Ireland and London 2024 Part I of II: May 26 - June 1

Phoenix/ Philadelphia/ Dublin/ Waterford/ Cork/ Killarney/ Galway

But First: Philadelphia!

Planned for years. Had to call it off in ‘23 but now it’s happening. Finally on our way to Ireland and the UK, summer of 2024. First, Phoenix to Philadelphia and then out of the United States and on to Dublin. Sounds easy enough.

Sunday, May 26

Europe is Calling!

All of us are up by 6 AM. Walk and feed the dogs and await Uber. Fairly early but not crazy early. Flight from Phoenix to Philadelphia where we will catch our overnight connection to Dublin. It’s already gonna be a little tight: we have an hour between connecting flights. But should be fine. Hopefully some time to grab food in Philly airport or await the dinner served on the plane. It’ll be fine.

Board in Phoenix a few minutes late; it was slightly delayed but no problem, yet. All of us are chilling quietly together. And then as we wait to start the take off process. Nothing happens. Then the crackle of the announcement: Apparently there is an issue with the plane. They tell us that an exterior inspection revealed a small dent. We stay seated as requested. We wait and wait. And wait. A team of specialists is on the way to make sure the aircraft is still sky worthy. 90 minutes pass. We will not make the original connecting flight. 

Janice and I both hop on the American Airlines app and begin exploring options. No great ones but we see some prospects that will still get us to Dublin overnight. Investigating other options is complicated even with an AI assist: maybe Phoenix to Dallas to Charlotte to Dublin; or maybe to Dulles to Cork or Limerick; here’s one that goes directly to London then we can figure out a connection to Ireland. We will get off this stalled plane to take our chances.

Grab our carry-ons and backpacks and head back into the terminal ready to plan. Not 30 seconds later, “this flight is now ready to depart.” We rush back on and try not to notice the hundreds of eyeballs focused on us like animals in the zoo. We are a spectacle. We stick with our flight and will take our chances in Philly. A good possibility is better than a flimsy maybe.  

Four hour flight to Philly. A little tense but we accept what we can’t control. Read, watch a TV show or movie. Eat a tiny bag of pretzels.

Philly airport. There is a flight on Aer Lingus. Would get us there a little late but maybe that’s ok. Doesn’t matter: there is no room on that one. I am on the phone with American Airlines asking for options while Janice is in line for customer service. Jackson hangs with our carry-on bags. Nearly an hour of effort. There is no resolution. We literally run to another customer service area to see if maybe they can get us to London and then Dublin. That one involves a five hour layover in London. No good.

Around 9 PM, we agree to the terms of surrender. American will put us up in a hotel and get us on the same flight tomorrow that we missed today. Leave Philly at 6:40 Monday night and arrive in Ireland Tuesday morning. All will be well. Probably. 

So Europe is calling but has put us on hold.

“Here is your travel voucher for La Quinta. The hotel shuttle will pick you up at this curbside outside terminal B. It runs every 15 minutes. You are all booked for tomorrow evening’s flight to Dublin.” 

“OK.” I take the voucher in a hunger-induced-exhaustion fog.

We walk slowly in the direction of the pickup spot, anxious to rest and eat and leave. Just one day late to Dublin, hopefully. We are standing outside an airport in a city we have never been to. Hungry. Tired. Disappointed. More than a little frustrated.  

Ten minutes pass. No shuttle. We are looking at food options on our phones. It’s a fairly industrial area so there’s not a lot of options. It’s also nearly 10 o’clock at night so all the nearby restaurants that cater to industry are closed. Continue to look. Waiting. Where the heck is the shuttle? Finally, I call the hotel. 

The way they answer does not inspire confidence.

“Hello,” he says.

Mildly concerning. 

“Umm…is this the La Quinta Inn Philadelphia Airport?”

“Yeah.”

 “Great. Is your shuttle coming to the airport? We need a ride.” 

“Yeah. We will send him right over.” 

Had I not called, they wouldn’t be coming.

As we wait, we see the Airport Marriott which is literally connected to the airport. Should we stay there? Husband and wife–not so calmly–discuss that option. American has no affiliation with the Marriott and won’t pay. We look at the cost and decide to stick with La Quinta. Finally the hotel shuttle shows up looking very official. We board. Driver is very friendly and we tell him we haven’t eaten in 12 hours and our day has sucked.

“Oh guys, you can get WaWa pizza. It’s really good. People are shocked.”

Wawa? What is Wawa? 

“It’s like a gas station with a Subway sandwich shop inside but they make pizzas and salads and a bunch of stuff. It’s right next to your hotel. You’ll like it. I will drop you guys off there, pick up another rider and drop them at the airport then I’ll come back and take you to the La Quinta. You’ll have your food by then.”

Sheepishly I say “Ok.”

Meanwhile Janice is doing research on the hotel. She shows me her phone with the results.

La Quinta Philadelphia Airport.

Two star hotel. 

Industrial area. 

Next to a Wawa. 

130 dollars a night in one of America’s most populous cities. 

Uh oh.

The Marriot is sounding great but we are captive in this van and we exit at the WaWa. Food is calling. The Wawa is actually pretty nice but as we start getting out of the car, Jared, our driver says “It’s a pretty safe neighborhood. Stuff happens sometimes but it’s usually just nonsense. I’ll be back in about ten minutes.”

There’s a scene in the movie Poltergeist where JoBeth Williams—one of the protagonists of the film–is running towards her daughter’s bedroom desperately trying to save little Carol Anne from an evil spirit. But no matter how hard she tries, the hallway becomes a treadmill. Effort and care and love make no difference, frantic to reach her destination and save her daughter, she remains in the same place. Running but immobile. Exhausted and stranded and helpless.

That’s me in the WaWa parking lot. 

I want to do the right thing, but what is it? I focus my energy on supporting my family, keeping them safe and getting them fed. Food is right here. Our carry-on luggage is secure in the official La Quinta van. Should we take our carry luggage and wait in the WaWa? Then walk to the La Quinta that is across the street? Should we pull the plug and just go back to the Marriott? Yes. That is what we should have done. But we don’t.

I continue trying to reach the right choice but I am just treading water in a sea of bad choices; the correct decision is a distant shore right now. Until it’s not. We are leaving our luggage in the van, taking our backpacks and getting food at the WaWa then we will get a ride to the La Quinta across the street. This sucks. 

