SB Poets Take Ireland: Day 9

Let's get past the giggles to begin, shall we, class? Today's post is about Dingle. And the Dingle Peninsula. So wipe all the -berries and bad penis puns out of your head. There's a heck of a lot of beauty coming, starting with that photo above that's from the car, of all things.

Read

Day off after three straight days of reading. Rest well, PLs.

Sadly, I caught the vacation cold pretty early in the trip, one that was just enough sick to be annoying (stuffy nose, post-nasal weirdness, a voice that would fade as they day did). Worse, I passed it along to Chryss (or maybe she got her own, I don't have to be so sick-centric, do I?), and hers slowly started to kick in at this point. And a cold for Chryss always manifests itself as a cough that scares bystanders..... We begin to worry about her ability to read loudly without hocking up a lung.

Bed

We left our Cork four-flight walk up, after being very proud we never backed the car into the Lee across the street, and made our way to our Dingle Air BnB. It at first seemed as if we were going to be far away from town, as we exited the "main" coast road well prior to Dingle, but the actual spot was in a housing area just above the town's main drag, a few blocks away. Our host had built a little apartment into his house for Air BnB purposes, and small yet lovely it was, a triangle of a room that was kitchen-living area, then one of the tightest of metal circular staircases to the second floor bedroom (guess where our luggage stayed?), and a "wet room"--a bathroom in which the shower was just one corner, so you kind of lived in a bit of a tidal pool if you used it.

That said, everything was spotless, relatively new, and labeled as if our host only expected slow people to stay there. Or maybe Americans.

It was a fine place--not to get ahead of our story, but we ran into our host walking his two collies the second night, and it couldn't have be a more James Herriot kind of moment (I know, Herriot's English, but still).

Fed

Given the trip to Dingle was only going to be two hours or so, and we didn't have to be anywhere that night for the PL-dog-and-poet show, we hung about Cork some as there's much to see--and eat.

That's my serious Irish breakfast at Nash 19, and somehow I went for that instead of ordering any of the delectable looking baked goods they had--we figured a good breakfast could mean skipping lunch. Mine almost could have meant skipping dinner. That crusty potato at 8 o'clock on the plate nails what you want from something like that--crispy and fried on the outside, but not overdone or oily, rich and creamy potato on the inside, but cooked, too. I can't say how much I've been missing those broiled tomatoes for breakfast. And the black pudding, sure it's a kind of challenge food, it's main ingredient is pork blood, after all, but couldn't we all use some more iron? The flavor is strong, indeed, but the serving size is just right--a little goes a long way. Chryss had something that sort of looked like a breakfast burrito, which she really liked, but we're not going to talk about faux-Mexican in Ireland, are we?

Then we did dine in Dingle at the delightful Ashe's, once again taking advantage of the early bird option (another plus to skipping lunch--you want to sup early). Dingle, as a resort town, is a bit more expensive than Cork, say, so the two courses cost €26.50, but the meal easily lived up to that price.

Chryss, working on trying every chowder Ireland had to offer, went that direction, and was mighty pleased. You can tell how rich it is just from the photo.

I had to have some local bivalves, so went with the three local oysters and half a Guinness option.

Just thinking of them I feel aswim in the sea, they were so bodaciously briny. Note there's no messing around with mignonette or horsing around with horseradish. Your supposed to slop these down naked. And they are all you want, beyond the liquor that sits in their deep-bellied shells, one more saline shot to finish with. And then to quaff some of the creamy Guinness as a kind of almost reverse palate cleanser....this course was utter simplicity and perfect.

Chryss kept it traditional ordering the fish and chips, but look at that fish!

Here's that ugly bottom-dwelling haddock from the other day's market done oh-so-well. They bill at it as tempura of today's fish, and that lets you know the quality of the breading. And nothing is wasted on the plate, for the tartar was interesting and not just some mild practically mayo spread and the carrots were cleverly spiralized and then some essence of pea was extruded atop--peas and carrots for a sophisticated pub. (It's very much a pub turned restaurant, by the way, charming and comfy.)

