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.
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