We are supposed to be in Ireland.

Jared drives away and we are in the parking lot of WaWa. I am thinking about “what does he mean by ‘nonsense’?” We have each other but we are alone. In the parking lot, an old black man drinks a large can of something from a brown paper bag.

We enter the store. Young men with cornrows and gold teeth. Crowded. This is clearly the gas station/liquor store/restaurant/supermarket/coffee shop for this neighborhood. It’s bright inside and clean but we are not in our element, that is for sure. 

We order a pizza and a salad to go. As we wait, we look across the street. The La Quinta. It’s clearly a no-tell-motel. There are people likely on fentanyl staggering in the parking lot. As we await our food, I look up reviews and…it’s worse than bad. Stained carpets and walls. Broken door handles. Bad smell. Damaged floors and paper thin walls. Unprofessional staff. Not one positive review.  

In the Wawa, Janice is crying on behalf of us all. I hold her and say what comes to mind “control what you can, let the rest go.” I try to do the same. We are never in danger but my mind is at “I am calling an Uber and we are finding a better hotel.” Then our food is ready. And an instant later, the La Quinta van shows up in the parking lot. Through it all, Jackson is cooler than cool. 

Janice gets on her phone and books a room at the Marriott. 

“Jared. We aren’t staying down here. Take us back to the airport Marriott,” I say.

Fifteen minutes later we are carrying our luggage and food into the Marriot. A very nice hotel. As far as I could tell, no one was drinking in the parking lot or staggering around in a fentanyl trance.

We claim some couches and a table in the large lobby. We eat. Janice and I have a drink. We chill. We are ok. The pizza really is pretty solid.

Monday, May 27

A Day in Philly

Since we have until the evening in Philly, we decide to take advantage of a historic city that we have never been to. Janice wants to chill in the room which is more than understandable after the events of yesterday. 

Jack and I get up around 9 and summon an Uber. Head to Independence Hall. We decide to do the free “tour.” This allows us to walk around outside the hall and surrounding area, read some plaques, look at some statues. It’s extremely interesting and as I am taking selfies of Jack and I and wishing Janice was here, a ranger approaches.

“Hey guys. There’s a tour about to start for the Hall. If you wanna go, just line up right over there.”

We join the paid tour with a docent leading about fifty of us through the Hall. For half an hour, we are immersed in history and learn where the founders sat, what they said and how they arrived at some many crucial decisions or, in some cases, deferred crucial decisions. We also learn the Declaration was not actually signed on the fourth of July but that’s the day it went to print. All of it is captivating and extremely profound. 

As we leave and head for lunch, we discuss something quite powerful: if all goes well and we actually leave the US at some point, we will be in London soon. A poet might express something interesting here. The best I can do is reflect on this: we are in the home of revolution and will soon be in the home of the monarchy whose chains our nation broke. And we didn’t even plan it that way.

Of all the places to be stranded for a night, Philly is not the worst. In fact, it was fascinating and well-worth visiting and not just for the convenience store pizza! However, we don’t need to spend any more time here than is absolutely necessary. This is why the weather reports are so concerning. Clear this morning but severe weather predicted afternoon and evening. We see the 

The remnants of a tropical storm are heading north to Philly to enjoy Memorial Day with us. News reports that flights might be delayed or even canceled due high winds and the impact to incoming flights from destinations where the weather is even more extreme. 

As Jack and I chat and stroll through the Old Towne area and we are enjoying great weather,  I am monitoring weather. We have cheesesteaks–outstanding cheesesteaks–at Sonny’s. The hype is real. A Philly cheesesteak is a wonderful thing. 

After lunch we make a quick stop at the Philadelphia Museum of Art to walk the Rocky steps and see the statue from Rocky III. It's cool. Not spectacular but cool. After that, I call an Uber and the skies open up as we wait. Major downpour. I think, “control what you can.” If our flight is canceled, it’s out of my hands. We make it back to the hotel, gather our gear, and walk to our terminal to try again, weather be damned.

Board the flight. Wait and wait. Staring out the window at a violent downpour. Delay an hour. Mercifully, we depart and pass through the lighting, high winds and rain and this will be the most rain we face during our entire trip. Not in Ireland or England but on the streets–and in the skies–of Philadelphia. 

Tuesday, May 28

Holiday Road

Overnight flight is fine. Slept like a baby for maybe 10-15 minutes. Did watch Boys in the Boat and read my book quite a bit. Highlight was the dinner and the breakfast they serve in the flight just because it’s such an odd experience for those of us who don’t often take long flights. Fun to get the little tray with everything arranged just so. We were all enthusiastic and ironically excited about the food experience but so glad to land in Ireland despite the events in Philly. The stabby level at WaWa was high. We had to pay for a hotel in Philly. Also had to pay one night in Dublin that we couldn’t use or cancel in time. Late and unexpectedly expensive trip so far. There had been tears and anxious moments that became mildly traumatic memories, but…

We are in Dublin now and we are gonna have a good time, dammit. I am feeling moderately manic like Clark Griswald in Vacation. Thankfully I do not have the urge to buy a pellet gun and harass any security guards in our way.

Wait in line at customs. Get the once over by Ireland officials; not a bad wait or unexpected experience. Walk to the ride-share area. Slight drizzle but we are under transparent cover as we walk outside. The twenty minute drive to Dublin proper from the airport is uneventful. Our driver–not a local–doesn’t have much to say. We drive through a very long tunnel and are surrounded by traffic. We emerge into the light and it’s high rises and dirty streets and hustle and flow of a city. It is not the Ireland of postcards. It’s a Phoenix with better weather, at first glance. 

Check in around 8 AM. The Temple Bar Hotel. Streets are quiet and clearly historic. Old pubs and character abounds. We are liking the neighborhood

As we check in, we start to feel doubt. Along with our room keys, we are given a coupon for a free Daiquiri at the hotel club, Shooters. Not exactly screaming “authentic Irish.” But we can stay for one night. 

Up to our room, drop our stuff. Totally fine though not fancy in any way. Over the next few hours we will see bachelorette parties staying at our hotel and lots of hotel guests hanging at Shooters  But we emerge onto the city streets and head towards Trinity College. A pleasant blanket made heavy by the weight of history wraps around us on the campus. The old buildings and sculptures, the manicured grounds. 

