Day 7 Ireland Travel Blog - Make it Stop!!!

Day 7: (April 22, 2013) - The Emerald Isle

After the previous days' butt flattening while driving the Ring of Kerry, it was time to flatten it even more with a jog.  For those of you that don't know, runners have about as much butt contour as an ironing board.  That is why you have to make the bubble butt by bike riding.  But if your butt is being made naturally round by the eating and drinking, then you can skip the healthy way of making a bubble butt - biking. This is why it is entirely unnecessary to carry a bicycle around with you when you travel.

What better place to jog than around the grounds of the Muckross House?  We banged around the grounds the previous afternoon right after our visit to the Torc Falls.  That visit involved dodging desperate Irish coach drivers who really, really wanted to take us on a coach ride. It also involved me jumping off of the path to avoid getting run over by the lucky few who had made the sale.  That guy was probably angry at me for not taking him up on his tenth offer to "take the pretty lady on a carriage ride." 

So, the goal was to jog Muckross House early when there was nobody but myself, my wife and the trout in the lake. If you look at the bottom picture on the far right you will notice a little bit of a forested area.  This area holds a bit of trail along the lake.  All I could hear was my nimble foot fall, my steady breathing and the lapping of the lake on the shore.  Oh yeah, my wife was there too. Ladies, I make an excellent traveling companion!

The Muckross Park Hotel & Cloisters Spa offered a free breakfast.  Most of our hotel stays did not, so it was time to take full advantage.  In general, you shouldn't offer free food and drink to a guy who grew up hungry.  That's right ... if it's free food, I'll eat until I look like that fat German kid who blew up in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

If it is free drink, then you are probably in for the hot mess that I sometimes refer to as Gary.  Gary is the life of the party and has been known to make appearances at football parties, weddings, on linoleum kitchen floors and Tuesdays.  He also prays for world peace, enjoys romantic walks along the beach and hopes to one day "blow up" a bar mitzvah with his beer bong skills.  Gary isn't writing this blog, and he made no appearances in Ireland.  In fact, my wife hasn't had to defend herself against the brash advances of Garry for a while.  She's probably due.  As usual, I digress.

 

If you go to Ireland (you should) there are a couple of things you should order.  The first is tea.  It was during this free breakfast that I discovered "tea".  Tea is not just the beverage.  It also means frosted pastries, toast with marmalade and other assorted, sugary goodies  If you put enough of that yummy brownish sugar into your tea, you can inject it straight into your veins.  Ah, sweet sucra...

You can never go wrong with sugar, and yes, I was recently caught by a waitress while eating sugar out of a packet at Outback.  Don't judge me!  I'm not proud. 

The second is brown bread.  Get this with some chowder.  Brown bread is a heavy bread that is ... well ... its brown.  It is about as dense as a brick, and it is served cold with butter.  Warm soup and cold bread works good in most situations.  After a couple of days in the "Land of Drizzle", you'll want to keep coming back to the warm foods.  That is why the cold bread thing to me is simply inexplicable. It is what it is.  Don't complain.

One thing that you can order if you want to get a taste of some cuisine that is traditionally Irish is black pudding.

Black pudding is basically oatmeal mixed with spices, garlic, piggy meat bits and (oh, yeah) pig blood.  Ummmm ... yummy pig blood.  Look at the picture.  Now that you know the black is pig blood, doesn't the picture remind you of two moist scabs?  Fortunately, it doesn't taste too bad but the oatmeal gives it a gummy texture that wants to create a piggy oatmeal ball in the back of the throat.  Eat this once, and then turn your back on it ... forever.

Having loaded up with piggy products and tea, it was time to get an interior view of the Muckross House.  The estate is 11,000 acres by the way.  That lake you see in the picture is huge.  Killarney is kissed by a couple of lakes, and this is just one of them.  The Muckross House was built in 1843 by the Herbert family.  After extensive improvements for the visit of Queen Victoria in 1861, the Herberts had to sell the estate.  Ultimately, it was sold to a wealthy American (U.S.A.!!!) and that guy spoiled his daughter rotten by giving it to her as a wedding gift.  It is now owned by the Republic of Ireland.

So, let's pause to reflect.  These knuckleheads so want to impress the Queen that they run themselves into bankruptcy in order to do it.  The docent tried to explain this bit of foolishness as an effort to gain the grant of a better title for the Herberts.  Maybe that is meaningful to the European sensibility, but it gets a "Yeah, so what?" from me.  We can (any of us) insist that we be called "Earl", "Duke" or "Contessa" if we want to be that crazy.  I called myself "His Lordship" all day today, and it didn't make me more wealthy or pay down a debt.  It never worked out for Herbert anyway because Queen Victoria would later die with nary a thought about making right with Mr. Herbert.  Sucker!  All things work out for the best.  I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have been invited to enter Muckross House but for its ultimate ownership by the park service.

A couple of observations from the tour.  As you ascend the steps from first floor to second you notice a large pane of glass.  But the glass isn't clear, it is kind of opaque - decorated lovely but opaque.  Well, apparently, you didn't want your view ruined by the sight of a servant milling about outside or, even worse, a view of their neatly kept quarters.  Bad enough that you have to deal with the servants inside the House, but to look outside and have to observe their homes?  This is an outrage that can only be corrected by opaque glass! 

After the tour, we went to Muckross Abbey.  We discovered this during our jog when I was navigating a back way to the hotel.  It was built in 1448 and remains remarkably intact.  Apparently, one Franciscan thing was to grow a yew tree in the middle of the abbey.  I think it is a nice touch and the thing is still there even after the abbey is gone.  The friary in town retains the skull of one of the poor friars who was caught on one of the islands on the lake you see in the background of the second picture.  Well, no surprise, his head left his body with the aid of some British guys and ended up being displayed in glass box.   This marks the second head of a saint I've seen since coming to this country.

 

Anyway, it was time to go to Killarney and look about.  

I must admit that I could start to sense some kind of anxiety forming in my wife.  Something is brewing with my expert shopper.  Immediately, I diagnose the problem.  There are children at home (seven to be precise) that we have had the audacity to create (I'm that irresistible) and they must be satisfied.  Unfortunately, that meant shopping in Killarney.  

 

To shorten my rant up a bit, I spent a lot of time outside on the sidewalk trying really hard to not look really bored.  Can nothing be done about this?  Why settle for buying total crap just because we need to produce some bauble or other such foolishness to the expectant children?  I have lobbied for Travel Shopping Rule #2, and it is still being considered in committee.

