was wearing a backpack. So, I was in no hurry to further test my agility by back flexing my Blarney-kisser.
Adding further to the un-forgetableness of the whole experience of castle and stone, rock close and grounds, banded by lady-of-Shallot streams, as we left we passed an ancient yew tree that was singing. Halting, I retraced my steps back up a hill to the spot I heard the whispery sounds, and figured out that a tiny bird nest was hidden away from the hordes of tourists, and the dangerous wild life of the environment. The tree had little pockets, not so much knots, as elongated shelters, up and down its height. When I put my ear up to one of them, a tiny little singer serenaded me. I'm sure it was a baby nestling expecting its mother, because when it realized it was being watched (although I never could see it clearly) the warbling ceased, as though the miniature soloist took fright. I moved on down the path arm in arm with Matt, thankful for all the wonders Jehovah saw fit to bless us with. The views from the various levels of the castle steps were breathtaking in every sense of the word. I will not quickly forget how moved I was by visiting that place. I finished off a whole role of film in the process, so I hope I was able to capture some of the magical feeling of that time-forgotten era, and garden.
Here's a corker (I don't know about the offensiveness of using that term in the city of Cork, but oh well):
Matt and I went to a the Blarney Woollen Mills pub (called “Christy's” after the guy who worked in the mills as a young boy (c. 1930's), bought the old site after the trade had closed and the building was abandoned (c. 1975), and lovingly restored it, adding a hotel, shops, and restaurant) after we did the whole Blarney castle exploration, and get this.....
WE FORGOT TO PAY OUR TAB!
I myself, not being much of a dine-and-dasher previously, hadn't a clue until Matt realized it much later back in Cork and we were paying for dinner there. I guess I have grown too accustomed to Matt paying for things, so when we rushed out the door running to catch the bus up the street back to Cork city which was due in 5 minutes, it never crossed my mind to think about the bill. Fortunately all we had had was a pint of Guinness and an Irish coffee, so the barman won't be held accountable for a huge amount. The worst part is that the gent behind the bar had already started getting fuddled about cash with the two guys sitting next to Matt and I at the bar. They obviously live nearby, and new the staff. He had poured a pint for the guy, turned around, and back, been handed a twenty, and already forgot what he was being paid for. In all fairness, we were distracting him, unintentionally through conversation. But, he was ready for a break, and it was scarcely 6PM.
So, I wrote a note on our Clarion provided letterhead, and will send him recompense. I just can’t believe we did that. I've never dined and dashed before, and hope never to again :)
Matt should be back any minute from his interview, and I think I'm more nervous than him. I'm a little surprised that I've been writing for this long (two hours) and he's still gone.... I take that back, he's just walked in....I'll let you know how it went when I find out :)
Spain 3 vs. Ireland 1…..
Ireland is a little depressed today seeing that they just lost to Spain and are therefore out of the World Cup After such a good start its really depressing for everyone....They got farther this year than ever before.
This morning watching the line up, we saw one of the comedians that we saw in Kilkenny on a commercial. Barry Murphy was in character (as Gunter the German) and was saying that it was unfair of him to compare Germany’s track record in the World Cup (3 wins) to Ireland’s because Germany is a nation of some 60,000 people and Ireland is a nation of…..alcoholics
Speaking of which….
Matt and I just got stopped in the street (walking here to the cafe) by a drunk couple (beers in hand, zigzagging along) asking if we were Spanish. I guess because had grins on our faces still from laughing about something else. He thought we were laughing at them for loosing the Match. Matt said "No" emphatically (not wanting to get punched) to the question of ethnicity, and I started speaking in Spanish.
Joking. I said, “what would you do if we were” (really. I guess I did want to get punched :)), but by then he was already announcing in his Guinness-in-hand-staggering manner that we were "okay, then". People are so weird when they drink.... Yet, I have a funny suspicion that this guy would have said the same to our smiling mugs, in this, his country’s saddest hour, had he been stone sober after that match...bad...