As we walk through Dublin, the adrenaline is countering the exhaustion. Find food at the Armenian owned Murphy’s on the river Liffey. It’s fine. We walk O’Connell Street. See the General Post Office. Walk to Guinness and take the outstanding tour. Pint in the gravity bar is a wonderful experience despite there being nowhere to sit for half an hour. From this viewpoint high above the city, green hills and castles appear in the distance over the urban cacophony immediately below us. Beautiful.

Walk to Dublin Castle and tour the free Museum of Records that focuses on American Irish relationship of the 20th Century. Beautiful, compelling and enlightening. Ireland had a female president in 1990. Despite a reputation as being so conservative and Catholic, there are many many signs of progressive thinking through Ireland’s history. 

Dublin Castle

Walk back towards our hotel and take in the vibe of the city. Find a restaurant that shares the name of one of the most interesting people in history. Meahgers: great seafood stew for dinner. Will discuss Meagher later when we get to Waterford.

Back to hotel. Jackson in bed by 5. Janice and I spend some time at the Quays pub for live music and whiskey. Jameson’s Black Barrel is a highlight at this pub. Amongst the smiling and raucous crowd the musician sings “she’ll be coming round the mountain, she’ll be coming round the mountain, she’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes. She’ll be coming round the mountain, she’ll be coming round the mountain….” dramatic and humorous pause, “Oh I wish I was the mountain when she comes.” The crowd erupts in laughter and clapping and he continues to sing.  

We are in bed by 7:45. A good day.  

Wednesday, May 29 

Dublin to Waterford and the Discovery of Ireland

Check out of our hotel with an unused free daiquiri coupon. As we pack, we discover a thrilling game show that will show up again and again over the next week. We finish the show where, once again, the Chaser beats the contestant at wide-ranging trivia. It’s riveting and fun.

We take a taxi across town for rental car pick up. Uneventful but starting to really consider “this driving thing is about to get real.” I have been watching the traffic flow and driver behavior, road signs, roundabouts and trying to take as much in as I can so it’s not a complete shock when I get behind the wheel on a different side of the car and drive on the opposite side of the road on streets that can be both crowded and narrow. People from the US do it all the time. I've got this.

We are out of Dublin now on a motorway that is nearly identical to a freeway back home besides the obvious differences. Our car–a grey Skoda Octavia (a VW)--is very comfortable and roomy with all the bluetooth and alerts and bells and whistles we are used to. The car, like so much of the trip in Ireland and the UK–is familiar but different. Not so foreign that it’s disconcerting but not so familiar that it’s boring. It’s a perfect feeling.

The Irish countryside opens up to us as we head towards our next destination: Waterford. Ireland’s oldest city and birthplace of one of the most interesting people to have ever lived: Thomas Meagher. His life cannot be fiction. It’s too strange and amazing.

Exiled from Ireland to Tasmania for planning an insurrection against the British in the mid 1800s. Escaped from exile/prison colony in Tasmania with the help of pirates and Irish revolutionaries, sailed to South America, then to New York where he gained celebrity as an outspoken supporter of Irish independence and protections for the poor, he became a Union General during the American Civil War and was eventually named the territorial governor of Montana. While in that office, he was likely killed by those who did not appreciate his attempts at reform in the wild west. Meagher is the subject of the outstanding book, The Immortal Irishman. In what is an amazing coincidence, Janice, Jackson and I are walking the lovely streets of Waterford and make our way into one of Waterford’s oldest pubs. One of the walls in the pub is part of an original Viking fort. This ancient wall is simply part of the setting while people are dining and drinking and One Republic plays on the stereo. As dining next to a thousand year old wall is just normal. I suppose it is. Here. 

After we look at this fort wall, we walk out of the pub and there is a small room that is attached but different from the main pub. Curiosity sparked, we try the door. It’s open. We enter a room with a bar and couches and card tables and old photos. It looks like it has been sealed in a time zoo; no one else is in here. Janice and Jack sit on a red couch with gold-gilded armrests. The room seems to be a beautiful relic of the 1820s. 

I make my way through the room looking at the paintings and the photos and the family crests and the books on the shelves. On one wall is a large portrait of none other than Thomas Francis Meagher with a typed overview of his life framed next to the picture. It’s a powerful coincidence. As thrilling as it was to come across the Meagher reference, his story is only one reason to visit Waterford.

Thomas Meagher: The Immortal Irishman

Medieval Churches with ornate ceilings and precise flourishes throughout with above ground caskets. Remnants of a fortress converted to a museum with a wine cellar built hundreds of years ago. The ancient walls of the Viking fortress that used to envelope the city. The colorful shops and pubs and reminders of the city’s violent past. The stroll along the harbor and lunch at the quirky Gingerman’s pub. 

Sky is clear. Weather is cool and comfortable. We continue on to our next destination which is Cork. I only get honked at a dozen or so times as I hesitate or look the wrong way in a roundabout–no shortage of roundabouts in Ireland–but I never truly put anyone’s life in danger and the drivers are, for the most part, patient. 

The scenery from Dublin to Waterford was rolling grass hills, cows and sheep and horses. Everything we’ve seen a thousand times before on a screen. Screens, however, cannot depict the real. While the green and the occasional farmhouse and animals and bright blue sky are absolutely beautiful, as we drive to Cork, we stay on the N25 highway. It is slightly more narrow than the motorway and it winds through small towns and villages and each is unique. As we head south and west, we cling to the coast and the views cannot be justifiably described: bright green grass and gray rock pushing into the serene blue sea. Stunning. 

We head more inland and north towards Cork and more rolling hills and horses and cows as far as the eye can see until we near the city and we are back on a motorway speeding to our next hotel. Based on descriptions, there will be no free daiquiris or fentanyl available here. One night in Philly, one night on the plane, one night in Dublin. Looking forward to two nights in one place as long as it’s nice.

It is.

Th Hotel Montenotte perches high above the city overlooking the Lee River.  While the river is heavily traveled with freighters and commerce, it’s calming to sit on the patio of the hotel restaurant, sip a Guinness, a cocktail and a mocktail for each of us as the sun stays high in the sky bathing the scene below of green mountains and the river below and the city scape in the distance. We have dinner at the hotel restaurant. Good but it was more of a fine dining restaurant, wouldn’t do it again but it’s fine. Afterwards, we head back to our room and take comfort knowing we have two more full days here.

