“Dance as though no one is watching you, Love as though you have never loved before. Sing as though no one can hear you and Live as though Heaven is on Earth.”
Gaelic proverb
Dispatch # 40
Ireland
June 2005
“Brilliant Scenery, Lovely Days and Grand Company”
Following a very energetic week in London, we spent the last ten days of our trip relaxing and soaking up the ambiance of Ireland. Few have visited this island and not returned smitten by this beautiful country, its gregarious people and lyrical heritage and we were no exception. Our relatively short time on the Emerald Isle was highlighted by a stay in a majestic Irish castle and, thanks to the generosity of my business partner, Sean Conlon, and his sister, Fiona, five glorious days on the picturesque grounds of their Irish manor.
Before we departed on our trip, one of the anticipated highlights for the kids was our plan to stay in an authentic Irish castle. After landing in Shannon, we rented a van and headed towards Newmarket-on-Fergus in the County Clare. Our destination was the venerable Dromoland Castle, the former home of the O’Brien family, one of the great noble Irish clans who, at times, ruled southern Ireland.
The castle and its grounds were spectacular. The enormous, slate gray, towering and turreted structure was a wonder to behold. We had promised the kids an authentic castle and Dromoland delivered. It had everything that we could have hoped for, centuries of rich history, impressive battlements, magnificent interior furnishings, enough suits of armor to outfit an army and a few ghost stories thrown in for good measure. We immediately set about exploring the thousands of square feet of dramatic Gothic architecture. There were high-ceilinged great halls, galleries lined with giant oil paintings of the O’Brien family lineage, and plush sitting rooms complete with crackling fires in oversized stone fireplaces. Our rooms were meticulously furnished with beautiful wood paneling and trim and decorated with wonderful period furniture and historic accoutrements. Once we had recovered from our initial awe struck state, Elizabeth and I sprung into action. Assuming that the proprietors adhered to that bothersome international accord of “you break it, you own it,” we quickly went about the room moving the numerous crystal and other delicate pieces up and out of harm’s way.
From our rooms, we had a direct view of the main section of the castle and the surrounding rolling green castle grounds. While we were admiring our view, the porter, a gregarious old Irishman named John, delivered our bags to the room. He was a delightful gentleman with an easy laugh. However, the tempo of his rapid fire and animated conversation, combined with a thick Irish brogue made him nearly impossible for us to understand. So, we nodded our heads a lot and made sure to laugh whenever he did. It was an experience that would repeat itself often during our stay in Ireland, and one best summed up by Bella after John had left when she said “Geez, I thought they spoke English here.” Periodic difficulties with translation aside, we found the lyrical nature of the native accent pleasing to the ear, and the legendary Irish humor and imaginative expressions to be infectious. Among the many lyrical adjectives that we enjoyed hearing in conversation were “brilliant,” “grand,” and “lovely.” These adjectival descriptions were used frequently, applied to people, places and things, and were always offered in a manner that was not only pleasing to the ear, but also seemed to exemplify optimistic Irish spirit that we encountered on a daily basis.
After we had secured our baggage from the porter, we set off to explore the grounds that included woods, ponds, a river, archery and clay shooting areas, and a world-class golf course. We went swimming in the indoor pool before retiring to the castle for lunch in its gallery full of overstuffed furniture set around a crackling fireplace. A smell of wood smoke and old rugs and tapestries hung in the air which was periodically broken by a rush of cold, damp outside air as guests passed through the nearby doorway.
It was Father’s Day back home, and there could have been no finer setting for one to be King for a Day. That evening, in anticipation for our formal dinner in the castle’s dining room, we all dressed up as best we could given our limited wardrobe selections. Before we left, Maddie assigned each of us a royal title for the evening. Having been bestowed with regal monikers befitting such an evening, the Lords and Ladies set off for dinner. Although I was politely asked to borrow one of the castle’s dinner jackets, everyone else passed inspection and we enjoyed a wonderful, five-course meal complete with candlelight and harp music. Slow, formal dinner affairs such as these are not designed with children in mind, but our kids did a great job of being patient and minding their manners. The children were so well behaved in fact that they received numerous compliments from our neighboring tables as we departed. Back in the room, with the kids in bed, Elizabeth and I finished the enchanted evening snuggled up in thick white robes, sipping Celtic Crossing, a delicious honey flavored Irish whiskey, and gazing intently across the lawn at the majestic profile of the moon lit castle.