This week Matt has an interview in Cork, (YEAH!!!) so we will get to see some more of the country. So far we've hit Limerick (scary), Shannon (picturesque, but small), Meath and Louth (briefly, for Newgrange), and Kilkenny (gorgeous). We'll go to Cork for three days so we can get a good feel for it. Matt figures he's gonna get this job because we were in the middle of planning a farewell to Europe Mediterranean Cruise, before we HAD to come home to the States. Both of us are completely stoked on this cruise. So, Murphy’s Law, do your thing!
We’ll leave for Cork on the train again, Wednesday and come home Friday night. Unless we forget to come home, like we did in Kilkenny. This time, Matt has made all the arrangements without me, in a nostalgic gesture reminiscent of our honeymoon when all I knew was that I needed a passport, and he took care of the rest of the details. It should be fun. Blarney Castle is close by, so we may come home with the gift of gab. But something tells me I’m not gonna want to actually kiss the Blarney stone like you are supposed to because I hear the locals, “interfere” with the stone just for the tourists benefit :)
Ireland is a little depressed today seeing that they just lost to Spain and are therefore out of the World Cup After such a good start its really depressing for everyone....They got farther this year than ever before.
This morning watching the line up, we saw one of the comedians that we saw in Kilkenny on a commercial. Barry Murphy was in character (as Gunter the German) and was saying that it was unfair of him to compare Germany’s track record in the World Cup (3 wins) to Ireland’s because Germany is a nation of some 60,000 people and Ireland is a nation of…..alcoholics
Speaking of which….
Matt and I just got stopped in the street (walking here to the cafe) by a drunk couple (beers in hand, zigzagging along) asking if we were Spanish. I guess because had grins on our faces still from laughing about something else. He thought we were laughing at them for loosing the Match. Matt said "No" emphatically (not wanting to get punched) to the question of ethnicity, and I started speaking in Spanish.
Joking. I said, “what would you do if we were” (really. I guess I did want to get punched :)), but by then he was already announcing in his Guinness-in-hand-staggering manner that we were "okay, then". People are so weird when they drink.... Yet, I have a funny suspicion that this guy would have said the same to our smiling mugs, in this, his country’s saddest hour, had he been stone sober after that match...bad...
This week Matt has an interview in Cork, (YEAH!!!) so we will get to see some more of the country. So far we've hit Limerick (scary), Shannon (picturesque, but small), Meath and Louth (briefly, for Newgrange), and Kilkenny (gorgeous). We'll go to Cork for three days so we can get a good feel for it. Matt figures he's gonna get this job because we were in the middle of planning a farewell to Europe Mediterranean Cruise, before we HAD to come home to the States. Both of us are completely stoked on this cruise. So, Murphy’s Law, do your thing!
We’ll leave for Cork on the train again, Wednesday and come home Friday night. Unless we forget to come home, like we did in Kilkenny. This time, Matt has made all the arrangements without me, in a nostalgic gesture reminiscent of our honeymoon when all I knew was that I needed a passport, and he took care of the rest of the details. It should be fun. Blarney Castle is close by, so we may come home with the gift of gab. But something tells me I’m not gonna want to actually kiss the Blarney stone like you are supposed to because I hear the locals, “interfere” with the stone just for the tourists benefit :)
Note on Newgrange:
They had a 9-1/2 year waiting list to be one of the 24 people that get to stand inside the inner chamber in palpable darkness whatching for the winter solstice sunlight to enter and illuminate all for 12 to 17 minutes (barring clouds). They have recently done away with that system, replacing it with a lottery system, saying its more fair to all involved. Different, although I'd hate to be the guy that WAS gonna get in this winter. :(
They had a 9-1/2 year waiting list to be one of the 24 people that get to stand inside the inner chamber in palpable darkness whatching for the winter solstice sunlight to enter and illuminate all for 12 to 17 minutes (barring clouds). They have recently done away with that system, replacing it with a lottery system, saying its more fair to all involved. Different, although I'd hate to be the guy that WAS gonna get in this winter. :(
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