As we prepare for bed, Jackson takes the remote control and finds a debate between candidates vying for a local election. Civil, aggressive and intelligent. Refreshing to see respectful disagreement. Then we find a high-production local drama. Jack and I get invested. RIP Miranda. Rot in jail Brendan.       

Thursday, May 30

A Slight Mishap on the Road to Cobh

 

Awake at seven. I fear Jackson was up on and off throughout the night as we are all sharing one room and someone snores (it’s not Janice). He is asleep in his bed next to ours but I enter the bathroom and see one of his pillows and a blanket in the bathtub. Breaks my heart knowing he tried, and failed, to get more comfortable in the bathtub and away from my snoring. I tried to get treatment for snoring (it failed) but that’s a less interesting story. Thankfully, most of the rest of the trip will be in houses or condos and he won’t have to share a room with me. 

I head down to the restaurant and get some coffee–an Americano–French press seems to be the only option and its a good one and indicative of a cultural difference: Smaller quantities and higher quality seems to be a theme here compared to the US. In the US, we opt for convenience, speed and bulk value. Not here. I like it. 

I read for a short while, still the Guns at Last Light, and stared out over the river Lee and rolling hills from the hotel’s sitting area surrounded by old books and windows from floor to ceiling. One of my criteria for a great vacation is the reading environment. A 10 is perfect. There’s only been two of those since I started keeping track. This one is an impressive 7. 

Back up to the room and the crew is getting ready.  We are out the door by ten and hop in the Skoda with a plan to visit Cobh and then come back to Cork where we will stay another night. 

Cobh is a port town about thirty minutes south. It is not a large city but is quite justifiably famous for many reasons including as a vital European port for hundreds of years. This was the Titanic’s last stop before her ill-fated journey to the United States. There is a large Titanic museum (we did not visit but maybe next time). It is still a port for cruise ships and was a very common debarkation point for immigrants to the US in the 19th and 20th Centuries. They say if you are an American with Irish heritage, your relatives likely departed from Cobh. With the exception of Dublin, thus far, Ireland has been a mix of charm, beauty, and history. Cobh is no exception.

By the time we arrive, it will be near lunch so we enter directions into our map to a restaurant in Cobh called the Quays. Same name, though no affiliation, as the amusing pub we went to in Dublin. Right on the water and gets great reviews. We depart.

I am getting used to driving here but there are not many motorways between Cork and Cobh. More roads and highways. At one point, the speed limit through the tree lined and farm pocked highway is around 60 miles per hour (100 KM per hour). This seems insane as some of the roads are so narrow that another car coming at you looks like it won’t fit. We brush by each other. I can nearly count the other drivers’ teeth in their head as they pass us by. Even large shipping trucks, RVs and buses come speeding by. At one point, I felt an impact.

In my attempt to stay on my own side of the road and avoid the oncoming traffic, the sound of “SCRAPE” at around 50 miles per hour fills the car for a moment. The sidewall of our passenger side tire aggressively “kissed” the ancient curb. We continue on and I say “well if that’s the worst road issue we have, no big deal.” No place to pull over, we continue on and indeed it seems like no big deal.  

I wouldn’t know for several hours, but it was a big deal. The air was slowly leaking out of the tire’s flesh wound.   

Didn’t think about it for many hours and all seemed well as we continued through the lush hills and farmland between Cork and Cobh and to our lunch destination at the Quays. 

Little did we know there is also an area called Sand Quays that is fairly close to Cobh despite being separated by a harbor. Our GPS takes us there. Is it on the way to Cobh? Yeah. Sort of. But to get to Cobh, we now need to take a ferry. Cool. 

This little town we ended up in, Sand Quays, is not a tourist stop. It’s an everyday blue collar town. I’d go back some day for a pint. But we are destined for Cobh. We realize our mistake and head for the ferry. A ten minute wait for a five minute ride, we are parked alongside maybe a dozen other cars as we cross the River Lee where it nears the Celtic Sea, upon which Cobh rests. 

Cobh does not disappoint. The word that comes to mind is one of my least favorite words: quaint. But it fits and won’t be the last time “quaint” will need to be employed.

Colorfully painted buildings, shops, pubs, parks and restaurants and a very pedestrian friendly thoroughfare resting just above the sea. The sky is clear, there is music in the air and wall to wall people on the streets. We didn’t know beforehand but today was a cruise ship dock day and all the businesses in town are buzzing and competing for these tourists. Hundreds of them stroll the streets, mixing in with the locals walking their dogs, drinking Guinness on the patios and smiling ear to ear. Everywhere we look, people are ecstatic. I hear someone say, “When the weather is good in Ireland, there’s nowhere better on the Earth.” A bold but reasonable statement.  

The center of this ecstasy is a pub with a massive patio. A musician with an electric acoustic guitar sits on a barstool in the thick of the crowd and plays “Sweet Caroline” and other familiar hits, the crowd of hundreds on the streets singing along, dancing and watching in rapt attention at the musician’s…assistant. 

He’s about 20 years old, blue jeans and a black tank top. Short black hair, average height, a bit overweight. In many ways, he is nothing exceptional except in one obvious sense: he clearly has down syndrome; he is also completely without a fear of embarrassment and more than thrilled to share his joy with others. Dancing to this music may be what he was born to do. Looking at him, no one can resist smiling. On the beat and busting a move, smiling and sweating, he is happiness incarnate. 

We listen and dance and try to take it all in for about twenty minutes and as the singer belts out “The Gambler” the crowd backs him up and hits the singback queues: “Know when to hold em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away, know when to run” an elderly woman dressed in late 19th century formal wear enters the scene and elegantly dances to the music spinning her unneeded umbrella. She’s clearly from the Titanic museum, I think, but she is an exclamation point on an amazing scene.   

The musician and his dancer take a break and we decide to move on. We make our way through the crowd and up a gradual hill through town towards our destination for lunch, the Quays we were originally seeking out.

The restaurant sits right above the water and looks down on the dock where the cruise passengers come and go. While we can see the ship right before our eyes as we relax on the patio under perfectly clear skies, we can also see out on Cork Harbour that has islands dominated by the maritime industry, and speed boats, sail boats, cargo ships and, in the near distance, the grassy hills and domiciles of Whitegate. 

