Always in Search of “Our Local”: 3 Days in Liverpool and 18 Days in Ireland
Jul 31st, 2023, 08:31 AM
#42
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No, bilboburgler, but I expect I shall have to do so! 
I do know that I made the typical repeat traveler mistake of expecting places to remain the same as they are in memory. And I planned this day without really "planning" the way I usually do, perhaps because I thought my husband would back out from stepping on the boat so why bother? Who knows? This disaster of a day was totally my fault for sure.
I've already told my girls they must remind me their memories of "our Inishmore day" years ago a zillion times to replace the memory of our most recent experience.
And yes, I do have a note taped to my desk right below my keyboard: "NEVER book a boat again."
I do know that I made the typical repeat traveler mistake of expecting places to remain the same as they are in memory. And I planned this day without really "planning" the way I usually do, perhaps because I thought my husband would back out from stepping on the boat so why bother? Who knows? This disaster of a day was totally my fault for sure.
I've already told my girls they must remind me their memories of "our Inishmore day" years ago a zillion times to replace the memory of our most recent experience.
And yes, I do have a note taped to my desk right below my keyboard: "NEVER book a boat again."
Jul 31st, 2023, 09:04 AM
#44
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I just looked up the "Father Ted" show summary and I started laughing. We needed something new to stream, and I can't wait to spring this one on my husband.
It just MAY make up for the boat.
It just MAY make up for the boat.
Jul 31st, 2023, 01:51 PM
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bilboburgler,
We just watched the first episode of "Father Ted" and my husband (RC through and through) couldn't stop laughing. And he HATES sitcoms. He kept saying, "Where did this come from?"
I can't believe I never knew of it, especially when it's ratings at the time ranked up with "Fawlty Towers." And I never knew the story behind the Aran Islands's "Ted Festival." What a hoot!
Thank you for making my day.
AZ
We just watched the first episode of "Father Ted" and my husband (RC through and through) couldn't stop laughing. And he HATES sitcoms. He kept saying, "Where did this come from?"
I can't believe I never knew of it, especially when it's ratings at the time ranked up with "Fawlty Towers." And I never knew the story behind the Aran Islands's "Ted Festival." What a hoot!
Thank you for making my day.
AZ
Aug 1st, 2023, 04:17 AM
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Galway to Dingle Cont'd: The Deluge of Dunnes
On the road again, we asked Diarmuid if he know of a good lunch spot on our way, and indeed he did. Soon we found ourselves in Castleisland, situated at the mouth of the 'Vale of Tralee'. We parked on the quite wide main street and walked toward our lunch place, Pat's Cafe. As we did so, Diarmuid started describing the café's large portions, which in our restaurant experiences usually means, "Bad food that people believe is good because they are served too much of it."
We were WRONG! This place was the Irish version of a good American diner. Daily specials. Tasty. Fresh. Super Clean. Lovely family staff. In short, we'd include Pat's Cafe as a return stop should we ever come back to this neck of the woods. And we like Castleisland's setting, too.
Over lunch, we three talked about raising kids, and how each one somehow ends up different. It's here that we picked up that Diarmuid and Dolores were either separated or divorced. OK--that might have explained a lot. Diarmuid also seemed to be happy with our pleased reaction to Pat's and became more positively inclined to our mysterious desire to visit the itsy-bitsy Kerry County Museum.
In Tralee, Diarmuid pulled up to the museum steps, and we agreed to meet at a set time. We already knew the museum was tiny, but we had spotted a cute town fair in the adjacent city park and wanted time to explore that, too.
This Kerry County Museum has several types of exhibits, but what I wanted to see first was the basement's Medieval Experience. Don't let me get your hopes up--it's tacky and it has a kind of a smell. But for a wee one? Fantastic. They can dress up in costume, hold a fake kid-friendly sword, and walk through a make-believe town with mannequins of butchers and fishmongers and priests. Staff members in various costumes dotted different corners and displays there, too.
Elsewhere in the museum were local environment and local archeology exhibits, the last complete with a kid's dig pit.
On other levels and areas were displays for adults, some of which were temporary and others that were permanent. I loved the Tom Crean display. He might be the most underrated Artic explorer ever, and I would learn more about him in the days to come. The exhibit on Thomas Casement was fantastic; I had been an avid reader of various Easter Uprising histories, yet I was unaware of most of the exact Thomas Casement details presented in the exhibit. My husband and I were so moved.
But before we knew it, we were finished. Time for the fair!
We approached the museum entrance area just as the sky opened and poured water. Forget "raining cats and dogs". It was more like "raining cows and horses." Crisis time in Tralee. Little kids and moms and dads were running from the fair into the museum, soaked to the skin. Over in the park fairgrounds, we could see tents listing in various states of collapse. Babies were screaming; little kids were sobbing. Everyone, it seemed, was pulling out a cell phone, trying to find solutions to their ruined day. Cars outside, horns blaring, were at a standstill in inches, and soon, feet, of water as the whole town vied for an escape route from town.
In the museum itself, the staff members went into action. They were unearthing rolls of restroom towels and covering kids with their own sweaters and jackets. Two of the staffers made the rounds to comfort little ones with lollipops.
How did we feel? Well, first, we were dry; second, our day had hardly been ruined. Instead, we were so impressed with the general level of kindness and concern every person had for the children.
Have I mentioned that we love Ireland?
Well, we realized we did have to move our pick-up time if possible. Unfortunately, we had never asked Diarmuid for his cell number. No matter--I did have the company phone info. Dolores and Diarmuid's son Sean (I think) was manning the office, and he cheerfully said, "No worries. I'll get him on the phone. You'll be grand." And soon Diarmuid's car was pulling up at the steps.