The next morning we bid farewell to the castle and our kind hosts. Our next destination was to be Kenmare, but before we started our drive in earnest, we elected to make a stop at the Bunratty Castle and Folk Park. Bunratty Castle is one of Ireland’s more popular tourist attractions. The great rectangular castle with its imposing square corner towers, built in the early 1400’s, had been restored to its original medieval glory complete with drawbridge. Surrounding the castle was a delightful folk park with meticulous re-creations of early Irish villages, complete with working shops of period craftsmen, schoolhouses, farmhouses, and thatch roofed cottages. One of the highlights for the kids was the schoolhouse where a kindly, silver haired schoolmaster provided the kids a short course in Gaelic and a brief history of the prehistoric, Viking, Norman and native Irish societies. Overall, this side trip was perfect for the kids and we all had a great time exploring the grounds in the bright sunshine of a (rare) cloudless, blue-skied day.
From Dromoland we drove through beautiful countryside on our way to the town of Kenmare passing along beautiful expanses of rock strewn green hillsides, distant gray mountains, thick woodlands, rushing waterways and blossoming flora.
The Shelburne Lodge in Kenmare was a lovely 18th century country house set within ample grounds which included flower and herb gardens, an orchard, and, most importantly, an enormous, sprawling old evergreen tree that served as a make-believe castle and fort for the kids and provided hours of outdoor entertainment. During our stay in Kenmare, we began each day with a generously portioned, full fry Irish breakfast. After recovering from the post-prandial lulls brought on by these triple-bypass breakfasts, we would set off on day trips which included explorations of Kenmare and the surrounding countryside as well as a road trip along the famous Ring of Kerry and the Iveragh Peninsula.
Kenmare itself was a wonderful, historic town with brightly colored one and two story wooden buildings with traditional hand painted signs, housing a wide assortment of shops, restaurants and pubs. In the middle of town was a pleasant triangular public green full of local activity. Adjacent to the green was the grand Holy Cross Church, the spires of which we would periodically use to readjust our bearings as it could be seen from any part of town. One of the days we were in town was a market day and the public green and surrounding streets were full of vendors selling their produce and crafts. After a filling “halftime” (noon) lunch at one at a quaint little diner in town, we set off to explore the local outdoor market.
One vendor in particular was selling framed, hand painted verses inspired by the Irish national treasure, the Book of Kells. The Book of Kells, completed by Irish monks in about 800 A.D., is an elaborately illustrated and ornamented manuscript, and is one of the most famous books in the history of Ireland. Isabella was particularly interested in what this vendor had to offer. Elizabeth and I found it altogether appropriate and fitting that after careful consideration, our deeply sensitive and refreshingly free spirit, Bella, chose the following framed verse:
“Dance as though no one is watching you,
Love as though you have never loved before,
Sing as though no one can hear you,
Live as though Heaven is on Earth.”
It was the perfect verse for Bella. She has such a fun and free spirit, and we have often found her alone in a room signing and dancing in a celebration of her wonderful imagination. As an adult, I find myself marveling with pleasure at the spontaneity and imagination of my children. I often wonder when, and perhaps more importantly, why, I lost the wonderful ability to act spontaneously, to sing or dance in public for no particular reason, as though no one was watching. Whatever the explanation, one of the joys of parenthood is watching my children celebrate life without inhibition, walking into a room to find Bella twirling, or Maddie singing, or Carmen acting out a scene from her imaginary tale, or to witness Frankie explode into his “happy dance,” sometimes announced, but always spontaneous. Wouldn’t it be nice if we all had the ability to launch into a happy dance whenever the mood struck us?