I went for the other ugly fish I was enjoying about the island, hake.

They certainly knew how to cook fish, just done but not even close to too much done, even with a pecan crust--there's something magical about the way fish fat and nut fat play together, if you ask me. It also sat in a pool of tarragon butter sauce, and that last word is important here--my guess is there was a fillip of cream too, as it was crazy rich. Plus, you can never go wrong with tarragon (and some chive, too).

One of our favorite meals of the trip, without a doubt, and that was even before finding out the place sort of has a Hollywood history--the cast of Ryan's Daughter anointed it their clubhouse back in 1970 (that's Robert Mitchum Sarah Miles, et al.), and it was the hangout for Gregory Pecker in Dingle. (You knew I wasn't going to avoid all the bad puns, no?)

Notice we skipped dessert, despite sticky toffee pudding on the menu. After all, we were full. But I also read up, as I'm that prepared kind of guy, and knew we needed to try Murphy's Ice Cream at some point. Which turned out to be as often as possible (we'd go back the next night, too, with our four friends, as it's good to be evangelical about deliciousness--share those calories!).

Remember Ireland often seems a land with more cows than people, hence so much great dairy. All of that greatness is scooped into the cup you see above. Easily the richest, creamiest ice cream we've ever tasted. But if that's not enough, the flavors they come up with. Chryss was fond of the two garden flavors for that week, a basil and a fennel. I had to have the brown bread, which was yummy, but my absolute favorite, especially since it brought another local product into the mix, was Dingle Distillery Gin. Now, I usually don't think I want dairy in my gin, but somehow this combo worked perfectly, the juniper essence lingering in all that butterfat. Two great tastes that turn out to taste great together. Get on it, Reese's!

Poured

While one of my dinner courses came with the half-pint, that Guinness sat alongside the beer I ordered with dinner, too, a Carraig Dhubh from Beoir Chorca Dhuibhne. Why yes, I did order it by pointing. Turns out those last three words mean West Kerry Brewery in Irish. A gorgeous beer, richly malty as a porter should be, but the roasted notes seemed particularly deep. Heading towards coffee, towards chocolate, but never arriving at either, it kept you wanting that next sip. In addition to loving the beer, I was even more pleased to later learn this: Adrienne Heslin is the first woman in Ireland who brews beer in her own pub (since 1993). You can see the bottle and beer with my hake.

After dinner we also scouted out the location for the next night's reading, Dick Mack's Pub.

It's one of those oh so Irish spots--been in the same family since it opened in 1899, full of warren-y snugs and rooms, still partially a leather shop, still a spot where musicians just show up and round-robin some songs each evening. But, it also knows enough to step into the 21st century--there's free wifi, an impressive website, and now its own brewery, too, in the back of the yard which gives them an incredible outside area for people to drink in too.

We had to sample their beers, of course, and in particular were taken with the session IPA, which reminded us of one of our U.S. faves, Founders All Day IPA. Leave it to the Irish, so used to drinking stouts at lower alcohol, to pull off the same with an IPA that still can please hopheads.

Toured

Let's rewind back to our morning still in Cork. As I said previously, the heart of the city is surrounded by two branches of the Lee, but there's also city north and south of that, so we decided to walk a bit to check out the Butter Museum, for we didn't think we'd get many other chances to visit a museum to...I feel silly finishing this sentence. Turns out it's not made of butter at all; there's not even butter sculpture. Although there is some bog butter, which could be a thousand years old. My guess is don't eat it. Of course, there's poetry, the smooth music of our old friend Seamus Heaney. A little verse to churn over, you might say.

If you want your town to be attractive, put it on a river, by the way. The Irish have that down.

Or a little stream, like this one that winds through Dingle. That's some garden growing.

And if you have a big blank wall, don't leave it that way.

