Blarney

We bid adieu to Killarney and headed for Blarney and the iconic Blarney Stone. Winding through the countryside, the castle pops up from a warren of green hills and hedgerows like a prairie dog.

For all of its fame, the origin of Blarney's Stone of Eloquence is debatable. Some say it was Jacob’s Pillow, brought to Ireland by the prophet Jeremiah. Here it became the Lia Fail or ‘Fatal Stone’, used as an oracular throne of Irish kings – a kind of Harry Potter-like ‘sorting hat’ for kings. It was also said to be the deathbed pillow of St Columba on the island of Iona. Legend says it was then removed to mainland Scotland, where it served as the prophetic power of royal succession, the Stone of Destiny.

When Cormac MacCarthy, King of Munster, sent five thousand men to support Robert the Bruce in his defeat of the English at Bannockburn in 1314, a portion of the historic Stone was given by the Scots in gratitude – and returned to Ireland.

Others say it may be a stone brought back to Ireland from the Crusades – the ‘Stone of Ezel’ behind which David hid on Jonathan’s advice when he fled from his enemy, Saul. A few claim it was the stone that gushed water when struck by Moses.

Whatever its origin, it is agreed that a witch saved from drowning revealed the stone's power to the MacCarthys.

For most of the group I was with, the destination was the Blarney Woolen Mills, a shopping complex next to the castle grounds. Not a shopper, I preferred trekking to the castle which proved to be a mini-adventure. Upon arrival, fierce gusts of wind buffeted us, and at the castle they were gale-force, making me reconsider climbing all the way to the top. It's not an easy climb. You make your up (way up) a narrow turret with uneven steps. Several times I nearly needed to remove my backpack -- it grazed the ceiling of the stairwell, such that I was climbing nearly on my hands and knees. I can't tell you how much I enjoyed this --- no American handrails and warnings and handicapped access ramps --- instead, there's a single sign at the entrance warning that the climb is difficult and dangerous, and if you're not up to it, don't go. Period.

The castle is small. Life within it could hardly have been easy or glamorous. From the movies, I expected grand dining halls and rich tapestries and ten lords-a-leaping, nine ladies dancing. But even accounting for the fact that the castle is no longer in a habitable state, in its heyday it must have been drafty and dank and far from grand. With that said, visiting Blarney Castle is very cool. I'd love to be a kid again, fueled by imagination, investigating its nooks and crannies.

At the top, a hearty pair of Irishmen mans the space beneath the battlements where the stone is wedged. I can imagine that in the summertime, the throng of tourists overwhelms the place, but here, in the middle of December, you just walk up and kiss it. Well, first, you have to lie on your back, and lean back and contort into the proper kiss-ready position. Even with no one waiting the kiss the stone, the blarney stone kisser-prep guy and the cameraman are all business, calling out NEXT! before the kisser's lips have left the masonry.

The view from the top is lovely and pastoral and green and stunning. Dramatic cloudforms dance like shadowpuppets above the landscape, a wild mix of rolling hills and oaks and winding creeks, a picture postcard.







It's a bucolic setting which must be spectacular in Spring. Unfortunately, the blustery weather made it impossible to spend much time exploring the property and the park surrounding the castle. So I headed over to the Woolen Mills to find my mother who was doing her best to support the Irish retail economy. During the course of my search in the Mill complex, I met Mike O'Donovan, a charming Irish gentleman who was at a book-signing table. He'd obviously kissed the Blarney Stone many times --- he definitely had the gift of gab, and we had a delightful conversation. I bought two of his books. He was definitely not one of those eye-rolling "oh, gawd, I'm on a book-signing tour and I have to mix it up with the hoi polloi" kind of authors. He was naturally gregarious, witty, and lively, and I'd like to have spent the afternoon with him in a pub, just listening to him talk. I found mom soon thereafter, and made one of my very few souvenir purchases -- a gorgeous scarf of blue and green, with celtic patterns woven into it. It was perfect.

We decided to get a small bite to eat at a cafeteria place at the Woolen Mills. The line was about three miles long, and didn't move particularly quickly. I spent the time noting the Irish faces -- a lot of local families were eating here; it wasn't just a tourist trap. I would love to have taken photos of the children's faces*; they were uniformly cherubic, and for the most part, the kids were exceedingly well behaved. The few children I saw on the trip had iconic Irish faces --- porcelain skin with a bridge of freckles across the nose and cheerful rosy cheeks framed by a swath of auburn or gold or chocolate brown hair.

Back on the bus, we headed north to Limerick. Our tour guide, Matt, told the one clean limerick he knew along the way. It's a lovely drive to Limerick through Ireland's prime dairy country, a fertile limestone plain known as the "Golden Vale," bordered on the north by the Sleive Phelim mountains and to the south by the Galtees. To the west, the Mullaghareirk Mountains offer dramatic views to Kerry.