One of my favorite experiences during our stay in Kenmare was an evening spent sampling a couple of Kenmare’s many traditional Irish pubs. We took the family to dinner at “Casey’s,” a relatively upscale pub and eatery on the outskirts of Kenmare. While we enjoyed our dinners of meat and potatoes and fish and chips, we were treated to a performance of traditional Irish music by a three-person ensemble playing accordion, flute and violin. The lyrical folk music alternated between festive and the soulful. It wasn’t long before Bella, true to her motto, was dancing and twirling around our table in front of the fireplace. Our other children joined in the festivities and soon all were dancing to the approval and pleasure of the local patrons, and with a ferocity that would have made the Lord of the Dance, Michael Flatley, proud.
Later, after we had the children back home and in bed, I ventured back into town for a pint. I purposely chose the most dilapidated pub that I could find. I pulled up a stool at the bar, ordered a Guinness and enjoyed the ambiance. That evening, the pub was a men only affair. There were ruddy faced, silver haired old patrons, racing forms in hand, periodically drowning out the fiddle music as they regaled their mates with loud, animated stories. In the corner was a group of younger men playing darts and watching a televised soccer game. The atmosphere was perfect for this accidental tourist. Before long I had made my acquaintance with the gregarious old man seated next to me at the bar. He wanted to know all about life in the United States. He bought me a beer, but when I tried to reciprocate, he appeared offended, so I chose not press the matter any further, and accepted his hospitality.
It took my full concentration to understand him, his already thick Irish accent amplified by the noticeable effects of a several Guinness. He told me all about his friends and family members that were in America, seemingly expecting me to recognize one of the dozens of names he offered. Although he had never been to our country, he spoke of it with a sense of kinship and enthusiasm. After a couple more pints of Guinness, the only thing clear to me was it was time to take my leave, but I did so with the satisfaction of having experienced a small part of Irish culture.
While we were in Ireland we enjoyed reading some of the editorials in the national Independent that concerned the recent debate in Irish Parliament concerning the proposals to combat drinking in the country. The tenor of the articles suggested that lawmakers had lost touch with the common man in their efforts to appear politically correct as a card-carrying member of the European Union. Although the authors were serious, the contents of some of the articles provided some wonderful entertainment. One author offered the following lament, “Women are making these things happen. The decline of the Irish pub reflects the decline of the Irish male, and his pleasures, which were once sacrosanct…we don’t even seem to speak the same language anymore. Since when, for example, did having four or five pints become a ‘binge?’ We used to have to drink vast quantities of alcohol over several days, starting perhaps in the center of Dublin and waking up on the outskirts of San Francisco, before we were officially on a ‘binge.’ And only if you made a habit of it, committing a few ‘spectaculars’ along the way could you be classified as a ‘binge-drinker.’ Women want to eat and men want to drink. It is an ancient struggle.”
Another author asserted that the new law’s definition of binge drinking meant everyone was an alcoholic. Here are excerpts from his article, “It used to be that an alcoholic was a reclusive guy, one who drank in private all day long. Alcoholics were not people who drank with other people. They were rarely known to get pissed full stop. There is joylessness to their drinking. The lad who periodically lets off some steam, celebrates, gets pissed, acts like a maggot, embarrasses the family and gets into a fight is not an alcoholic. The café bar proposal is confusing. This is a plan whereby lots more places would be licensed to sell drink, but they would sell it in a different environment. It is apparently a healthier context for drinking, a more European way of drinking, which apparently is better and does not constitute the demon binge done in order to lighten the mood. However, I would assert that it is a more alcoholic way of drinking. Alcoholics are not romantic hell raisers of legend, but depressives who tipple away all day long keeping themselves topped up. I’m not sure why the French have become some kind of great role model for drinking. Go to Paris and look at businessmen popping in throughout the day for a glass of champers. Just because we do all our weeks’ drinking in one go doesn’t make us any worse than someone that tops off throughout the day. And who says the Spanish who seem to stay vaguely pissed all the time are any better than us. The bottom line is I’d rather go out and get locked now and then, than sip my way through each day.” Perhaps only in Ireland could such passion be openly expressed over a subject like drinking, and a debate regarding the proper definition of “binge drinking” become a priority topic of national discourse.