Fish and chips for Jackson, opened faced-shrimp sandwich for Janice, and I had, possibly, the best burger I’ve ever had. Maybe it’s the setting that also adds a flavor to the food but I am also impressed by knowing–what is quite commonplace in Ireland–that there is great pride in marking the menu so all the diners know “Our beef is 100% Irish.” In what may be catering to American tastes, the burger is supposed to be served with BBQ sauce. I am glad I asked to have that left on the side. The textures of the bun and the lettuce tomato and small deep fried onions with a spread of mayo all is a supporting cast to the beef. A truly great lunch with my favorite people in a great spot. Slainte.

We walk back through the streets of Cobh towards our car and, from this perspective, can’t help but notice the imposing St. Colman’s Cathedral staring down from high above. Though its architecture looks medieval, it was built in the early 1900’s after 47 years of effort. It is beautiful in a way that implies austerity and torture. While the rest of the town is colorful and quaint, this is the opposite. It is undoubtedly impressive and is a reminder of the force of the Catholic Church in this nation that, in so many ways, seems at odds with the smiles and the humor, the music and the warmth. 

We make our way back to the car now and start the return trip to Cork. This time we avoid the ferry and take the highway back. It’s a roughly 45 minute drive. We decide to drive to Blarney Castle to see what we can see. Unfortunately the entire castle is shielded from the parking lot by a large wall that cannot be older than a few decades and it hides a castle that is several centuries old. It has been completely Disneyfied. We will not be visiting the castle as it is closed now as we approach 6 PM. It also costs to get in. No thanks.

We return to the car now and the tire pressure warning light has appeared on the dashboard as we drive away from the castle. We pull into a gas station so I can check it out and potentially put in some air. We pull over and I walk about the car. Passenger side front tire has an issue. A significant one.

The gash on the side is about half the length of a pencil and as thick as your pinkie. It has not completely torn through the tire but it’s clear: air is escaping. How we made it from Cork to Cobh and back again over the last eight hours, I am really unsure. I suspect the “clipping” of the curb earlier in the morning was when the injury occurred. 

Late Friday evening. Foreign country. Rental car. Holiday weekend. The next morning, the second longest drive of our vacation: to Killarney. No way am I gonna continue with a spare tire. I put some air in the damaged tire and we find a nearby shop that happens to be open til 10. Thank you Irish Jesus!

We pull into the little independent tire shop’s car park and my mind is racing. It’s busy. Dezzy’s Tires. It’s certainly not a corporate chain, which is nice but the employees are overwhelmed and getting dragged in 9 directions at once. I wait my turn and tell the guy who is clearly in charge what our situation is. I am having another vision of Clark in the film Vacation:  

“How much do you think this repair will cost?”

“How much you got?”

“Hah. Seriously. How much you think this will cost?”

He laughs, “Seriously: how much you got?” 

Thankfully it does not go in that direction and the cost will be about 100 Euros (about 110 dollars) to get a new tire. Not the disaster it could have been. Janice and Jackson go into the shop’s modest waiting area and it’s my turn to pull into the mechanic’s bay to get the tire swapped.

The parking lot and shop are cramped with people waiting for their cars, more cars coming and going from the street and other cars coming out the different bays. As I back up to get into position to get the car into my bay, trying to move quickly to get my spot and get out of here. “SLAM” going about 10 miles an hour, I back up right into a concrete support column. The frustration and anxiety erupt and I reflexively, and loudly, blurt out, with windows already down, “FUCK!” I now have the attention of the world on me. A clumsy spectacle crashing and shouting vulgarity, the ugly American indeed. I maneuver into my assigned bay and slowly walk to the back of the car and expect the worst. Not a scratch. “Fuck yeah” I whisper to myself. The employees and other customers politely look away from me as if to say “we saw nothing, we heard nothing.” Twenty minutes later, we are driving back to our hotel with our new tire.

The adrenaline of the day starts to ease and the bright evening illuminates our five minute walk from the hotel to a pub and restaurant down the hill. We stop at John Henchy & Son’s Pub. So traditional and crowded. It likely was a home at one time that has been converted toa pub. We find a spot to sit in the very plain but warm environment. As has been typical at each place we have visited in Ireland, the employees are friendly and polite and talkative. No matter how busy they get, they stay calm and patient. 

In what is an endearing quirk, the pub has no wine or food. But St Luke’s Wine Tavern has wine, of course but also a great Mediterranean-themed menu  but they have no beer. I order a beer at the pub, get a Coke for Jackson then head next door to get a glass of wine for Janice and bring it back to the pub. The pub allows customers to order from the Tavern and bring it in. We decide to just go to the Tavern and as I want more beer, I walk back to the pub and return to the Tavern.

The Mediterranean Tavern is comfortable, casual and loud and decorated in a sophisticated and artistic way but not bourgeois. Whoever designed the interior has a keen eye for detail and collects interesting knick-knacks while also keeping tradition within reach. The tables have the classic Italian look of red and white checkered tablecloths and the room is lit with bright white Christmas lights draped along the ceiling. Delicious charcuterie board of local meats and cheeses and a delicious pizza. 

By now it’s nearly 10PM and the sun is finally starting to set. The twilight is gorgeous and the air is inviting us to stay out for a bit. As we walk into Cork, we walk past St. Luke’s Church. The Church is the third built on this same spot. The current Church was built in the 1880s and served as an Anglican Church for over a century. It is now owned by the City of Cork and is no longer used as a Church. Instead, it is a live music and events venue. Despite being repurposed, it is a reminder of the British presence and the central role religion has played in the country. I wonder if there are any Catholic Churches in Ireland that have been repurposed into secular event spaces. My guess is “no.”  

We are now in the heart of Cork. While it is a major Irish city, the evening is quiet and the bustle of Dublin is nowhere to be found, at least in the area we find ourselves. We pass shops, and apartments and homes as we walk the bridge across the river, we hear music. We stop into the pub and there is a woman on stage in a cowboy hat looking more like someone on stage in Nashville than in Cork. She is clearly talented but her songs are more singer-songwriter than Celtic kick, so we move on and find another pub. While not quite empty, there are plenty of seats. In the center of the long narrow room are a group of musicians. Acoustic guitar, violin, flute, two accordions, and banjo (which he occasionally changes out for a bouzouki). Exactly what I was hoping to find. Upon recommendation from the bartender, we try Powers Whiskey, a good value whiskey. I am also persuaded to have a Beamish Irish Stout. Nice to try something I’ve never had before. 