Just up the street from Dick Mack's is the Dingle Book Shop, and one of its features are these local poet postcards, one more idea I think Santa Barbara should steal, uh, borrow.

The we had to do one bayside selfie, especially since it features the sign for Dingle's most famous "inhabitant," Fungie. He's a dolphin that tends to greet all the tour boats, and everyone's a bit worried as he's getting on in dolphin years, but maybe he will live extra long as he's got a purpose in this world. Isn't that what we all need.

Or community, for later this evening we decided to go to the Phoenix Cinema--a single screen, an older building, the part that was supposed to save it, the video rental lobby, already emptied out and failed--and see the very moving Leave No Trace. It's a packed theater, filled not just with people but all sorts of "hi, how are yous?" This is not tourist town, but the Dingle of the people. Santa Barbara is a Dingle sister city, and it's quite like us in many ways--physically gorgeous (ocean and mountains, check), lots of pubs and restaurants given the size of the city, a sense there are people who actually live there and don't mind sharing but also want you to know it's theirs.

We got that full force at the Phoenix. It has enough space between its first row and the screen for a couple of folding tables and coffee machines, and it seemed almost like post-church service, not pre-screening, the chatter and communion and queuing up. It wasn't just coffee they were getting, that's for sure. It's also fascinating to see the movie is still showing (among others, but on a single screen, just different show times) over a month later--what is it in Dingle that draws them to this father-daughter tale, a struggle to discover how much social one needs, can have. What is it we can live with.

Go ahead to the post on Day 10 (Day 2 Dingle).

Go back to the post on Day 8 (Cork).

SB Poets Take Ireland: Day 8

Some times art begats art--one of the folks in the audience at the Ó Bhéal reading at the Long Valley Bar in Cork made the drawing above of our three PLs. Perhaps a bit goth, but then again, it was dim pub-light. And if you've been reading poetry for three straight days in three different town, and you drink enough Murphy's, you can look a bit sepulchral too.

Read

(Hidden theme--no David photo from this night...)

I set this one up in the intro, but a night at Ó Bhéal is as full as a poetic night can be. It opens with poetry films, all from an international competition they run (how cool would it be to have a poetry film competition as part of SBIFF?)(hint hint SBIFF--call me!), but to be honest it's easy to lose track of them as people wander in, and the craic begins (it is an Irish pub after all), and then there's the distraction of California poets, too. We end up talking to one poet from Cork who is teaching, of all places, in Siberia now--that's how hard the writer job market is--you're happy when you land the Siberian gig. It seemed cruel to joke. We came from Santa Barbara.

After the films, there's a five word writing challenge--the crowd picks 5 random words and then you have 15 minutes to craft a poem with them. Our words were rain, lust, union, bicycle, hum, and I even took part and read my entry and was a runner up. I'll take it. They probably didn't understand my accent, or my reference to Billy Bragg (you damn well know what kind of union I wrote about).

Then it was time for the guest poets, and you know them by now, don't you? Here they are in poorly lit iPhone photos, and you can decide if perhaps the drawings above are more accurate. All thanks to organizer Paul Casey for getting us to be part of this delightful evening that invigorated the word and the world.

Somehow I didn't get a photo of David--sorry! Then there was open mic, and it was quite crowded and buzzy after everyone came back from their cig breaks in the street. Lots of reading off iPhones, so you know folks were younger here than most readings--us old folks can't see our phones well enough to do that. A singer or two. A random reading of Robert Lowell's "For the Union Dead." Since it was a pub, I opted to read one of my whiskey poems from Feast Days, just to be able to say I read a drinking poem in an Irish pub, and why not one with roots all the way back to 1842. That's before I was born.

Bed

Same cool place on Father Matthew Quay. Didn't have to move. Happy happy us.