 

Travel Shopping Rule #2???? - That's right.  No buying stuff just for the sake of buying stuff.  It has to be meaningful.  To date I'm a "Yea" vote for Travel Shopping Rule #2 but only if the companion bill which legislates Travel Shopping Rule #3 is likewise passed.  Travel Shopping Rule #3 ensures that all purchases must be REASONABLE IN PRICE!!!!!

 

The boys all got hurling balls.  These look like baseballs but they are lighter.  This is an acceptable purchase in that it satisfies Rule #1 - that all gifts must actually be Irish in origin.  I suspect it would fail Travel Shopping Rule #2, but (as noted above) this has not yet been made into law.

 

And yes, the boys lost their hurling balls within about five minutes.  Duh!!!  My offer to appease the collective greedy expectancy of our male children was to purchase a rugby ball.  However, I was informed that if we got the rugby ball, it was insufficient because it would constitute a "group gift" and would not satisfy the individualized greed of each child.  Fearing that my wife would be oversold on the rugby ball, I left off.  To continue would mean that I would have to buy the hurling balls AND the rugby ball.  I tried to do the whole trade thing where we swap balls simultaneously but the wife wasn't letting go of those hurling balls. 

 

*** Men, you may stop reading for a moment and make a testicle related joke quietly to yourself.

 

Oh, yeah.  Back to shopping.  You have to sense when you are digging yourself a hole and back the hell out of it.  Hurling balls it is.  We also bought them candy because my kids are always suckers for candy.  And it's Irish candy.  How exotic!

 

When I was a child, my grandparents were world travelers.  My female cousins received dolls from all around the world.  There were glass cabinets at their house that had no other purpose than to display these dolls.  My brother and I received tube socks for Christmas.  Not kidding about that.  However, I'm beginning to understand (not really - that was total bullsh*t).  I think they just couldn't strike an appropriate balance in deciding upon which ethnic sporting gear to purchase.  And that is why we got tube socks for Christmas. After all, what sporting endeavor is complete without tube socks?  I would have really loved to have a hurling ball. 

 

My dairy loving friends, Killarney offers you the world's best ice cream.  Murphy's Ice Cream http://www.murphysicecream.ie/ creates their icy dessert from the milk of the endangered Kerry Cow.  There are only about 1,000 Kerry Cows, and that makes them more rare than the Giant Panda.  That's right, its like they milked pandas and made ice cream out of it.  Here's my wife's frozen treat.

I don't know how to give this justice by description.  Start with the world's most awesome cow.  Feed that cow only sugar cubes - no exceptions - when it is about to die from being fed too much sugar, feed it one more time and milk it.  Milk that cow of every last drop (stand on the utters if you must) because it is probably going to die.  I wonder if this is why they are endangered?  Then I guess you just add the skills of some Irish dudes blah, blah, blah and you get the best ice cream I've ever had.

 

While driving about, I noticed a sign right by the "petrol" station that indicated a castle.  Ross Castle to be exact. 

 

 

Like all things Killarney, Ross Castle is right there on a lake.  A very large lake.  Not remotely like how her Viking ancestors would have, Fighting Fitzgerald climbed the battlements for a picture.  To the viewer it appears as though her arms are outstretched as a metaphor for how we've embraced Ireland.  You were thinking that, right? 

 

However, she is just trying to retain her place and not slip back down to the grass.  She struggled a bit with this.  Notice how happy she is.  This means that, for the moment, I have not annoyed her with a snarky comment about hurling balls or ball related jokes in general.

 

And this closed out our day in Killarney.  All that is left is an afternoon in Dublin and then home.  This will be followed up by another twenty three years of marriage without a trip overseas.



Ireland Travel Blog Day 6 - The Longest Drive - Ring of Kerry Style

Day 6: (April 21, 2013) - The Emerald Isle

Ah, it's good to relax.  It is a Sunday morning in Ennis.  Why not drop by for mass at the Friary right next door?  After all, I'm feeling a little bit of Catholic guilt for practically running out of the cathedral in Galway when mass started.  I suppose running away in Galway was my version of Catholic gymnastics ... offered to the Lord in lieu of standing, kneeling, standing, kneeling, standing and (oh, yeah) kneeling again.  Mass generally only takes an hour after all, and I'm due. 

I like to go to church when I travel.  As a Catholic, you can generally be anonymous by any standard in the world and won't get caught out by one of those embarrassing "Do we have any visitors in church today?" inquiries.  Last Sunday in Shingletown, this actually occurred in our church.  More remarkably, some French guy stands up and introduces his whole family!  The priests know better, but the lay people who always have 10 minutes of announcements before mass don't.  I consider last Sunday's visitor question a breach in Catholic etiquette.  There are over 1.2 billion of us in the world, and we demand to remain anonymous!  French guy, I apologize to you and your family.

As an aside, my kids sometimes complain about their weekly trip to church - they would rather play Xbox.  While I share an empathy for fun, I cop my "when I was a kid" attitude and tell them how, as a young Baptist lad, I used to enter the church at 9:30 in the a.m. and wouldn't get to jail-break until 1:00 p.m.  Also, it was a lot like school with the memorizing of bible verses, placing felt Jesus along with the felt apostles right next to the felt sheep etc.  I do love felt Jesus though, and you can never have enough felt shepherds.

To my kids' credit, no Baptist kid ever had to deal with this:



 

 
By the way, is this really a woman?  I'm not so sure. 

In any event, I've diverted from the travel part of the blog ... I'm practicing what I preach and so off to see those Franciscans in the friary next door.  After thanking the priest for trying to reform me over the course of the last hour (I need it), the wife and I hit the town looking for a pastry or other savory item.  And .... check around a couple of corners ... and ... look down a dark alleyway ... and ... check that cool pastry shop we noticed just before Martina met her untimely demise at the sure and steady beer holding hands of Fighting Fitzgerald ... 

Nothing! 

I almost launched into a child-like, sugar-deprived rant right there in the town square.  What about those pastries we saw in the window of that nice little shop on the town square?  You know, the one we swore we would visit last night?  Nothing!  All gone!!!!  No chocolate filled pastries!  No raspberry confections!  Those people are all absent, and I bet they aren't at church because I just left!