Kenmare was also ideally located to explore the coastline of the Kenmare River, and the famous Ring of Kerry. One of our road trips took us along the coastline bordering the Kenmare River, which really was not a river at all, but rather a deep fiord connected to the sea. Passing along the narrow, winding roadway, we marveled at the scenery, the river’s pewter colored water was covered by mist. Landward, we were greeted with views of cows and sheep sprinkled across the undulating green hillsides strewn with large gray boulders with the distant shapes of the fog shrouded mountain peaks of the Macgillycuddy’s Reeks acting as a backdrop.
There was a moist, salty feeling to the air as we arrived at our destination, the Domquinna Riding Stables. Maddie, Bella and I took a long ride along the shoreline while Elizabeth stayed behind to supervise Carmen and Frankie who delighted in riding ponies around the stable grounds. Although the names of Maddie’s and my own mount escape me, I do recall Bella’s. “Billie” was its name and it was a particularly stubborn horse. About half way through our ride, “Billie” decided that he had gone far enough. No matter what Bella did, no matter how hard she tugged on the reins or how determinedly she poked it with her heels, that horse had no interest in moving. With the assistance of our guide, however, “Billie” finally was persuaded to complete the trek. We rode for quite some distance along the rocky shoreline before finally turning back. The guide led us on a short cut that required us to cross over the muddy, kelp laden, river bed that had been exposed by low tide. Back at the stables, Carmen and Frankie had a big time riding their ponies, “Katie” and “General.” So much so that ultimately we had to pry a tearful Frankie off the back of “General.” A short distance down the road from the stables we came upon a pair of men hand shearing sheep in a field. The kids sat on an old stonewall and watched the men as they grabbed the bleating sheep and shorn their winter coats.
Another of our day trips took us along the coastline of the Iveragh peninsula. Known as the “Ring of Kerry,” this narrow strip of roadway is a popular driving excursion. There was much natural beauty to see, but I found it particularly difficult to enjoy the drive because of the seemingly endless series of oversized tour buses that frequently roared past, often forcing me to put two tires on the nearly nonexistent shoulder of the road. It was however, a scenic passage. Bordering the narrow road were seemingly endless, moss covered, stone walls. After passing in and out of a series of canopies of moss-covered trees, the view opened up to the sea. To one side of the road, below the steep drop off, we could see miles of contorted seashore, sculpted over time by wind and wave. The craggy stone toes of the coastline could be seen reaching out into the slate colored waters of the Atlantic. Inland were the misty outlines of green, rolling and rock strewn hills and pasture lands. In the distance, the peaks of the Macgillycuddy Reeks mountain range appeared and then disappeared in the slow moving gray mass of clouds. Periodically, a sudden gleam of sunshine would pass through the cloud cover catching a distant hillside, illuminating it like a spotlight, and revealing patches of fuchsia, heather and the purple flowered “fairy fingers” of the Digitalis. After a while, the contour of winding road with its hairpin turns began to take its toll on our young passengers. Having learned our lesson during some of our other notably twisting excursions such as Chapman’s Peak Drive and the roads to Hana and Cape Tribulation, we decided to turn around and head home before some felt the need to leave their fish and chups along the roadside.
As we loaded up for our trip to Bunclody, Elizabeth and I agreed that it was hard to believe that only six more days remained in our trip. When we had planned the adventure, 290 days abroad seemed unimaginably long. Much like a typical vacation where the first few days seem to unfold at a leisurely pace, but final half rushes by, so had our trip unfolded. Ever since we had left Australia after the first of the year, the days had seemed to pass by with increasing velocity.
Anxieties about our return notwithstanding, our final days in Ireland, the final days of our trip, were spent in a magical setting. My business partner, Sean Conlon, had graciously offered to allow us to stay at his idyllic spread located just outside of Bunclody in the County Wexford. Situated on over sixty acres, the “Mill” as he referred to it, was a beautiful patch of Irish heaven. His sister, Fiona, who lived at the Mill, was the consummate hostess. We were put up in the main lodging house, one of several on the grounds, that once was a working mill, but now has been converted into a luxurious residence. Along side the mill house ran the clear waters of the Slaney River, full of deep pools, fast shallows, and undoubtedly, a fair amount of trout. Scattered around the grounds immediately surrounding the Mill house are several attractive stone buildings, some of which served as storage, but one of which served as Fiona’s full time residence.
