Irish Road Trip and Pub Tour – Day 2

Clonakilty is famous for is their ‘black pudding’. Black pudding (or blood pudding, blood sausage) is made by cooking down the blood of an animal with meat, fat or filler until it is thick enough to congeal when cooled.


April 7, 2005 – Second Day in Ireland

Famous Black Pudding
After a mere 4 hours sleep or so, we were up and raring to go on our first leg of the road trip. First, we needed food.

Clonakilty is famous for is their ‘black pudding’. Black pudding (or blood pudding, blood sausage) is made by cooking down the blood of an animal with meat, fat or filler until it is thick enough to congeal when cooled. Sounds yummy, no? It’s a staple in any authentic Irish breakfast. Actually I like it. I’ve had it before an, to be honest, I couldn’t tell you if this is the best. Some others on the trip were too freaked out to eat it when no one would fess up to the ingredients. It’s kinda like a dirty water dog in NY—you just eat, enjoy and don’t ask questions.

The real beauty of the Irish breakfast is that it can sustain you thru a good chunk of the day. Well, most folks I suppose. I still suffer from a metabolism whose level nears the point of obscenity. Still this shaved an hour or two off of my normal eating (more like grazing) regimen, so that helped a bit.

Speaking of grazing, there are sheep everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Apparently the grazing laws are such that the sheep can roam freely about the land. So you will see the roads and mountainsides dotted with the white woolly creatures. This being Spring, many babies justa few days old scampered toward the side of the road to watch as we drove by. Others hid by their mothers while the older sheep ignored us for the most part.

The weather here is about what I expected. Yes it does rain quite a bit but what I found interesting was how often the rain seemed to play hide and seek with the sun. Aside from the obviously colder temperature, it was much like Florida or the Caribbean. The sun did shine quite a bit. Pretty much as often as the rain fell. This made it more barable to walk around. Knowing that if it did begin to rain, it would surely let up in a matter of minutes.

Bantry Bay & the Li’l Boat that Could
The beauty of Bantry Bay, as well as the small fishing port and bustling market town at its head, have been celebrated in song. One of our travel mates, Brendan from L.A. by way of Boston, was especially interested by one particular historical figure from the area.

Legend has it that St. Brendan the Navigator sailed across the ocean in a tiny Greek sailboat made of wood and leather in the 6th century. It is reputed that he even made it as far as Greenland and the American mainland. Other legends have him celebrating Easter on the back of a whale and escaping the wrath of a giant horse-sized sea cat.

Though these legends seem fantastic and are filled with the symbolism of celtic mythology, a team of men in the 1970s actually retraced the course allegedly taken by St. Brendan. They basically proved that such a voyage in a tiny wood and leather craft was not only possible, but probable. Of course this would mean that he reached America many centuries before Christopher Columbus.

Having had the taste of the pubs the night before, we were happy to see they were already open here today. A few of us stopped into Lucey’s for a quick pint of Beamish and to escape the latest rain shower. Soon after it was back on the road to Killarney where we past modern looking homes. Many of which double as Bed and Breakfasts. This started stiring up the thoughts of my relocation again. Afterall, if I can sustain an income with some sort of hospitality rather than having to find a job, well that would just be perfect. Ah, to dream.

Thru the Mountains to Kenmare
The winding mountain roads were a bit unnerving with us being in such a large bus. Slamming on the brakes, hugging the edges, missing passing vehicles by mere millimeters never seemed to phase Tony as he continued his play by play holding the microphone in one hand while steering and shifting with the other. It was quite the ballet to witness and I had front row seat. Literally! I sat in the seat just above the driver. So, simply put, there was nothing to keep me from hurling thru the incredibly wide windshield.

Tony maneuvered us thru narrow tunnels carved right out of the stone of the mountainside. I was fascinated by the sheer accomplishment of these passageways. At one point we stopped for pictures of the valley below which is something we did quite a lot. I really had to pee too thanks to my early morning pint. The only place to go was behind the bus. I bit tricky what with the ever shifting winds and the passing cars. But desperate times …

We arrived in the tranquil and picturesque town of Kenmare just in time for lunch. Plenty of shops and places to eat such as Purple Heather. An interesting little joint with an old fashioned dark-wood look accented by bright art on the walls. The friendly staff serves up a tasty selection of home-cooked food. Reasonably priced as well. They’re only open until 7:00 so get there early.

“Hey Steve, look at this.” As all three of us turned to look, it became clear again why we should use our last names. We were in a little store called Kenmare Bookshop. A couple from Buffalo that I met in the restaurant said it was a nice place. I picked up a book called The Height of Nonsence by Paul Clemmens. It claims to be the ‘ultimate Irish road trip’ and the premise seems entertaining.

Clemmens, an avid hiker, decides to climb to the highest points (tops) in each of the 32 counties of Ireland. Along the way he stops hear the interesting and sometimes weird tales that locals have about these places. That should have been enough, but what made me buy the book was the last line of the notes on the backcover. It asks, “But why did he find only 28 county tops?” Should be a good read. I still have to finish Life of Pi though … I’m a very slow reader.

Another funny little quirk I noticed from folks as we visit each town. How when I tell them where I’m going next, they all reply with, “That’s too bad. You should spend some more time here.” Especially in the smaller towns this comes with no feeling of commitment or hard sell. I just get the feeling of welcome and pride that I feel is missing from larger cities. It’s what makes me want to leave the hustle and stress of the NYC metro area behind sometimes.

An Exercise in Futility
I have to admit, I felt sorry for them. After going thru all of the trouble to block the road and dig such an impressive hole only to look up and see us. What must they have been thinking when they realized that now, with such a hole in the road, our bus cannot pass? “Oh shite!!” I think would be accurate. So now we waited until these guys filled the hole so we could pass.