Fed

This is going to take some time. We had big lunch plans, our biggest of the trip, as we went to Ballymaloe House (thanks for the recommendation, Susan Chiavelli!). But given our reservation there was at 1 pm, we needed something in our gullets so we wouldn't scarf up all the fancy stuff out of sheer hunger as soon as we arrived. That meant we went to the English Market in Cork, which makes Long Valley Pub look like it's running about in historic knee-britches, as it began in 1788. What's the problem with a really cool indoor market? You want to eat everything. But somehow we just choose some scones to go, and they were hearty and light and delightful. Thanks, Alternative Bread Company. Of course it was a fascinating space, too--air, air, air.

Then on to Ballymaloe, which, to be inexact but relatively helpful, is to Ireland sort of what Chez Panisse is to America--the place where a country's cuisine found its legs on its own land and stood up proudly, and then everyone saluted. That makes Myrtle Allen Ireland's Alice Waters, if 20 years her senior, and sadly, she just passed away last June. But her family carries on the tradition at her stately farmhouse about 45 minutes east of Cork, and close enough to the sea you can't see it but just feel it tickle the back of your sinuses. Good farm country, though.

And therefore amazing food, the kind where the goal is to not get in the way, just sharpen and let sparkle. That starts with the cocktails, including a garden martini I, alas, don't quite remember the details of (some elderflower, some of their own herbs worked into it), but it was in the most gorgeous Waterford crystal I've ever brought to my lips, weighty yet balanced and we couldn't find anything like it for sale anywhere after (all those were too clunky, I felt).

Chryss had a garden julep that came disguised as a mule, in a beautiful copper mug. The two drinks, not over-potent as it was lunch, certainly mellowed us into our meal. Here's the menu. What would you choose?

More bread is one correct answer. Irish bread. Even the "simple" white bread. So full of flavor. The butter never hurt, of course. (And look at those violet-into-cream sweat pea flowers!)

Chryss couldn't decide which of the two soups to have, and the server didn't want to offer a "Ballyamloe is famous for the ____" choice, but she did say, "Order one, and I'll bring you a taste of the other." Can you guess which one Chryss ordered?

Yep, she pretty much got full-size both soups. That's how you win points as service. They were stunningly different, not too surprising given the potage bonne femme (good lady soup!) was potato and leek and warm and soothing and that femme was mighty bonne, while the cucumber soup with cornflower was chilled and almost like raita afloat, if that makes any sense. Both were delicious and hearty in ways that made you realize hearty meant more than you thought it did.

But it surely didn't beat my first course, the selection of pate with red currant sauce and onion confiture.

So much texture of different sorts, so much flavor of different registers, so much utter loveliness. Plus it meant I had to, I mean just had to, eat a lot of bread. That chicken liver pate to the left put most foie gras I've ever had in its shade, so creamy and rich, with just a hint of gland and game, but similar to how the suggestion of someone smoking a cigar in a room or two away can be perfect.

Overall it was a meal that reminds me of the old Richard Jobson (and there I go quoting a Scotsman in a story about one of the most Irish places in Ireland) line: simple isn't always best, but the best is always simple. Take these vegetables, cooked to just, buttered to some, herbed to enough.

As for mains, Chryss went with the vegetarian option, as who doesn't want fancy places to keep them on the menu? Plus, it certainly had a different ring to it, beetroot and carrot fritters with preserved lemon and coriander salsa with wild rockets (in flight, Ballymaloe afternoon delight?).

And it was something, that salsa giving things some acid and spice, and the arugula perfectly peppery.

My main to tell the truth, was my least favorite dish of the afternoon, but that's what I get not knowing that "loin of bacon" is what you call ham when you want to trick people into ordering it. It was tasty, just not spectacular. You do have to give them crazy props to cook cabbage and not let it go limp and sad (I'd love to send my now deceased mom back in time to their kitchen for a class in that), and gooseberry sauce is something else--think sultanas on steroids with more of a bitter bite as opposed to something more sherry-like.