A flute, a violin, a guitar and a bouzouki.

For about an hour we sit and listen. The lilting pattern of the music, the energy of the musicians, knowing these songs are likely heard live more often than on any recording, being together as a family…it all combines into deep satisfaction and profound happiness. 

We walk back in on the barely illuminated city streets. The night, a bit cool and the subdued street lights make for an impressionistic setting with the river reflecting back the lights along our way. A long and spectacular day comes to an end as we climb into bed at the Montennote Hotel, resting up to continue our journey the next day.

Friday, May 31

Cork to Killarney

On our way out of the hotel, I have one last conversation with the concierge about American football (he’s a fan) and Band of Brothers (his favorite show of all time). Couldn’t have been more friendly and helpful. The hotel was comfortable and tastefully decorated and I would highly recommend it though it’s a bit on the formal side, especially the on-premise restaurant. I’d probably seek out something different the next time we visit Cork but if we had to stay here again, I wouldn’t complain a bit.

Before we leave Cork, we have on our list of must-sees “The English Market.” Like Pike Place market in Seattle or Liberty Station in San Diego, the English Market is a cross between a farmers market and a shopping mall of prepared food. Unlike any mall we’d find familiar, this Market opened in 1788 and has, more or less, been in continuous operation despite famine, Civil War, world wars, economic challenges and fires. Though it was re-furbished recently, the authenticity and resilience are palpable.   

There is a small grocery store that offers a wide variety of produce and everyday products in the same large stall including toiletries and other dry goods but the highlight is the smaller stalls. There are close to a hundred of them. Some sell prepared foods like sandwiches and sushi but the fish markets, butcher, poultry stall, cheese monger, bakeries, produce stand…on and on and on. Independent business selling locally grown products. Telling you how cool it is will never be enough. Go there if you ever visit Cork. You will be happy.

We walk around the market a bit but we also were told that the upstairs cafe at the market is exceptional. It is. The Farmgate Cafe is like a large indoor patio above the market and, from just about every seat, patrons can look down on the bustle below. We eat scones and eggs and, oatmeal and french toast. Great coffee and service. After, we head downstairs to take some fresh food on the road with us.

Fresh loaf of bread, bright red strawberries that taste like they should (I find most strawberries I get in grocery stores taste like water), multiple cheeses and some deli meat for a charcuterie board. All great but if I was to do it again, I’d have bought a lot more. 

Killarney: our next destination is a couple hours away. Beautiful scenery again on the way as we depart Cork: bright green rolling hills, farms, horses and cows and sheep and bright sunny sky. About halfway to Killarney we stop at a little out of the way town called Macroom. 

There’s a portion of a castle that straddles the main road in town and parts of the castle have been used for the high school. It’s truly integrated into daily life. We park near the castle and, while it has definitely been made into a tourist attraction and someone in the early 20th century actually added on to it to attract tourists, it is still a charming little town. We take a brief walk down to a nearby creek that is shrouded in forestry. Peaceful and comforting until we see the commemorative sign indicating the Irish Republican Army ambushed British forces in 1920, killing seventeen of them at the cost of three IRA operatives. While an outsider like me can often forget that these beautiful and welcoming towns were chapters in the history of a long-running war, I believe the locals never truly forget. Forgive and move on, perhaps, but never forget.

Another hour or so and we arrive in Killarney. Park at the condo we are renting but the place isn’t ready for us to check in yet. The place is conveniently located at the end of the main street in the town that is loaded with pubs, hotels, clothing shops and people. The weather, again, is perfect. Blue sky and about 70 degrees. We grab our charcuterie and walk into town.

Great energy buzzes through Killarney. There’s people of all backgrounds along all the streets and in the pubs. Nothing is overly crowded but there are thousands of people enjoying the day and sitting on pub patios enjoying a pint and the weather. We do the same and snack on the cheese and salami we brought along. In chatting with employees at the pub, JM Reidy’s, we learn that it’s a bank holiday weekend and they expect “wild” weekend nights. I also get quizzed for some reason:

“You know why the Irish flag has those colors?” says one of the restaurant managers to me. He’s friendly and kind of just making conversation but I’m also thinking, "he thinks I'm a stupid American.” 

With a half second of hesitation, I say “The green is for the Catholics, the orange is for Protestants and the white in the middle is for everlasting peace between them.”

“Oh yes. Very good,” he seems surprised I knew the answer. Now if he asked me who founded the town of Killarney, I’d have been humbled.

We hang out for a little while and watch the crowd filter by. As I find, so often here, the Guinness tastes the same here as it does at home and I don’t drink it often at all. But here, in Ireland, outdoors, with my family, it does taste different. Once again I realize: it’s not the beer that matters. It is where I am and what I am doing while I drink the beer that enlivens the experience and makes the beverage a snapshot of grand history that infuses the moment with depth.

A great pint is not about the pint.

We walk back to our condo and check in. Third floor. All clean and completely acceptable. Small bedrooms, small kitchen and small dining area but a lovely bathroom and…a giant patio! This looks out over the main street–High Street–in one direction and then out onto parkland in the other. Sit on the patio and enjoy a bit more of our English Market snacks and then head out again to the Ross Castle tour.

Ten minutes away we are in the forest and far from Killarney’s lovely crowds. We are passed by jaunty cars. The definition of pastoral might actually be an image of a jaunty car riding through the Irish countryside. We park near the castle and, like so many things, the scenery is impossible for me to describe. Greenery and lakes and the imposing 15th Century castle rising above it all. We check in and join the tour of about a dozen people. Our docent leads us through the castle and informs us that Ross Castle is not, in fact, a castle. Many of the “castles” throughout Europe are “tower houses” but “castle” and “tower house” are often used interchangeably.  

Ross Castle (it's actually a tower house).

Castles are actually quite rare as only the wealthiest families or outposts of an empire built castles. But for tower houses, a wealthy family, the leaders of a clan or regional representative of a larger government could have one of these formidable defensive structures. Our docent lets us know that, for the most part, tower houses were a “stack” of rooms with each floor of the house dedicated to one function: defense on the first floor, including a “murder hole”, dining area and kitchen, sleeping quarters for the family and “toilet” for the house and the top level is dedicated to a special room for banquets. 

The “windows” are slits that allow archers to shoot at invaders. The toilet is a ridge that hangs over the edge of the house and the family and the servants all use it. The docent also lets us know that the stench of the waste mound outside the house would be so strong that it would kill the lice on their clothes. So everyone hung their clothes near the toilet hole. Not quaint.