This is probably the area of Ireland in which Man first established himself. Archaelogical evidence shows the presence of Man in the Lough Gur area of Limerick county as early as 3000 BC, while megalithic remains found at Duntryleague date back to 3500 BC. The arrival of the Celts around 400 BC brought about the division of the county into petty kingdoms or túatha. The Vikings arrived in the 9th century, and established a city on an island in the middle of the River Shannon in 922. Later, the Normans took over and formally established the city of Limerick in 1210.

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* I generally don't photograph people, and never photograph children I don't know. To do so ethically, you need to get a signed model release from the parents, and in so doing, any spontaneity is lost. And, it can be perceived as exploitive. So I avoid taking photos of children altogether.

The Ring of Kerry

I'll upload some of my Ring of Kerry photos first, then add commentary later... check back for a compelling narrative!

Our first stop was a Bog Village "Museum" located on the Ring of Kerry just before Glenbeigh. The village is made up of six dwellings with thatch roofing, restored to their original setting.

There was a pair of Irish Wolfhounds in an outdoor manger ... one asleep, the other schmoozing with the visitors:

The forge boasted a sign for Jack [illegible] O' Sullivan's Forge.... and since we're Kerry O'Sullivans, the sign held special meaning.
The interiors were appointed as they would have been during the village's heyday:

And of course, we had to make a stop for an Irish Coffee at the world-renown Red Fox Inn.

More standing stones:

The Thatched Cottage

Along the Ring of Kerry we stopped for a potty/lunch break. The wind was gusty, but it was a beautiful spot, and the fare was excellent. I purchased a cookbook from the cookbook writer, hoping to learn to make the brown bread to which I've become addicted, and an Irish flag for my nephew (his one request). I ordered a ploughman's platter which was very tasty. The meats were succulent, and since I was still pretty full from breakfast, I was happy it wasn't a gut bomb.

Vedrarfjord

We approached Waterford under a blindingly brilliant sky. I don’t know whether it was because the sun sits so low on the horizon, or because it was such a stark contrast to the previous grey days, but the sun was so bright I thought my retinas would be seared.

Established by the Vikings, Waterford was first settled in 853 and is Ireland’s first city. The Anglo-Normans were introduced in 1170, and King Henry II of England landed the following year. Waterford and Dublin were then declared royal cities, with Dublin crowned the capital of Ireland. Waterford remained Ireland’s second city through the medieval period. Currently, it is the 4th largest city in Ireland.

“Waterford” is from the Old Norse term (Vedrarfjord) for “windy fjord”; the Irish name is Port Láirge. It boasts the oldest urban civic building in Ireland – Reginald’s Tower – which is also the oldest monument to retain its Viking name. It is believed to be the first building in Ireland to use mortar.

Waterford’s port has been one of Ireland’s major ports for over a millennium, and the river Suir (sounds like our word, "sure") which flows through the city is the foundation of Waterford’s maritime history.

Our destination in Waterford was the Waterford Crystal Factory. Crystal has been manufactured here since 1783. The business was originally founded in the city in 1783 by George and William Penrose. It’s been owned by the Wedgwood company since 1986.

At the beginning of the tour, we watched the flourescent orange molten crystal take shape as the craftsmen transformed the glowing globs into elegant forms that would later be etched and finished into the pieces we’d seen in the showroom. It is a magical, mystical process that I watched, slack-jawed, unable to grasp how each piece could be expertly crafted into a flawless work of art identical to other pieces in the set. We watched as the goo was pulled from the furnace and effortlessly dripped onto the side of the base and formed into a perfectly balanced and positioned handle. No matter how well you understand the mechanics of it, it’s still a wonder to see.

We moved on to watch the blowers who performed similar magic with the glass. The kiln areas are loud and “windy”. It was much quieter in the cutting area where dozens of cutters are bent over diamond-tipped wheels, following geometric guides to cut the glass. The guides are applied to the “raw” crystal with India ink. For the life of me, I can’t understand how these relatively thick guidelines (think marking guidelines with a fat Sharpie pen) produce perfectly symmetrical cuts. QA ensures that each piece is perfect – any that are not are crushed and thrown back in the kiln; everything is recycled.