There was dessert, too, because when they bring up a trolley you've seen rolling its caloric way towards other tables all afternoon, well, you've made a choice well before you had the chance to decide if you were too full to eat anything. Pavlova seems to be a thing in Ireland--one more reason to love the country--a chewy egg white meringue with cream and then whatever fruit is at that exact moment most in its moment. There's no room for wrong there. That's it with blue- and rasp-berries on the left. On the trolley. That's not just my portion.

Somehow we even had dinner that night, too, for that's what vacationers do. Paul and Sharon met us and we all dined at Quinlan's Seafood Bar in Cork. It might be like the Lure of Ireland--there are several of them about the Wild Atlantic Way, the menu is set on wide appeal, the space is contemporary and global. Chryss, not the glutton her husband is, simply had the seafood chowder appetizer, and that's pretty reasonable as a chowder tends to be thick as fog (with fish chunks flying in it) in Ireland. Plus, another brilliant excuse to eat bread.

I ordered something, that when it came I thought they brought the wrong dish. It was a special billed as lobster and crab salad. Forget about the Oxford comma, that turned out to be death to all commas, I think. As it came out looking (in an admittedly yummy way) like this:

Salad to the left of the plate, then lobster, with crab (done in some slyly salady fashion?) crammed in its non-tail cavities, to the right. At least I didn't have to fear any mayo. (Of course--this was County Cork. Ba-dum-bum.) I thought I was getting chunks of lobster and crab in a salad, silly me. Still, very good, very fresh.

Poured

I put the cocktail up above as it seemed so from the garden and part of the meal. I also had a glass of their somm choice cabernet franc, an Olivier Cousin Pur Breton that I liked but am now a bit sad to say that Food & Wine calls it "crushable." Spice, bright red fruit (plum and cherry), something a tad exotic.

At Quinlan's I had a solid, and I don't remember its name, viognier. And then at the Long Bar, we drank Murphy's, because it's made in Cork. And to be honest I found myself liking it more than Guinness, but maybe that was just it had fewer kilometers to roll to get my pint. But I think it also has a bit more depth, and given my favorite stout is this very U.S. very California monster, well, there you go.

Toured

That includes gawking all through the English Market, as we love our foodstuffs. Some of them even gawked back.

Turns out hake are sort of barracuda without the attitude and haddock look like they came from way under the dock. Good to know.

Then at Ballymaloe we had to explore some, even if we didn't get to the separate property with the cooking school (good thing--we might have stayed). There was a bunch of sculpture I somehow didn't get a worthwhile photo of, but then again, have I said I was operating on iPhone camera only at this point? I dumped my beloved Nikon D90 from a table one morning in Enniskillen--it's great to keep your camera in a protective bag, but if you don't zip its zipper, things can come a-tumbling. So that also explains why so many photos will be portrait and not landscape. Forgive me. I hope this garden shot helps.

On our way back to Cork, we drove over to Cobh, which, of course, is pronounced Cove. Got to keep the Americans on their toes, assuming their toes are in their tongues. As a major port, it's a town of comings-and-goings, and as it's Ireland, it's a town of celebrating the gone--loss seems to be the major tenor of the island's tune.

Let's start happy and hopeful, though. A huge host of U.S.-headed immigrants left Ireland from this port, none more famous than Annie Moore, the first person to check in via Ellis Island in 1892. The customs officials in NY even gave her a $10 gold piece to commemorate the moment. In her homeland all she got was a statue, and she has to share it with brothers. Family.

Moore had it easy, though, as she wasn't on the most famous ship to see Cobh last, the Titanic. There's a museum at what was the White Star Lines office, and I couldn't help myself but go, as I was a Titanic aficionado long before Leo's lips turned such a lovely blue. They do a pretty good job of it, from the ticketing on in, where you get to "be" one of the 123 passengers who got on the ship at Cobh, and eventually learn if you made it. Uh-oh, I'm third class. My odds dropped faster than a lie out of Sarah Huckabee Sanders' mouth.

So you get to have a few films with actors playing crew talk to you. And you get to see mock-ups of rooms, from third class (don't call them steerage) to first.

But that's nothing compared to getting to look out over this view.