They also ate and drank with dishes loaded with lead. They lit their rooms with foliage that produced cancerous smoke. They were always dirty. Dying in childbirth was extremely common. Invaders could kill them. In situations like this, I am shocked to know that humans have made it as far as we have. 

Back to our condo, hang on the patio for a few then walk to dinner at a massive pub called the “Laurels.” Great friendly service. Energetic dining room and delicious food. Lamb stew for me. Burger for Jackson and a salad and potato cakes with gravy made of cream and leeks. Everything was outstanding including the advice we requested from the local waitress: Dunloe Gap or Muckross house if we only have time for one or the other. 

“Oh dear, It’s not a choice. When the weather is good, the Dunloe Gap.”

So glad we listened. The next morning we have a plan. But tonight, we grab a bottle of Powers whiskey and Janice and I enjoy some on the patio as the sun finally sets. Another great day.

Saturday 06/01

Killarney, the Gap of Dunloe, Cliffs of Moher and a Dreamhouse in Galway

Early wake up while Janice and Jackson sleep. French bakery nearby. I grab a coffee. Great coffee. Reusable cup that works at all the cafes in town. The whole town has an agreement: reusable cups that can be used at every coffee shop. Trade it in and get a new one wherever you go. Another example of progressive politics and common sense combined.

Clear sky, pristine air. It’s cool outside but not cold. I walk towards Killarney National Park. The shops and pubs and boutiques are all closed but there is energy: deliveries being made and dogs being walked and bike riders and joggers, and me, are alive in Ireland in crisp cool blue skies in a city of charm. I make my way to Killarney House and am filled with a powerful sense of joy. This place is difficult to describe. The grounds are stunning, immaculate and surrounded by rustic beauty. I have to bring Janice and Jackson back here with me.

I walk quickly back to the condo. They are up and prepped to leave like professional travelers. We check out, pack the car and leave it at the condo parking garage; we stop at the French bakery and then head towards the park because I am saying, “This is the coolest place. You have to see it!!!” I can be enthusiastically annoying.

But I’m right.

Killarney House and surrounding grounds and gardens are just exquisite. Though I don’t really want the whole world sculpted and tamed like this, the beauty is hard to deny. Reminds me of a perfect golf course; it’s mesmerizing. Humanity turning the natural world into a canvas to be taken right to the edge of total control but still organic and natural. We think it’s beautiful; I am unsure who could disagree.

The next stop: the Gap of Dunloe. Get in our car and drive the twenty minutes through fields, farmland, country estates and rolling green hills, tree lined highways and animals. Reach our destination. Large parking lot and coffee shop. Across the small street is the famous Kate Kearney’s Cottage pub. We’ll get there later. For now, we start the hike to the Gap.

Jaunty cars for rent. No thanks, we’ll walk. It’s a narrow paved road in which you can drive but the jaunty cars and pedestrians probably make it nearly impassable. Glad we are walking but it is warm. Probably 78. Clear sky and we are walking in a wide valley. Breaking a sweat as we walk thirty minutes or so past a bright blue stream, farmland and cows and horses and sheep and signs saying “keep your dogs on leash or they will be shot.” I get it. A dog kills a sheep, that’s real money.

We arrive at the Gap. A great walk. But the view where the Purple Mountains and the MacGillycuddy's Reeks surround the Black Lake will leave you speechless and imprint itself on your mind. Emerald mountains and massive stones descend into a valley flowing with endless amounts of water in the gap. Nothing I can write.

This picture does not capture the beauty. No picture can.

We make our way back to Kate Kearney’s. “Let’s have a drink before we leave.” It’s about noon. So yeah: Good time for a glass of Guinness.

It’s early and the pub is open but no customers. We walk in and it seems like a pub you’d see in Dublin or Cork but it’s larger than most. It’s warm and there’s ancient wooden furniture and a friendly staff. We get a glass of wine, a coke and a glass and ask if we can go to the patio. “Of course, please do.”

The patio is larger than the indoor space and it’s special. Hundreds of chairs and tables and an outdoor bar and stage. Quiet now but there is the feeling: special things happen here. In all directions the view is mountains descending to the base of the valley where we sit. It’s overwhelming. But we have to make plans as we have another destination. 

There is a man setting up seats and sweeping and doing other work on the patio. I am looking at my phone map about best paths to the Cliffs of Moher. It’s at least a three hour drive but there is an option offered by Google that cuts off twenty minutes or so. It involves a ferry. So I ask.

“Sir. Sir. May I ask you a question?”

“Of course. What is it?” he asks.

“We are headed to the Cliffs today and have these two options. One through Limerick or this other way which is much shorter, should we take it?” I show him my phone with the map pulled up. Without a moment’s hesitation and in an Irish accent that makes it more emphatic, he says “Fuck no man. Don’t go that way.” 

We laugh. He laughs. “It’s narrow roads and dirt. People die that way,” he smiles and I think he’s joking.

“So take the longer way, go through Limerick and stay on the motorway.”

“Yes, yes and yes.”

We do. 

Drive direct. On the motorway it’s very similar to driving on a US highway with the obvious difference. We pass through Limerick. Looks like it’s well worth spending some time at in the future but we still have a long drive ahead of us to Galway with a stop at the Cliffs on the way.

The area around the Cliffs entice us and hint at the main attraction. The area is rugged and lush and fog teases the sky. We park in the large lot and walk to the Cliffs with so many other pilgrims. While it seems very tightly controlled and touristy, the Cliffs themselves are astonishing. The sea crashing against these massive cliffs is loud, I am sure, but we are all so high up, there is only a faint whisper of that primordial crash that has shaped this marvel. 

I am absolutely thankful that we have seen the Cliffs. However, I would not make a point of stopping here if it was out of my way. We were passing through and it was fantastic but there are too many beautiful spots in Ireland to claim this is the best. And, in fact, seeing the Cliffs from the sea a few days later on a tour was even more impressive than the view from the land.

The Cliffs of Moher

The next stop is our rental home in Galway about two hours north. We are hungry. We drive through a few small towns and see a “Fish and Chips” sign in the town of Lisdoonvarna. Population 829.

