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!