St Patrick's Cathedral, Merrion Square and Georgian Dublin

Today began with my first "hearty Irish breakfast" which consisted of rashers, bangers, black pudding, white pudding, eggs, cereals, phenomenal brown bread (my FAVORITE thing to eat the entire trip), baked beans, broiled tomato, potatoes, yogurt, a meat and cheese tray, and juices. Mostly excellent, although after trying the black/white puddings, I passed on them the remainder of the trip - I'm not a morning person, and the thought of having congealed blood and entrails for breakfast will take more than a week to get used to. The sausages were good, but different than in the U.S. ... a different (creamier?) consistency, and a slightly different taste -- there were undertones of braunschweiger. The rashers (Irish bacon) were also different than our bacon --- much more like thinly-sliced ham, with far less fat and less salty. I found the baked beans and tomato to be incongruous as a breakfast staple, but they were offered at every , and I enjoyed the beans. The big breakfasts were great for travelers --- they stick with you until dinnertime, so you don't need to find a place to eat midday. There was a condiment served with all meals that I was delighted to see: brown sauce. Jeff and I had often laughed about seeing a product called, "Daddy's Brown Sauce" in the British food aisles. Here, brown sauce was served in condiment packets and I jumped at the chance to taste it: it's a Heinz-57-like product. Forewarned about the Irish only serving milk (no cream) with coffee, I brought my own creamer with me on the trip (okay, it's kind of an ugly American thing to do, but I'm way to set in my ways to endure such a catastrophic change to my morning coffee routine). The coffee was good and strong, but I'm not likely to switch to milk from cream in it anytime soon.

After breakfast, we were off onto a whirlwind bus tour of Dublin.

First stop, Trinity College and the Book of Kells. The Book of Kells exhibit provided a comprehensive background on the monastic life and the creation of the Book. No photos were allowed. After all the buildup, it was a let-down to discover that the actual Book was not available for viewing. Upstairs in the Trinity College Library, we saw a facsimile copy of the book. The disappointment in not being able to see the "real thing" was mitigated by the experience of being inside the long room of this extraordinary library. (No photos allowed, these are from Trinity's Photographic Centre:)

and this one is from the Encyclopedia Brittanica:

We continued the bus tour through historic Dublin. I enjoyed the ride and took few photos (no point - the bus was always in motion, and it's more trouble than it's worth trying to meter correctly from inside the bus and not get glare or flash from the windows). Our next stop was St Patrick's Cathedral.

History blindsides you as you enter St Patrick's Cathedral (Irish name: Árd Eaglais Naomh Pádraig). Jonathan Swift (dean of the cathedral from 1713 to 1745) is buried here. St Patrick baptized heathens here in the the 5th century. Oliver Cromwell converted the church to a barn and stabled his troops' horses in the nave as an overt sign of disrespect for the Anglican church (which he associated with Roman Catholicism). The first performance of Handel's Messiah was held here in 1742. Like many ancient churches, this one has been built, rebuilt, overhauled (flying buttresses were added in the neo-gothic period when they were all the rage), and rebuilt again. It was restored to its current condition by the Guinness family in the 1860s.

And it's big: the largest church in a country full of behemouth gothic churches. It's currently a Church of Ireland church, and it is the National Cathedral.

The floor looks like an Amish quilt embellished with Celtic iconography. In photographs, it appears a bit garish, but it doesn't seem so when viewed in situ.

I was disappointed that we had so little time to spend here, since I could easily have spent another hour or two exploring the details of this church and soaking up its history.

Back in the bus, I couldn't help but notice the price of gas here: about $8 a gallon. I saw maybe 3 SUVs the entire time I was in Ireland.
Our whirlwind tour of Dublin ended back at Grafton Street and Trinity College. After quickly losing my friend Vickie in the surge of holiday shoppers on Grafton, I made my way east toward the exquisite Georgian homes around Merrion Square (named after the second Viscount Fitzwilliam of Merrion).

This square dates back to 1762, and has boasted a number of luminary residents including WB Yeats (who lived at nos. 52 and 82), Daniel O’Connell (no. 58), Erwin Schrodinger (who worked at the Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies from 1939 to 1956), and the parents of Oscar Wilde (no. 1, in the northwest corner). A statue of Wilde in a languid pose marks the northeast corner of the park at the center of the square--the area I first encounter on my walk--and Wilde quotes are displayed throughout the area.

The park at the center of the square--Archbishop Ryan Park--is a verdant oasis bounded by walking paths that twist through a tempestuous undergrowth of heather and oak only to delight the stroller by opening up to wide expanses of lawn and manicured gardens. It was originally a private square for residents and was subsequently purchased by the Catholic Church as a possible site for Dublin’s first Catholic cathedral. In 1974, Archbishop Dermot Ryan donated the square and now it is open to the public, dedicated in his name.



I don't know if it's always this quiet here, but there's no clue that you're in the center of a major city. Only the raucous calls of magpies and rooks punctuate the stillness. The vegetation (like everywhere in Ireland) is SO GREEN – brilliant, saturated, and blinding in its intensity. Locals on lunch breaks stroll the pathways or sit on benches feeding the birds. This park's urban wildness reminds me of Golden Gate Park or Central Park, but without the homeless, the crazies, the panhandlers and the litter. (Oh yes, the litter. It doesn't exist in Ireland. This morning followed a gusty night, and when we were dropped off at Trinity College there were street sweepers tidying up the sidewalks, removing the windstorm’s debris. No, not vehicular street sweepers, but ruddy-faced guys in day-glo yellow vests with big fat brooms manually sweeping the sidewalks and gutters. We saw them throughout the country. It reminded me of Disneyland, but in a good way.)