That dilapidated dock is where the tenders left, as Captain Smith, eager to break the Atlantic crossing record, knew he'd save a few hours not maneuvering the giant ship into the harbor. What's more, that second floor of what was the White Star Lines building was where the first and second class passengers awaited, and you can see them, as there's a photo, of all things. A Father Browne took the Titanic just from Southampton to Cobh (or Queenstown, as it was called back then--gee, wonder why the name got changed?), and as his tender pulled in, he took a photo (a rich priest, he was, to have a private camera in 1912) of all the people waiting to go to their doom.

No balcony for you third class passengers. It's a spooky place to stand, to say the least. Cobh seems to sort of attract these famous naval disasters, though, for the Lusitania got torpedoed off its coast a mere three years after the Titanic sailed away to a waterway grave. That's a bronze angel of peace, if a bit fearsome, and below her a depiction of two of the fishermen who helped recover the living and dead from the disaster, clearly the worse for the experience. Heroism can hollow you out.

But what lifts the whole scene up, for me, is in the background--a big beautiful centrally located building that in its totally Irish literacy-loving way says Library.

P.S. Thomas McCormack survived!
Go ahead to the post on Day 9 (Cork, Dingle).

Go back to the post on Day 7 (Waterford, Cork).

SB Poets Take Ireland: Day 7

A day with lots of driving (four hours from Cookstown to Waterford, then another two thanks to construction to get to Cork), but one of the most special readings.

Read

That's the crowd, and the location, and the black-clad back of site host Sarah Jane Hanton, for this day's matinee reading presented by the Arts Office, Waterford City & County Council and Modwords. That last organization is particularly important as it's run by dynamo Anna Jordan, who we all sort of wanted to smuggle back to Santa Barbara so she could bring her uplift and energy to our arts programming. Waterford and Modwords are very lucky to have her. She's emceeing the event here.

The reading took place at The Parlour Vintage Tea Rooms, a lovingly restored building that had been Waterford's customs house. Now it's sort of an all-purpose spot (go look at the website's video) that often hosts artsy things like poetry readings with tea and scones. How come Santa Barbara can't have a spot like this?If only there was some vacant real estate somewhere....

The laureates read 15 minutes or so each to a rapt audience despite the heat wave that had the Waterfordians (?) distressed and damp; old buildings aren't big on air conditioning. But everyone stuck around for Q&A, too, often asking for tools and tricks of the trade. Think of it this way--if in LA everyone thinks he or she is an actor, just not yet discovered, I'm pretty sure everyone in Ireland thinks themselves a writer. And to be a writer, you really only have to discover your pen.

I also have to admit there was the possibility at this point in the trip--especially in the center of a reading each day in a different town for three straight days--that our group might have been getting a bit punchy. For one reader, I won't say who, slipped and said, "While we've been here in Scotland...." at one point. That certainly got everyone's tad of a titter attention.

Bed

While the other two couples stayed in Waterford for the night, Chryss and I moved on to our next destination, Cork, because we just couldn't spend enough time in the car. Seriously, we liked the idea of getting to spend two nights in some places, and so we made it to our 4th floor walk up right on the  River Lee. Of course the Lee splits and makes the center of town an island--great for driving fun ("Hey, we're going over a bridge again!"), but our apartment was on Father Matthew Quay across from the South Channel of the Lee. And the setting sun looked a bit like this:

Plus the central circular stairs with our big suitcases meant we didn't need any gym time. Bonus! The place itself was cute, itself two floors, the bedrooms on the first, the bathroom, sitting room and kitchen on the second. Very roomy. Plus a great Air BnB host--she even had electrical converters for you to use. The location couldn't have been better for exploring Cork, either.

Fed

Breakfast was a typical (based on the three we ended up having) Irish hotel breakfast buffet at the Glenavon, with more sausage and rashers than anyone should even consider consuming before noon easily available.

