Sven & Ula Do Ireland: Part 4
Five Palmvilleians took a trip to Ireland in 2003.
Ula & Inga Josephson, Sven Guyson, Monique Le Blanc, and Heidi Svensdottir
Parts 1 and Part 2 were published between 2003 and 2010.
Part 3 was published in 2017: The Rock of Cashel.
Part 4 is just a bunch of blarney.
One thing about visiting Ireland in February (2003) is the relative lack of tourists and the privacy lent those low numbers at places like the Rock of Cashel. Sven appreciated the ability to get away by himself to savor and sense the environment without competing for it with two hundred other people all vying for the same space.
https://www.cashel.ie/
That day in February there were only eight. There were no lines and little waiting. Outdoor temperatures were 60° warmer in Ireland compared to the below zero temps they were used to in Northern Minnesota, even though Inga, Heide and Ula wished they would’ve brought long johns and Sven and Monique were glad they did. Sven had even packed his wool-red ‘n black plaid deer camp jacket at the last moment.
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| Rock of Cashel |
Walking the grounds Sven stood and looked out across the green landscape as far as he could see and wondered how it may have changed over the passage of time. It would be interesting to see a slide show of each century from that promontory up to present day. Inga suggested to Ula that they stop in the town of Cashel for tea and pastries before driving on to Blarney, a suggestion that made the normally sedate sixteen year old Heide almost burst in supportive agreement.
One of the busier coffee shops they visited, The Bake House was bustling with business. Its three floors made the place visually interesting as well as its wooden railing stairways lead up a flower-patterned papered wall to two floors of cozy nooks and fireplaces and homey tables, dormer-style ceilings and windows overlooking the narrow street.
Monique, Inga and Ula were silhouettes at a 3rd floor window table with a view of the Rock of Cashel by the time Sven and Heide reached the last step, their pastries and drinks on trays. Traffic passed by below, semis with huge numbers painted on the roof of the van and tractor cab. Sven saw small cars, multi-axled straight trucks; pedestrians, and dogs with short legs. Shops were close together to get as many shops into the small area as possible and still get a car between the back of one shop and the front of another. The sight of vehicles on the left side of the road, and in intersections, still seemed wrong to their American eyes and they anticipated seeing collisions that never materialized.
Their sweet-tooths and appetites satisfied, it was on to Blarney Castle and Blarney the sight of their next B&B. https://blarneycastle.ie/
The low tourist numbers made the visit to Blarney Castle even more spectacular as it seemed to simply loom into view from behind the trees that conceal it on its estate. Had there been scores of people there that day the mood would’ve been lost and their voices and laughter, the antics of children and their cries would’ve spoiled their time. The Palmville Party could stroll leisurely along the walk and look at tiny flowers pushing through the soil along a babbling brook, a canal of stonework that burbled beneath a small bridge. Rooks or crows dominated the treetops and flew in great numbers from tree to tree, ever cawing and causing disturbance throughout the day.
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| Blarney Castle |
From high behind its battlements on the very top of the castle people looked down at Sven and his party, who in turn returned their gaze and wondered how they got there. It seemed too high to go without a lot of effort. Caves below the castle looked worth investigating but no one had brought a flashlight and the camera’s flash indicted its depth wasn’t great enough any more to warrant further exploration, as did common sense and little time allotted for spelunking in the first place.
Walkways lead past shorter towers that size-wise seemed like laid-block silos open at the top; and flower gardens not yet full-bloomed. The path led uphill to a great high stone wall that at one time encircled the castle and acted as an inner perimeter wall of defense, now covered on both sides with ivy vines and flowering climbers. Cats prowled the hedges for the nests of mice and birds, the latter of which were in abundance among the seemingly impregnable weave of thorn and vine.
Sven stood on the edge of a worn dirt path high over a brook that ran through a stone culvert cut through the base of the wall. A huge cedar tree with a trunk so big he had never seen the likes of before, was entwined with delicate ivy vines and whose exposed roots were worn from the steps of thousands of human feet. “From where?” he thought of this huge living thing. “How old can it be? What has it seen?”
Have ruins always held mystery? Have they always been of value for the eye? Have they always generated interest? Did they fall to ruin and looting after their use was no more? Laying forgotten until people raised question of their historical value and sought to save them for restoration or keepsake as happened to many historic sights across Minnesota and the United States.
There’s a passing of time Sven thought, between when buildings are used for their original purpose and when appreciative eyes and motivation are again involved in it. Those are the derelict days of abandonment and ruin. Those are the days of plunder and looting, of trash and burning; scavenging all, salvaging nothing. Those are the days of memory lost as the bits an pieces are scattered on the winds of time or treasured home in pockets or in bags over someone’s shoulder then traded, used up or discarded. The buildings, the stonework, what craftsmanship remains, stand as mute objects for the natural elements to slowly destroy as the sounds of voices, animals, birds; the smells of fragrant food, moldy clothes, pungent spoilage and waste, acrid odors of fowl and animal; the vivid images of history, the beauty of garden, the green of pasture, the sight of sheep grazing, the gore of butchering, the delight of feasts, and the lament of labor, decay with it because no one sought to ever record it.