Ireland travel hint:  Use Sunday as a travel day.  You won't be shopping, browsing, eating, etc.  Why don't you ever find this stuff in the travel guides?!  This would have warded off that completely terrible Snickers I got from the gas (excuse me, "petrol") station.  Damn thing had the texture of particle board.

Having been advised by Fergal to avoid Limerick entirely (those are stupid and annoying poems anyhow), we drove right on through to Killarney and the Ring of Kerry.  By the time we got to Limerick so I could just drive right past it, I had choked down my saw dust Snickers.  Driving the Ring of Kerry will take you about 4-5 hours and that's only if you don't stop every single time you see a stunning vista.  All total, today's driving damage to my butt was 7 hours.  It was worth it. 

The first stop on the Ring of Kerry was at Jack's Bakery in Killorglin.

Jack advised that he really only opens up on Sunday mornings for a couple of friends.  Jack must be a pagan or one of those extremist protestants who wants to suck all the joy out of life in order to promote a "thrifty working class", as Scrooge put it.  The pilgrims even abolished Christmas!  Nah!  Jack's clearly a pagan - I detected no pilgrim-like joy sucking.  Killorglin is known as a place for goat head worshipping pagans (they even have a pagan party called the "Puck Faire").  Oh well, even Jack's left over pastries were some of the best I've ever had.  Those Irish have a knack for baking.  We also got some sandwiches and ate them in the car while parked overlooking one of the beaches you can find on the Dingle Bay.

The idea of getting to ride a ferry was very tempting, so we decided we would give it a shot and take the ferry to Valentia Island.  Jack's wife suggested we visit, so who am I to doubt the wife of such a fine baker.  Shortest ferry ride anywhere and it will cost you about $10 American.  I know I'm buying a bit of a life experience here (and I do not take it back).  However, the stupid thing about the ferry to Valentia Island is that there is a bridge that connects Valentia Island to the mainland about two miles down the road.  So, what is the purpose of the ferry?

That day, it's purpose was to divest me of money that could have been well spent on:

1) A drinking match with another Irishman who mistakenly believes this American boy can't make occasional good use of the "alcoholic gene" his dad warns him about on occasion; or

2) Two more saw dust Snickers; or

3) More finger puppet sized leprechauns.

What happens if my oldest daughter, Brittany, loses the finger puppet sized leprechaun I bought her?  She will fail out of Chico State, that's what!  So, Brittany, if this happens you blame the ferry at Valentia Island! 

Skip Valentia Island, everyone.  This part of Ireland looks exactly like the part of Ireland you left when you began your lengthy five minute boat ride.  However, if you really want that $10 life experience, bob away on the vast ocean between the peninsula and Valentia Island.  I'll admit it was kind of fun.

The Ring of Kerry and the Cliffs of Moher are by far the most scenic places you will find in Ireland.  That's saying a lot because the rest of the country is stunning too.  Ah, the Ring of Kerry, so beautiful:

When I first saw this particular view, I said to my wife that this would be the perfect cove to hide in if you were a pirate trying to evade the pesky Royal Navy.  I wasn't the only one who had this thought because it was indeed used by the O'Connell family for this exact purpose.  Incidentally, O'Connell was the first Catholic to be permitted to take a seat in the British Parliament.  Clear proof that politicians are an untrustworthy and unsavory sort.

As we returned close to Killarney, we visited the Torc falls.  At first blush, you think "What a nice, little mossy place", and it is. 

However, the best value here was the public bathroom.  The Ring of Kerry isn't exactly flush with bathrooms.

Irish grammar lesson coming ...

Notice I use the word "bathroom".  I've found out that this is a very American word that, on second thought, doesn't make a whole lot of sense.  As noted in an earlier blog, the Irish are rather blunt in telling you that you are using the wrong word.  You get a confused look if you ask for "gasoline".  After I asked one guy if a gas station was in his wee little town, he gave me some ridiculously vague directions to a pump that looked like it was installed in the 1930's and was surrounded by a whole bunch of broke down and rusted tractors.  As I was walking away, he stopped his gardening/digging and yelled to me that it is "petrol"!  So, in response I capitulated and would say "petrol".  In Ireland, they don't say "bathroom" or "restroom".  Most of us don't bathe in these places and we also don't "rest", as in "restroom". 

"Honey, I'm tired, perhaps we can find a bathroom to recline in for a while?"

In Ireland you call it what it is - a "toilet".  Although I wrapped my head around saying "petrol", I just couldn't bring myself to say "toilet".  It sounds so ... dirty and functional.

"May I use your toilet?"  I just couldn't do it.

By the way, there is no pretty way to clean this up.

"Excuse me, sir.  Do you have a porcelain receptacle for my poo?"

We made it to our hotel in Killarney which is located adjacent to the Muckross House.  It was rather late in the day, and I felt a longing for something American.  Hello, golden arches!  McDonalds is ubiquitous and provides you a bit of taste of home.  It also has free wifi everywhere in the world.  So, we located the golden arches, and were confronted with more of these guys:

WTF, Ireland!  Really?  Must you be the destination for all people Marxist?  More blue track suits fresh out of the wardrobe of Al Davis.  Enough with the track suit wearing tourists!  Shouldn't we just get all of them ball caps and Levis?  I wolfed down my Big Mac with cold war related thoughts of imminent nuclear annihilation swimming in my head.

My mother-in-law shamed me a bit about going to McDonalds.  She's right, but it is my purpose to support the golden arches wherever they may be located.  Also, you can sometimes find things on the menu that you can't in the U.S.  In Quebec, you can order poutine.  Poutine is french fries (tea party translation - "liberty fries") with gravy slathered all over.  I was disappointed to find nothing unique in the Irish McDonalds.  Not even a shamrock shake!  And this isn't surprising at all.  I've often heard that Irish food is bad.  How can it be?  With one exception to be noted in the next blog, it is the same as American food.  You want nachos and tacos?  They've got them in the pubs.

We ate our McDonalds and then took the lay of the land for tomorrow's visit in Killarney.  After that, it was right back to the hotel room to watch more soccer.  Thirteen channels and all you get is soccer and their version of Jerry Springer - Mr. Jeremy Kyle.  That's it.  I was expecting to see Darby O'Gill and the Little People on a repeating loop in Ireland, but nothing.

Darby, you will have to wait for another day when I can enjoy your antics with King Brian Connor of Knocknasheega.  Poor Darby, he's such confused friendly drunk, with his leprechaun friends and all:

I'm still looking for his leprechaun friend.  Little bastard keeps evading me.  Maybe better luck leprechaun hunting tomorrow in Killarney.

