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.
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