The center of Dublin is a madhouse, with knots of stagnant traffic and hoards of pedestrians, all in a hurry to get somewhere. (And I mean seriously in a hurry. Nobody dilly-dallies. Stopping for a moment to grab a map from my backpack, I'm nearly mowed down.) Here in Merrion Square, a short walk away, traffic is light and pedestrians non-existent, except for the few inside the park.

As I leave the park and make my way back along the sidewalk, I take a series of photos of the iconic doors at the foot of the Georgian homes around the square. Originally, the doors were all painted the same color (no word on what the color was, but it was probably a dull neutral hue.) Because these homes were built in the Georgian style and the exteriors had to adhere to strict architectural guidelines, the residents of Georgian Dublin painted their front doors bright colors to distinguish one home from the other. Reportedly, red was a favorite because it was more durable (good feng-shui was just an unexpected bonus). They added ornate knockers, elegant fanlights above the doors and wrought iron boot scrapers. The effect is stunning:










From the 1950s onward, Georgian Dublin came under concerted attack by the Irish Government's development policies. Whole swathes of 18th century homes were demolished, notably in Fitzwilliam Street and St Stephen's Green, to make way for utilitarian offices and government buildings. Fortunately, Merrion Square escaped the wrecking ball.

Outside the Georgian House Museum at Number 29 Lower Fitzwilliam St, I see a mailbox with a prominent sign “Franked mail only”:
I later learn that this is the equivalent of our metered mail. At the hotels, when I ask to purchase postage, they advise me that they don’t have stamps for sale, but have a franking machine and will "frank it" for me. I google "franking" and learn that it is the marking of mail by a company or government that offers free or low cost postage privileges, or the convenience of sending bulk mail without using normal postage stamps. The practice dates back to the seventeenth-century British House of Commons. Unbeknownst to me, there is franking in the U.S. as well. Members of the Senate and House of Representatives are allowed to send franked mail to their constituents and the Commission on Congressional Mailing Standards is colloquially known as the Franking Commission. I wonder if everyone in the world but me knows what franking is.

I make my way west toward the Grand Canal, passing St Stephen’s Church, which is popularly known as “The Pepper Cannister” or the “Pepper Pot Church": It was the last in a series of Georgian Churches built by the Church of Ireland. The name is derived from the medieval leper hospital of St Stephen, which stood on the site of Mercer’s Hospital. The church was built on the land of the Pembroke estate - the medieval manor of Merrion - on ground donated by the family. Supposedly you can still view the Pembroke pew inside the church (the church was not open when I was there). The estate was originally owned by the Fitzwilliam family, but as a consequence of marriage, Viscount Fitzwilliam bequeathed the manor of Merrion to his cousin, the earl of Pembroke (a member of the Herbert family) in 1816. These historic names are reflected in the streets and squares in the vicinity of the church.

Not far from St Stephen's, I note a sculpture for which I have no information.... but it was delightful:
At the Grand Canal, I'm transfixed by dozens of mute swans and the charming curved stone bridges that cross the canal. The Grand Canal was built in the 18th century to connect Dublin to the Shannon River and the Irish Midlands, and is a showcase for the engineering skills of the period. It is 130 km in length, boasts 36 locks, and near the village of Sallins, is carried OVEr the River Liffey by the Leinster Aqueduct. Here, towpaths border each side of the canal. After 23 difficult years of building, the canal opened in 1779. Commercial traffic continued on the canal through 1960; its last shipment was a bargeful of Guinness. The canal neighborhood, like Merrion Square is charming:


As it starts to drizzle, I pull on my raincoat and pull out my Dublin map, at which point I realize I have no idea what street the hotel is on. I know I’m in the vicinity, but have no address. No problem, I hail a cab. The cabbie --- a cheery-faced sparkly-eyed white-haired Irishman --- asks me, when I tell him where I want to go, if I know where the hotel is. I laugh and say no, that that’s why I’ve hailed a cab. He points me in the right direction --- I'm only a couple of blocks away, and says I might prefer walking to paying for cab fare, but given that the drizzle has officially been transformed into rain (and my camera equipment is not housed in a waterproof backpack), I tell him I’d just as soon hop the cab, and he delivers me to the hotel, apologizing profusely for having to charge the minimum 3+ euros on the meter for the short ride. I’m happy to arrive relatively dry, happy with my long solitary stroll through historic Dublin. God, I love Ireland!