Lurk to Eat Just Like At In N Out

Day 5: (April 20, 2013) - The Emerald Isle

We are mid-vacation by this point, and things are starting to get a bit relaxing.  I have to admit to being pleasantly surprised to wake up, take a leisurely jog and then just walk down the street to visit the Ennis Friary. 

I should make a brief comment about the jog first.  I stepped off a curb to cross a street and almost got whacked by one of those crazy Irish drivers I have previously mentioned.  I'd love to blame the Irish, but the fault was entirely mine.  While I've grown used to driving on the left side of the road, as a pedestrian, I'm still bordering on "stupid".  We all know the drill to look both ways before you cross the street.  Same applies in Ireland, dummy. 

I was jogging about and looked left (you do that first because you expect the lane nearest to you to be filled with oncoming traffic coming from your left).  I see no oncoming traffic and (guess what) I take a step out and almost got roadkilled.  Have you ever noticed those tiny, furry spiders that can jump backwards about 10 times their body length.  I perfected this maneuver right there at Ennis.  The lady driving the car didn't even notice this awesome feat of athletic/spidery ability.  I think she was just glad she didn't have to find a cleaner that would wipe "American" off of her bumper. 

I narrowly avoided being roadkill.  Becoming roadkill in Ireland would be an outrage because there is very little roadkill in Ireland.  That is a fact.  We spent a lot of time in the car, and the only roadkill I noticed was on the largest freeway in Ireland.  The roadkill was a little snow-white lamb.  Aww!!!!  The only explanation that I have for this is that there just aren't that many animals of the "roadkill" class in Ireland.  It's an old country, and I think they've probably killed off most of the roadkill worthy animals.

Ask yourself right now how many travel blogs you have read that include an analysis of the roadkill.  None!  Here's the first.  The "roadkill" class is filled with any kind of animal you find roadkilled.  It's not hard to enter.  First, there are rodent types (i.e., squirrels, rabbits, moles).  Then perhaps the small predatory types (i.e., foxes, bobcats).  Then we have the large herbivore types (i.e., deer, vegans).  Then we have the domestic types (i.e., cats, dogs).  You might suppose that I would fall into the predatory class (subtle lawyer joke), but I'm more of the domestic type.  In any event, I was able to avoid catastrophe and used the church spire/steeple method (the Ennis Friary) to find my way back to O'Connell street in Ennis and our hotel. 

Just a five minute walk away from the hotel was this place - Ennis Friary. 

For those of you who don't know, a "friar" is not a roast chicken but a member of a mendicant religious order (i.e., the Franciscans, Dominicans). 

80's cartoon flashback, picture Porky Pig in his friar habit. 

The Friary was indeed a church, chapter house and dormitory which housed the local Franciscans.  It was built under the patronage of the O'Brien family.  Because Friars are a mendicant religious order, they rely upon alms for their support.  They don't grow crops etc.  As such, their friaries were small, and they owned no land. Not having to rely on agriculture meant they could be embedded in an urban area in order to aid the poor.  In any event, the Franciscans had the O'Brien family to thank for this beautiful friary.  The first part of it was built in the mid-13th century.  It is very likely that some of the friars who first arrived here knew St. Francis personally.  I'm very fond of St. Francis, so this fact struck me. 

Eventually, those rascally English arrived.  That meant that most property was confiscated and given to the English.  If your property was confiscated, you could get a smaller portion of it back if you apostatized.  That is a fancy word for quitting the whole Catholic thing.  The O'Briens did just that, but they didn't mean it.  There is a nice story of the O'Briens convincing the local English authorities that the friar that they kept in the dormitory at Ennis Friary was certifiably crazy.  And that story, though entirely untrue, saved the life of this poor friar who was beloved by the O'Brien family. 

Take this moment to discuss the philosophical question as to whether it is sometimes good to lie.  All done?  OK.

I'm told that if you look around Ennis you can find certain homes with a small cross above the front door.  This indicated a home that hid a friar from the English.  I took that on faith from the docent at Ennis Friary, and didn't start snooping around doorways.

Off to Bunratty Castle.  Bunratty is one of those places that fully restored a castle and then added some other touristy things around it that you can see.  For example, there was a house for just about every era in Irish history.  These all pretty much looked the same and the only difference was size and whether the floor was compacted earth or stone.  Every one of them was burning turf, so the whole place smelled like we were about to start a barbecue and drink beer.  Alas, no.  The castle itself was rather impressive.  Here is a picture of the castle.

One cool thing about Bunratty is that each of the four battlements has a tiny stairway to the top that winds around and around in a circular motion.  I got to play hero by holding my wife's hand all the way up and then down in each of the four battlements.  Apparently, she gets a bit claustrophobic and feels a bit of vertigo all at once. 

Philosphical question here:  Do I get to play hero if I'm at the same time gently mocking my wife for these things.  No?  I suppose not.  Those "old lady" comments are entirely insensitive.  I'm surprised she hasn't dumped me after 23 years of marriage.  Pays to be good looking, right guys?

Side Note:  That was a joke!  So, stop that little voice of condemnation in your head or (at the very least) that voice that says "He isn't good looking!"

On another note, I saw Nico Bellic from Grand Theft Auto IV at Bunratty:

I believe that eastern Europe, and Russia in particular, emptied all of their euro-trash into Bunratty.  The cliché of pasty skinned, track pant wearing low life degenerates made evident in Grand Theft Auto IV is realized!  The Irish couldn't do it on their own, so they've imported the Russian tourist.  These guys sulked lazily around Bunratty with their menacing glances.  I saw the track pants first and before I could tell my wife to check out Nico Bellic in Ireland, the accent confirmed my "this guy has got to be Russian" suspicion. 

Why so pissed to be in Ireland, Vlad?  In all likelihood, the Irish are probably sick of all of us.  At least we Americans don't sport the blue track paints with those sleek racing stripes cascading down the leg.  However, we are easily spotted as Americans by two things: 1) baseball caps and 2) denim (particularly Levi's 501's).  I left the ball cap behind but my 501's begged that I drag them along.  I capitulated.  My only regret is that I don't have acid wash 501's.  Then I could join Vlad in a Bunratty cold war showdown and we could menace each other on the battlements while dressed in our own ethnic dress.  It didn't happen and sometimes travel represents opportunity lost.  Mostly, it represents opportunity which brings me to our next adventure.

