Everywhere I've been and everything I've done has been in vivid high definition. I don't think I've ever slept better, just because I'm so worn out by the days.
Going from northish to southish emphasizes that there is more than one kind of Ireland, even though it's a tiny country. Mayo was one kind of Ireland, with silences that dwarfed me, made me tiny in the face of a million years of sea and sky and wind and rain. It was beautiful but it was stark. It would be quite a trick learning how to live there without going insane. Kilcrohane in West County Cork, on the other hand, is a different kind of Ireland, almost stereotypical in its Irishness. We drove for about seven hours, I think. We arrived in Kilcrohane after watching the landscape shift from sweeping hillside to more nook-and-cranny hillside -- more rocks and trees, less ruins and stone walls. It was only my parents and Pat and I; the other siblings had gone to Dublin for a few days. This made our new cottage bearable in terms of space. There were eight people and six beds, and it definitely got a little tight.
We just happened to be staying in the town closest to the point where a huge shipment of cocaine was seized off the coast of Southern Ireland. Two Italian tourists came into the small grocer-post office and asked where to go see the seals that live and play off the coastline. The shopkeeper shook his head and suggested that they might not have much luck, seeing as the bay was full of coke right now. Later in the week, at least one house in the town was sealed off by the Gardai (pronounced 'Guard-ee' as far as I can tell...no one get on my case, okay?) and a pretty decent size search was going on to find both perpetrators and loot...er, evidence. I saw one police van.
Kilcrohane is just 20 minutes outside of Bantry which is also really lovely town. Kilcrohane itself is almost as isolated as Lacken Pier had been, but at least this time we were actually in a town, staying in a cottage on the one street right down the middle of the village. There is a pub three buildings away (one could quite literally stagger home from the pub in less than a minute) and our cottage is right next to the school, a bright blue building with a brand new clock tower (including tide clock) that was just commemorated the Sunday after we arrived. There was a series of speeches and a huge potluck lunch following the 10 o'clock mass, lunch being replete with scones and pastry and a tiramisu, small children underfoot, all kinds of hearty dishes including potatoes, coffee and tea and plenty of bottles of wine. The Bishop had originally been scheduled to show up and give both mass and a blessing to the clock. Sadly, the Bishop had been called away...to the Cork vs. Kerry Gaelic football match, it was speculated. He hadn't even called to cancel. The commemorative plaque was kept under a curtain, and removed without comment later that day. I suspect tithes might be down in Kilcrohane for a few weeks.
My own enthusiasm for the grand spread was somewhat diminished by the fact that I'd had one too many Guinness the night before (perhaps there should be a plural version -- Guinni?). When we'd arrived in town, the family grumped about the location of the cottage being smack in the middle of everything with a rather temperamental view. Depending on the weather, sometimes you could see the Bay from the 'Bayview Cottages', and sometimes you couldn't. The weather, of course, changed every fifteen minutes (I don't know if anyone else has heard but there were apparently huge floods in Great Britain, in Sheffield and Hull, indicating that the kind of non-stop rain we saw throughout our vacation was not normal. Could we PLEASE get on some Global Warming prevention stuff?). However, there was dancing down at the pub, which is actually called the Bayview Inn. I don't know if they have the same technical difficulties with the view. After a meal of pork chops and beets and potatoes, my parents and I trucked down to find out about the dancing.
The moment the one-man band with his accordion and his keyboard (for the beats, you know) struck up, the token drunk guy asked me to dance. He was the most active member of the bachelor party that had set up shop in the pub since early that day, but he didn't have much conversation; just dancing. He danced well and I danced as best I could; we danced a few more times before he was completely falling down drunk. Watching the ceili dancing was probably the best, however; once the pop tunes of the seventies, eighties, nineties, and today (or whenever. I do remember hearing "if I told you you had a beautiful body/would you hold it against me?" and there's nothing to compare. At least, not on the squeezebox). "Wild Irish Rover" and "Molly Malone", some traditional reels and jigs. The difficult part is watching the steps themselves. Mom was trying to figure them out, but every time you think you understand how they work they've changed the pattern somehow. There's stomping, which I love. It looks very much like square dancing, which is really great fun if you haven't tried it.
I only had three Guinness, all right? I confess. I'm a total lightweight these days. Compared to the last Guinness hangover I had in Ireland (after, I think, seven beers) how I felt Sunday morning was sweetness and light. Nevertheless, this is a perfect example of why I won't drink Guinness in the states, or anywhere were it has to be imported. In Ireland, it's worth the hangover for how absolutely fresh and fantastic the beer itself tastes. Once you have a Guinness in Ireland, you can't drink it elsewhere. It tastes 'stale, flat and unprofitable' (Hamlet, yo). But despite my great love for the fresh-from-the-Liffey pint (how else do you think they make it so brown??), I'm scaling my consumption back for the rest of the trip. All things in moderation, right?
Well, most things. I don't think you can ever have enough of a good chocolate.
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