Bunratty, County Clare, Ireland Friday, Aug. 2, 2013 – Coming up for air on Day 5, late afternoon, after a full day of touring the stunningly beautiful Dingle Penninsula; Mitchell and Alex visiting the Dingle Brewery for their free pints; Rick, Will and Grandpa shopping the narrow streets of this tiny touristy fishing village for train stuff and a hurling stick; Grandma and I catching our breath in the lovely Emlagh House B&B overlooking Dingle Bay.

Whew. Yesterday, we drove from Lahinch to Dingle, stopping at the Bunratty Castle and Folk Park between Shannon and Limerick on the way. We’d read that the Bunratty Castle was a “tourist trap” and “Disneyesque” for its recreations of 19^th century buildings and costumed “re-enactors,” but it turned out the criticism was unfounded. The castle itself, dating to 1425 AD, was restored in the 20^th century and gives visitors a wonderful glimpse into how high society lived in medieval times. In short, it looked pretty grim to us. Yes, the Earl and his family would be safe behind the massive walls and drawbridge, up on floors beyond the “murder hole” where boiling pitch or oil could be poured on invaders/visitors and the trap-door 16-feet above a bunch of spikes, and the dungeon and the soldiers and all that. But for all that, they lived in cold stone, with claustrophobically winding spiral staircases between chambers, and huge smoking fires. The air quality must have been atrocious.

There were wonderful guides on hand (no costumes in sight), explaining how the massive furniture was brought up the winding stairs in pieces (like Ikea, noted one visitor), and how they heated their wine in special iron stands by the fire – Mom loved this detail. We saw antlers from the massive and now extinct Giant Irish deer. The recreated village itself – while lacking the mud and poverty and misery of 19^th century Ireland —  was a pleasant stroll and a great chance to stretch our legs. We even dared eat at the on-site pub, run by the McNamara family, who are apparently descended from the original castle builders. And it was a delightful meal, with extremely friendly staff and great food.

We’ve been laughing this whole trip at how grumpy Grandpa is (those of you who know him know what we are talking about) and how forgiving the Irish are of his temperament. The night of our interminablly long seafood dinner in Lahinch, when asked what he wanted for dessert, Grandpa managed to rudely grunt, “Uhhhhh, fudge,” indicating the brownie. Instead of looking at him askance, the Johnny-Depp-look-alike-waiter laughed.

Then at lunch yesterday at McNamara’s Pub, Grandpa loudly declared he wanted a “12-year Bushmills” whiskey. When Daragh, the waiter, said they did not have 12-year Bushmills, Grandpa shouted back that he did, he’d seen it in the window. (Actually it was a dust-covered bottle that was part of the “antique” display). Daragh offered him a local whiskey, which Grandpa refused, again insisting on the “12-year Bushmills!” We overrode Grandpa and told him to order the local whiskey.

“He’s really not grumpy,” I told the waiter, sardonically.

“Oh, he’s in the right place,” said the waiter, winking and heading off to get Dad his whiskey, Dad’s new Irish favorite, Knappogue.

So we’ve come to the conclusion that yes, Grandpa really has returned to his roots, to his people, who instinctively understand him. Although he’d never known until the past few years that he was of Irish ancestry, and had always identified as a Scot, now he is broadening his identity, I like to think. Irish whiskey, which he had never before tried, is actually “good,” according to Dad. Thanks to our cousin and geneaologist Patricia Plunkett Holler, we now know that Dad’s family on his paternal grandmother’s side traces back to the Plunketts born in the 18^th century in northern Ireland near Belfast. We will visit there at the end of our trip, but I think Dad has already found his homeland.