On our way back to Ennis, we did a bit of an "off the beaten track" thing.  Guess what????  We found another abbey/church.  This one is Quinn Abbey:

 

Now, let's just take a minute to sink this in.  You find this stuff laying around like old rags in Ireland.  This side-trip started out as a little church symbol on an exit sign and turned into this incredible abbey built in 1402.  It actually looks intact from this picture, but nobody is home.  There we were, dodging cow turds and grave sites as we circumnavigated this abbey.  We had the whole place to ourselves and this structure was also home to a castle built in 1350.  You can actually see the battlements and a portion of the 7 foot thick castle wall on the back side.  Stunning really.

Upon our return to Ennis, it was time to get our drink on once again.  This time we ended up at the Poet's Corner.

For those of you who know me well, you must realize that I pretty much hate In N' Out Burger.  The food is o.k. (though over-hyped).  What I really hate is the crowds - most of them from Oregon by the way.  Don't I sound like the worst of old codgers here?  Anyway, you sit there eating while somebody is lurking over your shoulder just waiting to get the slightest indication that you might be getting up to leave.  As soon as you move, your warmed seat is occupied by the lurker's butt.  Alternately, you get to lurk for someone to leave.  And don't you really hate that warm "stranger butt" feeling you get when you slide onto that plastic bench? 

In any event, we walked into the Poet's Corner and immediately commenced the "lurker" role.  We got some help from a waitress and slid into a table at around 8:00 p.m.  Kids can occupy a pub until about 8:00 p.m. and then they have to skeedaddle.  That means we hit it just about right.  Our table was just to the left in this picture.  Normally, upon sitting at a table in a crowded bar I would take on the role of Scooby Doo ghost and try to scare other people away from sitting at our table. 

And I generally inspire this reaction:

However, we wanted to hang out with the locals, and that is what we did.  Enter Fergal and Martina.  Martina is not a very Irish name, and I was going to ask her about it, but we were too busy engaging in the hustle and bustle of the Irish "I'm too polite to stop drinking" game.  The way it works is Fergal buys a round and then I must buy a round.  Then, of course, it would be impolite for Fergal to not buy a round, and then I buy another round.  Pretty soon you are pretty drunk, but you've been very polite.

However, Fergal did not count on my amazing ability to metabolize alcohol.  This meant that we both spent a lot more money on Guinness than either he or I intended.  Particularly when it comes to Guinness, I can drink the stuff all night with no ill effects.  Fergal held up pretty well - which meets with my stereotype of an Irish male.  However, Martina didn't fare so well.  I've noticed that the Irish men drink Guinness and Guinness only.  My love, having divested herself of the belief that she actually liked Guinness, tried a couple of near-Guinness alternatives (i.e., Smithwicks, Murphy's), and Fergal had never even had a taste of either.

I also observed that Irish women drink Guinness or chardonnay.  Yep, the ladies like the wine over there.  Anyway, the chardonnay didn't do Martina any favors because she got to the point where she couldn't string a sentence together and was "pass out with the head on the table" drunk.  In summary, I'll call Fergal v. Lord Vader a draw.  Lord Vader's Wife v. Martina is an easy win for my wife.  America "1" and Ireland "0". 

I really enjoyed the company.  You know you are comfortable with someone when that chap subtlety flips you the middle finger in response to a joke you've made.  Thanks, Fergal for that bit of obscenity, and I think we would be famous friends for life if I ever settled down in Ennis.

Well, the band of Irish minstrels went on and on.  Eventually we mutually agreed to call it quits for the evening.  I believe Fergal reluctantly waived the white flag to try to salvage his poor wife who emerged battle weary, slurry, sloppy and worn.  Fergal took his wife into his car with the disappointment that his wife is far too drunk for the love making and also the sad reality that there was going to be a bit of barf cleaning the next morning.  My love and I retired feeling happy and contented with a wonderful time had.

I love Ireland.

Day 1 of Getting Our Drink On!

Day 4: (April 19, 2013) - The Emerald Isle

We left Castlebar relatively early (10:00 ish) in order to get on down to Galway.  Ireland is a small country, so we were in Galway before noon.  Galway is a university town.  That means fun.  And here is downtown!

In general, college kids are poor and that means that if you can turn a euro or two, you do it.  In Galway's case, that means street music.  On the street pictured above, bunches of shaggy kids who look like they are still trying to sleep off last night's drunken revelry supply you with some of the most lovely Irish music you will hear.  Stand by, listen, give them one of those cool looking 2 euro coins and you are on your way a better man.  Here's what we saw:

One cool thing about traveling in Ireland is that if you are ever concerned about finding the city center, just look for the tallest church spire and drive toward it.  It's as simple as that.  We found the cathedral in Galway in this fashion.  My bride almost got run over by both car and pedestrian while trying to take a picture of the cathedral.  Here's the cathedral:

While we were inspecting the interior, I heard bells.  I look towards the altar and on come a priest, a couple of laypeople, altar servers etc.  I casually and smugly advised that they must be there to pray the Angelus.  That only takes about 15 minutes.  Wrong catholic smug dork!  My love and I are already getting a work out with all the catholic gymnastics of standing and kneeling by the time I realize that we just got caught up in mass.  Mass = 45 minutes to 1 hour.  A knowing look to Fighting Fitzgerald, a casual nod, and a quiet escape and we were out of there.  I'm praying, singing, standing, kneeling and then I guess I'm just too busy to stick around to the end.  I admit that I won the Catholic douchebag of the day award.  I couldn't exactly find out which pub in Galway bestowed this award, so I don't really have a picture of it to show you.  I'm sure its nice (but not as nice as Matt Molloy's Grammies).  It is probably on its way in the mail.

We left the cathedral and found ourselves in the St. Nicholas Collegiate Church.  Here's a picture.

The other thing you should know about my spider-sense is that it has another component to it which is not directly related to travel.  I walk into this church from a side-entrance and immediately my spidey-sense starts tingling.  This other component of spidey-sense tells me when things aren't exactly as they should be ... something is perhaps . ..amiss.

Here spidey-sense is telling me that maybe I'm not in a Catholic church after all.  It had a lot of the Catholic trappings which I expect.  It is named after some saint, there is an altar, a couple of statues, stained glass, and people buried here or there in the church (I know, weird huh!).  I did notice, however, that the word "collegiate" was a bit unusual.  I also noticed some battle flags and a monument to those killed in WWI.  Battle flags ... hmmm ...