Once we got on our way again, we could see the snow caps of MacGillycuddy’s Reeks. They are the tallest peaks in the country. The scene just added to the contrast of the terrain which is an odd mix of rough rocks, tufts of ancient peat and accents of lush green. And, of course those out of place looking palm trees.

Peat is basically the remains of soil, vegetation and anything else that may have been crushed for centuries under the weight of ancient glaciers. Farmers early on devised an ingenious use for this other wise useless sediment. They began to harvest it in small blocks and used it as fuel since Ireland has not coal or oil of its own. Harvesting peat is still a big business as homes and businesses us it as a source of heat. In fact even some of the country’s smaller power plants generate electricity by burning peat. Despite what you may think, it actually has a very homey, comforting smell. Much like burning wood.

Our next stop was Ladies View. A spot overlooking the valley that was named after Queen Victoria. I found that, even though she spent little time in the region, they certainly went overboard with preperations and honors. A fact that was made blatantly clear upon our visit to the Muckross house. But that is the next day. As for this overview, apparently she was traveling to Killarney along this very route and wanted to stop to admire the breathtaking landscape along with her ladies in waiting.

Comedian Eddie Izzard once described Victoria as a frumpy queen. I would think she’d have to be frumpy to the point of being a Weeble to stand up here without falling down. It was becoming clear that the wind at any high point in this country has awesome power and grows more dangerous as one moves closer to the edge of a long way down.

The Drunk German & One-Eyed Frenchman
Finally in Killarney and after a few moments of rest in the hotel room, everyone met for dinner in the hotel restaurant called Kaynes Bistro.

The Dromhall Hotel had an old feel but was in fact a very new place. It seems that a few years ago, the Randles company bought an old building here and decided, due to the amount of renovations needed, it would be cheaper to just tear it down and build new.

Morgan and I told the others we’d meet them at Buckley’s in a little while. I had wanted to check my email but soon discovered the meaning of ‘open late’ was 10:00. After blurting out a few choice expletives, I was scolded by a couple of young ladies. “Don’t curse like that?” they demanded. “How should I curse then?” I asked. After refuting their cleaner choices, the one girl told me to fuck off. Sweet.

We finally made it to where we were sure Buckley’s was. Sure enough, here it was but … wait … the door is locked. Morgan looked up and said, “hey, this is a realtor’s office.” Confused, thirsty and in need of a pee, we duck into the nearest pub to regroup our thoughts.

Jack C’s is a tiny, local old-man drinking bar. No tourists here. No young drunk girls being accosted by young drunk men. Just a handful of locals arguing, debating and we were far too sober for the place. I order us up a couple of pints of Smithwicks and immediately the drunk German with a nasty black eye sitting at the bar turns and bellows to me “American?! Bush or Democrat?!” I replied, “Anything but Bush!”

With this a Frenchman who would later confess to losing an eye to a grenade in some war. Not sure which one, the eye or the war. He was a bit hard to understand with his French/Irish accent. So with this I turned my attention to the bartender and we began discussing television shows like ’24’ and ‘Star Trek’. The conversation shifted to remakes and I noticed our German friend intensely debating with Morgan. He too was very hard to understand due mainly to his levels of intoxication. He was gesturing with his fingers in a side-to-side manner like he was describing wiper blades on a car. I later found out that he was upset with the new Battlestar Gallactica because the Cylons now looked human. They no longer were those cool robots with the red LED lights going back and forth on the face of their helmets.

We finished up, said our cheers and moved on to the correct Buckley’s this time. We stepped out into the freezing mixture of rain and snow and one of the patrons here pointed us in the right direction.

Twilight Zone Disco
Buckley’s has a deceiving facade. It looks like a tiny hole in the wall but being in the ground floor of a hotel, it spreads out nicely inside.

We were verbally accosted by our group for being late. But we seemed to win back their favor when we told them of the drunk German and the one-eyed Frenchman.

We all moved on to Sheehan’s in the Killarny Grand Hotel. Fast forward to the next day. I’ve begun to recognize the condition my brain was in by the notes in my book. For example, my description of this place read as follows; Big traditional pub, twilight zone disco in the back room, nice “views”. By placing that in quotes, I can assume that I was referring to the girls. And yes the “views” were nice. So much so that I felt weird about using my camera back there. I didn’t want to be that dirty old man, well any more than usual. Of course now I feel my morality was a bit over zealous and I regret that decision.

The front room was jumping to a live band playing all sorts of covers from the world of classic rock. I wound up spilling a bit of my beer on me, my shoes and the man in front of me. Thankfully he was oblivious to the splash and I inched over a bit to avoid being found out.

To my surprise, Morgan taps my shoulder and points out the drunk German moving steadily, albeit awkwardly towards us. He gives me a big bear hug, goes to the bar then settles into his place in front of the stage where he pretty much remained for the rest of the night.

Some time ago I had devised a sobriety test for myself. Altogether inaccurate, but fun nonetheless. I place a coaster at the edge of a table or bartop and with a quick backslap, flip it once and catch it in mid air with the same hand. Then I do 2, 3, 4 and so on until I miss. This night I hit a personal best at 9.

Murph tour member Maureen met a guy and struck up a conversation. As we all stumbled out of the bar, he was acting like an army sergeant. “OK this way.” “Cross the street.” “Come on let’s go.” I thought to myself, and spoke partially outloud, “who the fuck is this guy?!” Until I saw he was leading us to his car. My tone quickly changed. Though it is a short walk, it was nice to be off my feet for a few moments.

Arriving back at the hotel left me a bit confused. The bar was closed. Was this place somehow immune to the late night drinking loophole? No, we just didn’t know where the ‘secret’ bar was. We’d find it the next night.

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