Lunch, though, was at the Parlour Rooms, and Sarah Jane Hanton and team can throw a spread. Here's the whole thing, after we'd all picked it over:

And here's just my plate of it:

Also in process, because it was just too tempting to stop and take photos. Have I extolled the smoked fish of all sorts that was everywhere on this lucky island? And the bread, so much good bread. It's a good thing we walked a lot. Then there was also the great conversation with Sarah and Anna, the kind of women who get you excited and energized about what art and those who care for it can accomplish. Such a thrilling shot of optimism (not that we ever need that here with 45* about).

As for dinner in Cork, it was complicated. We went looking for what was supposed to be a great pub, Clancy's, but it had been closed for some time. (One of the few fails from our DK tourbook.) So then we aimlessly wandered the numerous Cork streets, many of which look more like alleys, to the point were we sometimes weren't sure we'd walked down one already. Where to go, where to go. It was a Sunday night, which also caused issues. Turns out some of the Irish are religious. Who knew.

Finally we gave in and ended up back at Sago, the Asian restaurant around the corner from our apartment and the spot where our host left the keys for our pick-up. It wasn't anything fancy but certainly cranked out some tasty food, truly crispy veggie egg rolls and then two items with prawns as they had no items vegetarian (still sort of puzzling--usually that's not an issue at Asian food). Even odder, neither of the items we ordered appear to be on the online menu. Oh well. We were hungry and getting travel cranky, so the black bean sauce prawns and Chinese noodle prawns made us happy. Not sure why I didn't get any photos.

Poured

Tea at the Parlour. Had to have some on the trip, even though I'm much more a coffee drinker. But when tea comes with its little pot and proper china, it just seems better thanks to the ceremony of it, no?

Prior to that we also had a "let's go to a bar to use their bathroom, better order something" drink at the Granville Hotel in Waterford. There we got to see the thrill that is people waiting to get into a Carvery they think is a deal--the Granville is a hot spot. As it turns out it's hard to remember much about the beer--our receipt says Dungarvan, which is brewed in Waterford and I think we had the Cooper Coast Irish Red, and also says a Heineken, and that just confuses me (they do own both Beamish and Murphy's so maybe that was it?)--but what really confused us was the drunkish older guy trying to talk us up from two seats down the bar. For most of our trip the Irish accent wasn't a problem, but this guy's was the most impenetrable. You'd think he'd gargled the Blarney Stone with Guinness each morning. For his voice was also very low and very rough. So to be polite I tried to do the smile and nod thing, but then he would say, as clearly as he said anything, "You know what I mean?" and give a gruff little laugh like there was no right answer to his vexing question. And he was right. As much as we could make it out he had a theory of how the consumption of stout had to be balanced by drinking whiskey, too. An alcoholic's anatomical algebra, you might say. Or you might say, ggrrrr nkkklt ssrts.

At dinner at Sago I couldn't resist a Tiger as it was a mere €3.50, so value. Then we went back out and wandered the streets into a pub, finally, across from another pub with some crazy loud live music, and tried some local Cork beer from Rising Sons Brewery. Solid, but more a reminder that craft brewery doesn't not automatically mean brilliant beer.

Toured

Lots of highway driving, which makes you realize highways can be the same everywhere. (Although we must point out the roads are well-kept in Ireland. Probably because they don't spend all their money on the military or something like that.)

Again, just hanging out in the former Waterford Customs House was cool, especially the spot with this stairwell and rotunda.

And Cork was fascinating. It's Ireland's second most populous city, and our guess was 96% of the men we passed were on a rugby squad. We didn't see any fights, but that was probably just because the land of powerful, small-necked men guaranteed mutual assured destruction if people started whomping on each other.

Luckily there were plenty of churches to kept the holy peace. This one isn't even a cathedral, which says something. It was also right next to us, so a great landmark to find our way home. And to think some people think religion has no place in today's world.

Go ahead to the post on Day 8 (Cork).

Go back to the post on Day 6 (Bellaghy, Cookstown).