What church might have such a close link between its government and its religion?  Of course, the Church of England!  Apparently, what we have here is an Anglican church.  Immediately I began to look for invading Englishmen who might want to separate my body from my head.  Oh yeah, spidey-sense was dead on. 

After nine months of being under a siege marked by death, famine and starvation, Galway surrendered to Cromwell's forces on April 12, 1652.  Despite the terms of the truce, many of the able-bodied were packaged off as slaves to Barbados.  Apparently, the English were equal opportunity slavers.  Cromwell's boys tore down six of the seven churches within the city and kept one for themselves.  They gave it a practical use by stabling horses there. 

What better way to say "f**k you" to the conquered than to have your war horses crap all over their sacred spaces.  And now let me tell you what I really think about your religion!  Oh well, the spoils of war and all that.  The English did a lovely job of returning it to its former dignity, however.

After a lovely little lunch at The Skeff (see picture below), we went to the Cliffs of Moher.

 
If you ever find yourself at the Cliffs of Moher, don't jump!  The Cliffs of Moher are 700 feet straight down to a lovely bed of jagged rocks.  Witness this lovely picture:

Apparently, cliff jumping for all the wrong reasons is rather popular at the Cliffs of Moher.  It is a bit of a bummer to read signs put up by the Samaritans that request that you kindly give a call and talk to someone before you do something stupid like jump off the Cliffs!

We caught the Cliffs of Moher on a lovely day.  Yes, we were surrounded by more Nico Bellic look alikes, but all very lovely.  Having experienced some of the most stunning views over the Dingle Bay, we loaded up and made it to Ennis.

Ennis is a nice little town that once was a bit of an island made by rivers.  The name means island.  Apparently, that helped to hold off the English (for a while).  We rolled in to Ennis in the late afternoon.  I had no idea where to go to find our hotel, but I used the aforementioned "drive towards the tall church" method, and it worked out fine.  Here's a perfect example of how we worked this at Ennis.

Drive to the pointy place at the end.  Where you find the Church, you find downtown.  Our hotel is off an alley halfway down this street.  Pretty easy, right? 

I titled this post as "Day 1 of Getting Our Drink On".  Yes, of course, there has been Guinness drinking prior to this time.  But because our hotel was right in the middle of this mess shown in the picture, I was able to consume beverages without fear of having a "hit and run" on a leprechaun after a pub visit. So, my love and I engaged in a bit of a pub crawl.  The first place we hit was Knox's.  It seemed o.k. at first.  Then I noticed that my pretty wife was one of two girls in this pub full of guys watching soccer (and I know its "football" everywhere but in the U.S.). That other girl was not a looker - black stocking with a run dragging its way up her ample thigh.  That kind of thing. In any event, we had found the Irish version of "Charlie's Lounge".  An Irish meat market if you will.  Well after my wife jiggled every male eyeball in that pub when she squeezed her way through all these guys to find the restroom, we got out of there.

Inner Dialogue In My Head At the Irish Meat Market:

1.  Hmmm.  Lot's of guys here.  If one of these guys hits on my wife, how far is too far?  Small talk is ok (I'm reasonable after all).   

What next?

2.  When I show up to rescue her, if the offending meat head treats me like I'm getting in on his action, I'm probably going to get upset. 

And now a consideration of consequences ...

3.  And how long do they keep Americans in jail in this country?  Would I have to come back for trial months down the road (too expensive) or can I just pay a fine and go?  Maybe they allow you to pay a small fine for a couple of punches thrown and a choke or two?  That must be it.

In perfect peace because I've drawn boundaries ...

4.  OK, I'm feeling better, so keep an eye out for the wife as she comes back from the restroom.

Needless to say, I couldn't relax at Knox's.  Watching sports with dudes is typically my thing, but I needed a safer haven. 

Off to "Brogans".  And we ended our evening there listening to music played by some people who filter in with their instruments over the course of an hour or so.  Eventually, we had the best seat in the music room.  I start with Irish whiskey and then "glub, glub" (sound of me drinking Guinness).  Wait for it ... there's that warm glow of the Irish pub experience.  And this isn't a concert experience.  It's much more casual.  The players play, relax, chat, drink, then the person with the violin will just start playing a couple of bars of music.  The other players set their drinks down, and off they go for 15 minutes or so.  After they've worn out, its back to repeat the process until they've had enough. 

They outlasted us, and that ended a really wonderful day!

And Now We're Frickin Shopping!

Day 3: (April 18, 2013) - The Emerald Isle

We woke up in Castlebar and wondered what the heck we were supposed to do.  A guy we met before we got turf fired and boozed at Matt Malloy's pub told us to go to the Museum of Country Life and also the Foxford Woolen Mills.

Let's get started with the Museum of Country Life.  That place was interesting, but I'm pretty sure I need to be treated for depression now.  The potato famine killed about one million people in Ireland and another seven million emigrated to the U.S.  The current population is only about five million, so this gives you an idea of the magnitude of the problem when the potato crops gave out.  It also explains why we have so many darned people of Irish descent in this country.  The police department of every sizeable town in this country thanks you, Ireland. 

In any event, here you have people with hardly any clothes, straw made furniture (not kidding), and straw made boats (not kidding), straw made belts (not kidding) etc.  Basically, the Irish cut down all their trees (burning wood = warmth) and so these poor folks lived in stone built houses with dirt floors and made as much stuff out of straw as possible.  The only thing of true value to the Irish was their Catholic faith.  Add poverty, starvation and persecution, and the Christian faith blossoms.  Add wealth and acceptance and it withers.  Ponder that for a while.  Have you mulled it over?  Accept it, and thank me later.

I suppose if Karl Marx showed up in an Irish village and starting hectoring some poor, straw shoe wearing Irish farmer about religion being the "opiate of the masses" Karl's day would have ended up badly by being strung him up with a noose made of (oh, let's see...) STRAW.

The Museum of Country Life is located at Turlough Park.  This happens to be the ancestral home of the Fitzgeralds.  I'm told that my wife is some gazillion times removed from the Fitzgeralds, so we might have been stalking the home of one of her forefathers.  Here's the Fitzgerald family by the way.

