Tag Archives: ireland
Speaking of Irish time: Stuck in Dublin on US Lateways
UPDATE — DUBLIN, Ireland, late Monday, Aug. 12: Our flight home through Philadelphia ultimately was canceled and Courtenay scrambled to book new flights, with our group of seven forced to fractured into three different routes. We had a long, frustrating day that ended in disappointment. We all hope to be home by the end of Tuesday, but we face uncertainty and tight connections. Wish us luck.
DUBLIN, Ireland, Aug. 12, 2013–It’s a mess at Dublin International Airport today, with all of US Airways flights to Philadelphia backed up. Hundreds of people are waiting on two delayed flights, including ours, and many people have been here since yesterday, when their flight was canceled. It’s a tense scene, with lots of anger, and a trio of cops here to keep the peace. Since we can’t make our Philly connection to Portland (a four-hour window wasn’t enough, for US Lateways), we’ve been rebooked through Phoenix. At last word, we hope to get into Portland about 1:30 Tuesday morning–five or six hours later than scheduled–but that’s not assured right now. If we don’t get out of Dublin at 4 p.m., we’ll miss our new connection to Phoenix, and then we’re not sure where we’ll go.
It’s been a great trip, but we’re all tired and anxious and eager to get home.
Day 5 Ireland: ‘Walk up the Hill to see Another Pile of Rocks’ — Gene Thompson
Dingle, County Kerry, Ireland, Saturday, Aug. 3, 2013 – Back to the Dingle Penninsula. Today we had a wonderful day touring Slea Head on the Dingle Penninsula. We set off in our two cars with the sky, as always, threatening rain. The proprietor of B&B said it was the best possible weather to see the pennisula, because the clouds and rain showers make it all the more dramatic and beautiful. She was right.
We visited a sad little “Prehistoric/Celtic” museum and then some beehive stone buildings. Both were privately run and required admission, and both were disappointing. “Piles of rocks,” Grandpa declared them as he climbed up the treacherous path strewn with rocks and sheep poop.
We did like Dun Beg, a prehistoric stone fort set on a cliff above the sea. It was almost dizzying, with the bright green hills lined with stone walls rising dramatically above a remarkably blue and green sea.
We fought traffic on the narrow, twisting road to a lovely hidden beach, with stunning views of the nearby Blasket Islands. We finally stopped at a pub, Tigh Bhric Pub, recommended by Rick Steves, which was deserted and hosted by a woman who was frosty at first and unhelpful.
We sat down, and then figured out that we had to order at the bar. It turned out all the food was homemade, and delicious, and she wasn’t unfriendly at all, but just trying to hook up a new beer keg.
She said she was from Dublin, “Blown In,” as the locals would say. “You are forever blown in,” she said. Even though she had lived there for years, she said that people would still say of her grandchildren, “Their mother was from Dublin, you know.” She said you also had to be very careful of who you are talking to, since everyone on this peninsula seems to be kin of some kind. She was extremely kind, and brought me a book on local archaeology to read over lunch, and told me all the directions to all the local ruins, which was very confusing. She kept saying I had to make a horseshoe, and that made me even more confused. But because of her, we did visit all those sites, even though our group was getting tired and itching to head home.
And it turned out they were the best ruins of the day. There was the Gallarus Oratory, a perfect, rain-tight, beehive-shaped church 1,300 years old – an early Christian church, basically. Perhaps 12 priests could sit in the tiny interior space. We also saw the low stone ruins of a monastery, extremely evocative with an ancient Celtic stone stele remade into a Christian cross with some creative carvings. This site overlooked the gorgeous sparkling bay, where 300-plus years ago a Spanish armada ship ran around and its 600 occupants massacred were by the English.
We finished at the ruins of an old church, Kilmalkedare, and its haunting graveyard, not to be missed, with ancient writings on steles and tombstones worn down to nearly nothing. It was a 12th century Romanesque church used by the Normans, though the site dated back to much earlier Christian worship, and before that to pagan rituals and rites.
The landscape all over the peninsula was lush, dotted red by fuschias from Chile, growing like weeds. It felt like Hawaii at times, with its vast vistas and lush vegetation. It had apparently once been covered by oak forests, but it was hard to picture that now. So much from the past is so hard to imagine, but so magical to think about.
Editor’s note: These posts are without Rick’s camera because it got wet in LaHinch and died. We’ll try to post some of Alex’s great photos.
Ireland Day 4: ‘He’s in the right place!’
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 19th 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 20th 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 19th 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 18th 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.
The Thompson Attigs 