We park and enter the pub. There is an entryway door and then a door to the left and one to the right. I’m in the lead and choose the right door. I open it and look in. It’s the bar side rather than the restaurant. There are three elderly men at the bar. Flat hats and tweed coats. “Hello son,” one of them says to me with unwavering friendly eye contact. “Did ya come for a drink?” 

I can’t help but smile at the friendliness, “No. Looking for dinner with my family.”

“That’s the next door.”

“Thank you.”

We enter the other door and it’s really the same. There’s a bar and a stage but there are several tables and waitresses here. Our waitress looks like an Irish version of Billie Elish with blonde hair. We order. I get a Smithwicks and the local beef and Guinness stew. It’s on the short list of best meals I’ve ever had. Thick dark broth, carrots, chunks of tender beef, and a massive scoop of mashed potatoes in the middle. Of course this meal was made for me, but it actually seems like it was actually invented specifically for me. The clean crisp malty denseness of the Smithwicks is the perfect compliment. A great meal and great day. Another hour to drive to Galway for our next condo. And it’s already 8 o'clock. Because the sun goes down so late, it looks like it’s 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Which is nice. 

Arrive Galway. Bustling and partying. Resembles Bourbon Street, or Broadway in Nashville. Not like Vegas…but sort of. It’s a lot to handle. Like many big cities, parking is tough. We park in covered parking a half mile from our destination and begin the walk to our spot. It’s not a great walking commute. The positive vibes and energy of the town help keep our spirits up but we just want to get settled and eventually we do. And it’s terrible, 

We find the address and it’s on a street of dozens of ten to fifteen story modern buildings. Hard to see the addresses now that it’s finally getting late and dark. Exhausted we try to interpret the directions for how to find the key included in the rental description. No luck. I finally have to call the host after twenty minutes of frustration. 

“Hey man. Hope your night is going well. We can’t find the key.”

“Hey brother yes I can tell you where it’s at. There’s a green box across the parking lot that looks like a hole in the wall. In there, locked to a metal bar, is the key box. Put in the code and it will unlock then you can get in.”

“Ok. I’ll check.”

There is a weird little wooden box mounted on the wall where he says and I open the door of the little phone booth looking thing; inside it I see dirty blankets, a few jackets, some old fast food packages…a homeless person’s closet. But there is also the key behind this mess. I put in the code and it opens up. I have the key.

First there is a key to let you in the building. It goes in but the key won’t turn. Wiggle wiggle. It won’t work. I call the host. I’m not close to crying. Not at all.

“Hey man. The key just doesn’t work to get into the building.”

“Oh yeah it does. Just put the key in and pull it out a quarter of the way and it should work. The building lock is a little funny. Cheers brother!”

Thanks for the heads up…brother.

I finally get it to work and we get aboard the elevator in the building which is clearly a residential building with some part time rentals. It’s fine but weird. 

We reach the 5th floor and the key also requires “wiggling” in the door to the apartment. We enter. In the glow of the nightlight and the hallway, looks ok. Hard “wood” floors, tasteful paintings on the walls. Nice to be in a space of our own. 

Look in the kitchen/living room and dining area. Spacious. Not bad. There’s a lot of windows and they are all streamed with bird refuse. But that’s ok.

Go to the bedrooms to drop our bags. It’s three bedrooms and two baths. The largest room has a bed mashed up against a wall with a wall heater and the door to the room and the closest door can’t be opened at the same time. But that’s ok.

The room Jackson takes has a bunk bed with a lower bed that is about king size. Closest. Looks warm and fine. But I open one of the drawers of the dresser in the room and it’s literally full of dirt and rocks. Weird. But that’s ok. 

He’s gonna take a shower and get ready for bed. Janice to our room to unpack. This is the spot we are supposed to stay in for the next four nights. Our longest single place to stay in Ireland. We’ll enjoy it no matter what. Dammit.

As Jackson is prepping for bed and Janice is unpacking, I am in the kitchen of the place just looking at what we have here. There is a massive stain on the stove. Ok. There is a giant drink cup on top of the cabinets in the kitchen. Half filled with a dark liquid. I open the fridge. Fine. I open the freezer. There is no freezer. It is simply a wall of permafrost as far as you can see. There does seem to be a pint of ice cream buried in the frost. It’s not pretty. But that’s OK.

I open the pantry. A roach runs from the light and goes deeper into the dark of the pantry where there are half full twelve packs of Budweiser and Heineken, a broken vacuum cleaner and dozens of empty whiskey bottles. 

It’s official: this place is terrible. It’s about 11:30 PM. We are beat but resilient. Family meeting: we can’t stay here. There are roaches. I rehearse a plan with Jackson to make sure we get out. It has a bit to do with him acting "special" while I am on the phone with the host asking for a way out of this deal. I his "special" voice, Jackson will be yelling in the background “Unsafe, Unsafe.” Jackson and I find this plan hilarious.

For better or worse, it doesn’t come to that. As Janice is looking at other places for us to stay…hotels, house rentals, whatever…I am on the phone telling this guy “this place is dirty, there’s graffiti on the walls outside, the freezer is unusable” and Jackson emerges from the bathroom: the toilet runs after a flush and will not stop running. How many strikes? 

The host hears the legal argument underpinning my complaints. He agrees: we don’t have to pay for the next three nights. He apologizes. It’s clear this is a flop house for Galway party peeps. Not the spot for the White family. 

Now it’s really late but we still need a new place to stay. It’s not quite true to say we’d rather stay in the rental car but we might. But we are up and Jackson and I go on a mission for snacks and beverages while Janice continues to research.

Walking the Latin Quarter of Galway. It’s 20-40 year olds, drunk, loud and happy. Streets are packed. All the bars along the serpentine pedestrian road are humming aggressively. We find a convenience store and get some water. Gotta keep searching. Tesco, like a WAWa, waves at us. On our way, we pass a wine bar/restaurant that’s closing. I ask if he’s got a bottle to sell. Of course. A lovely Croatian red. We hit the little convenience store, Tesco. Beer. Snacks. Waters.

As my fifteen year old son and I walk the late night streets, he says to me: “I feel safe even though we are in a big city.”

I smile. “Me too. But why do you say that?”

“They don’t have guns here, right?”

“True. They don’t.” There is a lot to contemplate in his statement as we walk down the darkened Galway streets. 

I wiggle the building key, we ride up. I wiggle the condo key. We are back in the dream home. But not for long.

Access Part II of II here