Notice that little squint playfully flying the kite?  Well, this little sh*t grew up to be "Fighting Fitzgerald".  George was his real name, and George is what the Irish call a "fire eater".  What is a fire eater?  It means he was a duelist.  Grown up Georgie must have taken offense quite easily because he killed a whole bunch of people until his days of easy offense and pistol shooting were stopped by a noose in Castlebar.  The peaceful little guy leaning up against dad inherited the estate, and the Fitzgeralds purportedly kept breeding until my wife appears somewhere down the line.  I thank you Fitzgeralds!  Sometimes the ghost of "Fighting Fitzgerald" arises in my home, and I now understand.

From the front lawn of the Fitzgerald ancestral home, we noticed this:

This kind of thing happens all over Ireland.  You are driving about and to your left and right are ruins of old churches, castles, abbeys etc.  This is the Round Tower at Turlough Park.  It was built in the 900's.  Keep in mind that this was the time when the Vikings were raiding Ireland.  Here it is perfectly intact.  The structure next to it is a church that was built in 1625.  Of course, an ancient graveyard surrounds the whole place, so you can't walk up to it or around it without stomping on all sorts of Murphy's, Murrays, O'(add any name here - the Irish have you covered) and Mc (same deal as with "O").  How does McDeWalt sound?  O'Barry maybe?  No?  O'Shutup?  I like that one.

The dead and the living have to get along somehow, and its done by playing a game resembling both hop scotch and twister.  You do this by estimating from the headstone where the body may be and you JUMP! ~ By this means you may avoid any kind of unintended desecration. It rained on us while we were inspecting this marvel of human engineering, and I didn't find any leprechauns or vikings (other than my wife), so it was off to the Foxford Woolen Mills.

Here's a picture of its dramatic entrance (sarcasm intended) of the Foxford Woolen Mills:

Right now some of the ladies are starting to get that itching feeling that a male rant about shopping is about to occur.  You're right.  Don't get me wrong, this is a nice place.  I'm genuinely happy that my bride got her shopping buzz on (sarcasm not intended).  When I conjured up my mental image of these woollen works, I had thoughts of a huge stone building filled with orphaned girls who were learning a trade from the nuns so they wouldn't starve etc.  Well, it very well may have been that way in the 19th century, but now it kind of had the feel of an Irish Ikea.

For those of you who don't know, I had a huge meltdown at Ikea in Sacramento once.  I'll admit that it came very nearly close to what you might see out of a three year old in need of a nap.  I believe Fighting Fitzgerald was there as well, and the net result was a whole push cart of stuff being abandoned right there in the aisle right next to where they sell those meatballs.  There is just something about that angular, austere Swedish furnishing and its ever-present threat of hours of cluelessness and near tool-throwing that will occur after I've bought Sweden in a box that just gets me going.  More to the point - their furniture sucks. Can't we all just agree that it is ugly?

In any event, I was starting to feel an Ikea rant coming on, but I mellowed because I was on vacation, and my wife was really happy.  So, I sat my butt down on some chair I'm not sure I was supposed to sit on and put on that bored look on my face that we husbands get when these things happen.  I did see some yarn being made into a blanket through a glass window in a door.  That was the only "milling" I saw. That's close to my mental image, right?

Travel Shopping Rule #1 - If it isn't made in the place where you are, it doesn't count!!!  My love found some ceramic owls which she thought she might buy for the girls.  When I inquired as to whether she was safely within the parameters of Travel Shopping Rule #1, she turned them over and you can guess what we saw ...  come on ... play along ... it was ... it was ... "Republic of China"!  A clear violation.  Chinese ceramic owls do not count as an Irish gift, and China is not a republic!  I insisted on their disqualification on both grounds, and my bride ultimately found something much more Irishy.  You are welcome, love.

Now for the part of the day where we drive for three hours, right?  You've been waiting for that I know.  We got in the car for some more left-hand side of the road torture and drove up to Ballina, over to Bangor and then South to Ballycroy National Park.  A strange thing happened on the way ... I saw trees.  It was explained to me at the Park that some genius in the government got the notion that Ireland should be returned to its natural, forested state.  Sounds good except it kills off the bogs.  Here's what the bogs look like:

At Ballycroy, you have the strange situation where the bogs (which flourished because all the trees were cut) are protected against the government's own efforts to reforest Ireland.  I guess you just have to choose one form of "natural" over another.  In any event, you could tramp right out in the patch of brown just ahead in the picture, dig up some turf, and burn it in your fireplace once it has dried out.  It will take over a thousand years to regenerate, but you could do it.  However, I don't recommend this as a suitable home heating fuel.  If you want the inside of your house to smell like you just lit up some coals in a hibachi on your living room floor, burn turf.  See ... I've learned from my Irish correction suffered earlier in my trip ... I did not refer to the turf as "peat".

While walking on this path in the drizzle, I had a Heathcliff moment.  For those of you who remember high school English class, you may have had to read about that brooding hunk "Heathcliff".  This guy was dreamed up by one of those Bronte sisters in her novel "Wuthering Heights".  So, here I am in the exact same environment as "Wuthering Heights", my wife is next to me, she's pretty, I'm a jerk like Heathcliff and all that is left for me to do is take off my shirt embrace my wife and let the rain wash us clean.  Very romantic!  Well, it didn't go down like that because I was cold and wet.  I did take my first opportunity to go all red neck and pee on the bog.  On behalf of the people of America, I apologize to you Ireland for peeing on your bogs - not only my own but the pee of any other American as well.  But Ireland, you must know that I have the bladder of a squirrel, and it just seemed like the right thing to do at the moment.  But yeah, I'm sorry.

We left Ballycroy and made our way to a cool pub called Grainne Uaile in Newport.  Here it is:

We were very happy to get to Newport, and this pub was nice.  Here's my problem, and you knew there was going to be a problem, right?  The atmosphere inside looked Irish, but I was besieged by the french language.  The family next to us was French, so I spent most of my time picking at my food and wondering, "What the f**ck are those people saying?"  None of my business, of course.  Not their fault either.  I imagine if I was French I'd probably speak french as well.  I guess I would have to.  More disturbing than the french, however, was the Spanish language music I heard.  Damn right!!  Frickin Spanish music in an Irish pub.  That sh*t ain't right!  Do we really have to bring Mexico to Ireland!  I left very confused.

Oh well, we dried out, paid for our food and left what was otherwise a very cool pub.  It was County Mayo's pub of the year in 2006.  Just look at the picture!  We closed out our trip by returning to Breaffy House in Castlebar.  All in all, this was our best day so far.  I'm writing this weeks after we've returned, but the memories make me happy.  That is how I know that we had fun, and that is how you judge a vacation.