Along the river’s edge runs a dirt and stone road lead from the entrance to the compound to the Mill house. A short distance down the road was another lodging house. Trails lead from the Mill house through the hills comprising the back acreage. These trails provided us endless hours of hiking and exploration. Each day we hiked to the peak of particularly tall hilltop, sat in the tall grasses and took in the breathtaking views of the surrounding countryside, its green rolling hillsides rising up from the banks of the meandering River Slaney.
The weather was very cooperative and we spent our last days in Ireland under brilliant sunny skies. So unseasonably warm that one brilliant afternoon we decided to venture a swim in the river. We hiked up the road and across a three arched stone bridge in order to reach the other bank of the river, which appeared to provide a more gentle entry into the rushing stream. To say that the water was cold would be an understatement. It was a hoot to watch each of the kids as they gingerly waded into the icy water. They each would let out a scream, before drawing in a deep breath and jerking up their arms. Although the water was frigid, the kids were undeterred. The little polar bears waded around, splashing and shrieking the entire time. We all waded around the shallows, our legs and feet numb under the chilly waters. While some of us searched for interesting stones in the clear waters, others used butterfly nets in an attempt to catch minnows. After Maddie, Bella and I had each dove underwater on each other’s dare, we all retreated to the grassy banks to warm up under the “halftime” sun. We rested on the banks of the river and had a picnic lunch as fat black and white cows grazed around us.
The Mill was a perfect place to renounce life’s pressing matters and revel in the beauty of the rural Irish countryside that had inspired the likes of Yeats, Shaw and Beckett. It was such a relaxing setting. Each day I would walk alone to the top of the nearby hill and sit on the edge of the trail, aside the golden stalks of wheat, and gaze out over the countryside, allowing my mind to wander. During these quiet moments, I found my mind was drawn to reminiscences of our spectacular experience. When we had entered Paris two months ago, I had felt weary of travel, but now I felt anything but a readiness to conclude our trip. The excitement that I felt about reuniting with friends and family seemed to be outweighed by a sense of melancholy as I considered the inevitable end to our wonderful journey.
With the exception of our day trip to Kilkenny and periodic forays into the nearby village for groceries, our final days were spent frolicking on the grounds of the Mill. Exploring the grounds and back trails on foot and via the Conlon’s four-wheeler, playing games of hide and seek, swinging on the big tree swing near the river, picnicking along the river’s edge, chasing Fiona’s three dogs around, catching minnows, playing Pooh Stick races (we tossed carefully chosen pieces of tree branches into the river and then ran along the river bank tracking our entries to the finish line) and enjoying family dinners in the warmth of the Mill house. In the evenings, we would play card games, read books and tell stories to each other. At night, we would lie in bed listening to sounds of the night and the rushing waters of the River Slaney, a melody of nature that served to lull us and gently invite us to sleep.
Let us say thank you to all of you for following along with our adventure. What began with the simple goal of keeping in contact with family, soon turned into a labor of love as we attempted to share our travels and experiences with family, friends and the variety of new visitors who heard about our journey or accidentally hit upon our web log. Although I have begun to pen a final dispatch, this will be our last posting sent from abroad. Our final months following our return to Europe from the Middle East were memorable; our grand time in Tuscany; our scenic drive from Florence to Paris; our exciting days in Paris; the relaxing week in the countryside of Normandy with wonderful side trips to the D-Day beaches, Mont St. Michael, and Monet’s home and gardens in Giverny; our canal boat trip, one of the highlights of our world adventure, a truly magical week living on a houseboat and piloting it down the Yonne River and canals in the Burgundy region of France; our inspirational week in The Netherlands reuniting with our Dutch family in the picturesque countryside of the eastern portion of The Netherlands; an action packed week in jolly old London; and finally, two brilliant weeks in the lovely and grand island of Ireland. Cheers to you all and God Bless!
NEXT DISPATCH. WE ARE COMING HOME!
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