In future time, Sven thought to himself, as Ireland grows again in population and masses begin moving out of the city is to live in the country where the real beauty lies, they’ll seek to change it than to adapt to the landscape left by history’s long dictation, and will bulldoze the stonewalls to enlarge fields, develop communities and build houses; the ruins will go too because someone will think them a blight on the community or unsafe. Some will think their time is past and it should pass away into history brooks with pictures and will sell it off as rubble or fill to make way for a gas and grocery business called, “Castle Convenience”, where at their Grand Opening they’ll give away key rings with a chunk of authentic castle stone glued onto it. “Sven is such a pessimist about humankind sometimes,” Ula says.
Their B&Bs were not reserved from night to night, so this enabled them to stay in any town they chose rather than reach specific towns in limited time, but it also left them looking for a B&B that was open in February. However, they had very little trouble finding one even then. (They’re all over the place). Deciding to stay in the town of Blarney with its woolen mills and shops wasn’t hard. They saw a sign at a place that offered live music that evening so the group decided on looking for a B&B there instead of driving on. They found a very nice place and settled into two rooms. Its host Ann welcomed them warmly and offered them tea and coffee downstairs after they unpacked; superb!
Ann was a graciously kind woman, full of information and glad to share it. They liked her immediately and she them. Inga asked if she knew if the pub uptown would have live music and Ula inquired how far it was into town if they could walk it or if there was a taxi service; Ann offered to take the group into town and pick them up, plus if Heide wanted to go ‘home’ early as Sven inquired, Ann would come and get her too.
Now this isn’t saying that in tourist season she’d do that, but they were the only people staying there aside from one business man, so things were slow. Ann’s husband was a police detective who specialized in white collar crime. “He investigates people who, you know, live beyond their means…”. Sven felt suddenly conspicuous for some reason and excused himself, saying he needed something upstairs in their room.
The group decided that it wasn’t that far into town and they’d walk the distance—and walk back; they could always call Ann if they decided not to. The night was pleasant, the town small and the streets, although dark, were safe. The group walked in single file along the narrow sidewalk back towards town; the Blarney Castle in the distance, was illuminated in soft blue spotlights yet set-off from the town, not dominating it.
Ireland is very energy-conservative. The countryside is dark as well as are many of the streets in the small rural towns. Outdoor lights are few except in business districts and offer, not threat, but atmosphere as what lights there were stand out as tiny beacons in the night. As the group neared Blarney they walked out of the darkness into a storybook-like village with little shops, the pubs being the centers of activity. The colors and ornate woodwork trim of the buildings, the incandescent lanterns outside, suggested a facade of carnival or resort accommodations, but they were real businesses in a real town in Ireland. It’s just the way it is, it’s not put-on.
The pub they went to adjoined a hotel. The building was very old, the rooms upstairs had once had each a bell and clapper in a row above one of the doors downstairs when necessary to notify the manager, their assemblage still in place on the wall. Old-fashioned woodwork trimmed all doors and windows inside and were painted a dark green against a pale yellow wall. The check-in counter was little more than a pulpit and only commanded a corner of the front waiting room. The reservation book carried under the acting manager’s arm was put away. She then became their waitress and set them in a spacious corner booth.
Although perhaps the ruination of many a man and boy, women not withstanding, pubs that the Palmville Party visited were, with three exceptions, quiet places that served good food and complemented conversation more so than discouraged it. So it was at this pub in Blarney that the locals stood near the bar watching soccer, and the bartender in his white shirt tie and black gartered sleeves commanded his bar, its gleaming bottled mirror behind him. Listening to their accents and conversations was entertaining and so familiar; they could all have been Americans in neighborhood bar in South Milwaukee, for instance—or small town Union Pier in Illinois, eh Liz?
The food was pretty good; the service fast, the prices reasonable and atmosphere, pleasant, not rowdy. However, at Ula and a Inga’s age, the mind may be willing but the body weak…Live music seemed a little too demanding after the fatigue of jet lag, good exercise and a good meal so late in the evening.
They looked into the pub that offered live music, but there would not be a band there that night they were told, so they decided to walk back ‘home’ and go to bed, instead. Monique and Heide liked that idea, climbing all those steps at Blarney Castle was very tiring and the two of them especially were ready for sleep.
Sven's historical imagination is as vivid as his descriptions of the Irish landscape and its ruins.
ReplyDeleteWhat a joy to read about these intrepid adventurers who came out of nowhere (i.e., northwest Minnesota) to explore that "green and pleasant land" - 'er, I think that's England - Ireland could be described as Leprechaun-invested, porridge-drowned, potato-ridden, shamrock-shaken smidgen of an island in the wide world, a country that perhaps has had as much influence as ancient Rome. At least so think Americans of Irish descent, or not - one doesn't have to have Irish DNA to claim ancestors from the Emerald Isle.
ReplyDeleteMy favorite part of this narrative is the part about the pub and the locals. Makes me remember my entrance into my first English pub in the heart of the Midlands, on my birthday wherein a gaggle of trusty coal miners sang me the apropos song. They did so because my English father-in-law, a local himself, had whispered the fact of that special day to the sturdy miners. Thanks for the memories, WW.