World, You Are Welcome!

Day 2: (April 17, 2013) - The Emerald Isle

You know, its kind of nice to sleep in a bit after a stressful day of travel.  Might as well, turn on the t.v. and watch that for a while in bed.  It was drizzling outside, so why not?  Besides, when you travel taking in a bit of t.v. is also part of understanding the culture.  Have you ever watched the Simpsons in french?  I have, and it was enlightening.  While channel surfing I discovered that we Americans owe the world an apology.  We have exported Jerry Springer.  Except, in the U.K./Ireland, Jerry Springer is named Jeremy Kyle.  Here he is:

Jerry Springer kind of comes off as a gentle soul who is empathetically trying to help people sort through their issues.  That is why after 40 minutes of cussing, throwing chairs and tossing about 1,000 pounds of red neck flesh on his stage, Jerry really grounds us (sarcasm intended) with some softly spoken moral advice.  Jeremy Kyle has all the same zoo animals present on his show, but he makes no pretense at providing direction.  Apparently, the British way is to tell your guest exactly what a total, worthless piece of sh*t he/she is.  So, as I lay in bed, Mr. Kyle is found following his guests about (they can't escape him) while berating them and waiving a slip of paper above his head which purports to contain either DNA or lie detector results.  Just look at his picture!  Don't you just want to smack that smug look right off of his face?  He is soooooo intense!

The good news is that the U.K.'s white trash look pretty much like our own, except (of course) the British have awful teeth, they aren't as fat and they dress slightly better.  Witness:

Thanks to Mr. Kyle's British guests and my own observation of the Irish, I've developed a radical new theory as to why the British have treated the Irish like a red-headed step child throughout history.  Was it racial prejudice, greed or religion?  No.  The British are simply envious of Irish teeth.  If you can't fix your own teeth, it wouldn't quite be fair to let those other chaps on the next island over keep their perfect teeth would it.  So, my theory is both orthodontic and democratic because everyone loses.

I realize I haven't gotten to the travel portion of today's blog, but this is important.  I do try to educate.  I want to recommend you catch Monday and Wednesday's episodes of The Jeremy Kyle Show on the internet as follows:

Monday: Which one of my children stole my bingo winnings?  (plug in that lie detector)

Wednesday: I only started sleeping with your sister when we broke up! (so we're cool then?)

You are probably wondering why I haven't described any travel yet.  Here's the answer:  What comes next has absolutely no interest to any of you.  We went to Knock.  What happened at Knock, you say?  Well, gather up your rosaries, sit down by the fire, and I'll tell ya.  In 1879, the Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, St. John the Evangelist and a sacrificial lamb (this represents Jesus for all you non-Christians reading) appeared all glowing white against the back wall of the church in the middle of the night.  The first person saw it and ran to get most everyone else in the town out there to see it, and they all stood there dumbfounded for about two hours as the image glowed.  I like to think of it as kind of like a really holy drive-in movie but without audio.  Here is a picture of the shrine located on the exact spot this occurred:

Now, I know what you non-Catholics are thinking.  You think we Catholics are always in an uproar about these things and hurry about worshipping images of Jesus or Mary which appear in cornflake shape or perhaps on a piece of toast.  Yet, it will please you to know that you aren't supposed to worship an image, even if were to appear on something you really want to eat.  Also, the Church has only approved a handful of such Marian Apparitions as genuine.  Knock is one of them.  And so we went to the site.  They had a pretty cool museum with stuff from the visits made by John Paul II and Mother Theresa.  Strangely enough, they don't let you handle these things.

After getting drizzled on a bit at Knock, we got in our super-cool rental Renault and headed to Castlebar to check into the Breaffy House.  Lovely place, but also somewhat "hamster-home like" (see Day 1 blog).  Here it is:

We didn't stay long because I really needed to swill more Guinness.  That means we had to take the 20 minute drive into Westport.  Why?  Because my second pilgrimage of the day had to occur at this specific location:



This little pub is owned by a fella named Matt Molloy.  Mr. Molloy is the flautist (relax, that means flute player even if it sounds naughty when you say it out loud) for the Irish music mainstay "The Chieftains".  Ah, the Chieftains have provided me hours of musical joy (especially at Christmas), and so I felt it only necessary to spend some money at Mr. Molloy's pub.  He wasn't there but his two Grammy's were just sitting there behind the bar.

Anyway, Stacy discovered that she doesn't like Guinness very much after years of telling me and lots of other people that she does.  I drank most of hers (I'm helpful) while we sat by a turf fire in the back.  Yep, they burn peat here.  Peat is just decayed organic matter and it looks like clay when you dig up.  Some chap back in the prehistoric times figured you could burn this stuff if you just dug it up and dried it out. I'm not sure how you dry anything out in Ireland, but they did it!  It basically smells like burning charcoal.  By the way, you don't call it a peat fire. It's a turf fire.  The Irish are very quick to sort you out on these things immediately after they come out of your mouth.

One delusion that I carried with me to Ireland is that everyone would think I was interesting.  After all, here's a chap with an American accent dragging his pretty wife into our tiny obscure pub in our rural village.  Shouldn't we get up and go talk to him, make inquiries, even buy him a drink?  No.  They pretty much just leave you alone.  Everyone over there has American relatives.  At least during spring and summer, Ireland is lousy with Americans even though we only saw a handful in our travels.  My only means of standing out was the terrible sunburn I acquired at my kid's baseball game just before we left.  The Irish have probably never even seen a sunburn, but I didn't get any attention for that either.  And that's probably a good thing.

So, no, I didn't get treated to free Guinness because I come from America.  That was a disappointment.  Don't get me wrong.  The Irish like Americans and they are mildly curious about you, but not in the order of magnitude I expected.  To illustrate, my only exposure to foreigners growing up were the Swedish foreign exchange students at our high school.  And I gave them as much attention as possible, but only because they were Swedish, pretty and female.  That kind of expectation just doesn't fly in Ireland.  Also, I'm not pretty or female.  Stacy is, but they didn't even bother her.  In this regard, those people are seriously messed up.

Anyway, Stacy and I vacated Matt Molloy's and returned to the Breaffy House.  We did drink a bit more at the hotel pub while watching soccer (excuse me, football).  Thus ends Day 2.