Diarmuid looked like a drowned rat, and he was NOT happy. Oh no, just as we had made some inroads, I thought, we've dragged him out of a dry spot and soaked him to the skin. Well, this time, we weren't the problem. Diarmuid had taken advantage of our museum outing to go to the local Dunnes to buy a shirt for the evening. A big family birthday party was planned for the evening, and he knew he didn't have anything "pressed" at home. He had decided he'd buy a crisp new shirt to sport that evening, and he had good luck in spotting a nice shirt in Dunnes. As he was waiting in line to pay, he felt drops of water on his head. At the register, he told the cashier, "You know, your ceiling is leaking." And that's when parts of Dunne's ceiling started falling. We are serious--literally falling. Water poured into the store.
The manager evacuated the premises. Diarmuid thought he'd escaped the worst by seconds, but as he ran for the car, his shopping bag broke. His "crisp" new shirt lay lying on the back seat looking like a dead cat. Stifling the urge to giggle (you just would have had to have seen his face--and the state of the shirt) we carefully stretched the shirt over the seatback, assuring him that it didn't look too bad and that it would dry just fine. Actually, once stretched, it did look as though it would be OK. Somewhat mollified, Diarmuid started smiling when we joked that the major story of the party that night would be, "The Deluge of Dunnes."
We gave a report of our museum field trip, telling him that the Thomas Casement exhibit was more than worth it. Diarmuid recited more details of the local Easter Uprising history, especially about the 1923 Massacre at Ballyseedy. I told him that while I was aware of the massacre, I had had no idea that it had taken place here. We shared that we had been fortunate enough to have had one of the best guides ever at Dublin's Kilmainham Gaol years ago, a guide that had everyone, men and women alike, scrambling for tissues because the guide was so descriptive about the events inside and outside the gaol. The guide told us that to this day, certain family members will not sit at the same table as each other, even though they weren't born at the time of The Uprising.
Our conversation was sad, but the end result was that we had almost redeemed ourselves by the time we reached Connor's pass. Almost.
Next: Galway to Dingle: Our First Night in Dingle
We were WRONG! This place was the Irish version of a good American diner. Daily specials. Tasty. Fresh. Super Clean. Lovely family staff. In short, we'd include Pat's Cafe as a return stop should we ever come back to this neck of the woods. And we like Castleisland's setting, too.
Over lunch, we three talked about raising kids, and how each one somehow ends up different. It's here that we picked up that Diarmuid and Dolores were either separated or divorced. OK--that might have explained a lot. Diarmuid also seemed to be happy with our pleased reaction to Pat's and became more positively inclined to our mysterious desire to visit the itsy-bitsy Kerry County Museum.
In Tralee, Diarmuid pulled up to the museum steps, and we agreed to meet at a set time. We already knew the museum was tiny, but we had spotted a cute town fair in the adjacent city park and wanted time to explore that, too.
This Kerry County Museum has several types of exhibits, but what I wanted to see first was the basement's Medieval Experience. Don't let me get your hopes up--it's tacky and it has a kind of a smell. But for a wee one? Fantastic. They can dress up in costume, hold a fake kid-friendly sword, and walk through a make-believe town with mannequins of butchers and fishmongers and priests. Staff members in various costumes dotted different corners and displays there, too.
Elsewhere in the museum were local environment and local archeology exhibits, the last complete with a kid's dig pit.
On other levels and areas were displays for adults, some of which were temporary and others that were permanent. I loved the Tom Crean display. He might be the most underrated Artic explorer ever, and I would learn more about him in the days to come. The exhibit on Thomas Casement was fantastic; I had been an avid reader of various Easter Uprising histories, yet I was unaware of most of the exact Thomas Casement details presented in the exhibit. My husband and I were so moved.
But before we knew it, we were finished. Time for the fair!
We approached the museum entrance area just as the sky opened and poured water. Forget "raining cats and dogs". It was more like "raining cows and horses." Crisis time in Tralee. Little kids and moms and dads were running from the fair into the museum, soaked to the skin. Over in the park fairgrounds, we could see tents listing in various states of collapse. Babies were screaming; little kids were sobbing. Everyone, it seemed, was pulling out a cell phone, trying to find solutions to their ruined day. Cars outside, horns blaring, were at a standstill in inches, and soon, feet, of water as the whole town vied for an escape route from town.
In the museum itself, the staff members went into action. They were unearthing rolls of restroom towels and covering kids with their own sweaters and jackets. Two of the staffers made the rounds to comfort little ones with lollipops.
How did we feel? Well, first, we were dry; second, our day had hardly been ruined. Instead, we were so impressed with the general level of kindness and concern every person had for the children.
Have I mentioned that we love Ireland?
Well, we realized we did have to move our pick-up time if possible. Unfortunately, we had never asked Diarmuid for his cell number. No matter--I did have the company phone info. Dolores and Diarmuid's son Sean (I think) was manning the office, and he cheerfully said, "No worries. I'll get him on the phone. You'll be grand." And soon Diarmuid's car was pulling up at the steps.
Diarmuid looked like a drowned rat, and he was NOT happy. Oh no, just as we had made some inroads, I thought, we've dragged him out of a dry spot and soaked him to the skin. Well, this time, we weren't the problem. Diarmuid had taken advantage of our museum outing to go to the local Dunnes to buy a shirt for the evening. A big family birthday party was planned for the evening, and he knew he didn't have anything "pressed" at home. He had decided he'd buy a crisp new shirt to sport that evening, and he had good luck in spotting a nice shirt in Dunnes. As he was waiting in line to pay, he felt drops of water on his head. At the register, he told the cashier, "You know, your ceiling is leaking." And that's when parts of Dunne's ceiling started falling. We are serious--literally falling. Water poured into the store.
The manager evacuated the premises. Diarmuid thought he'd escaped the worst by seconds, but as he ran for the car, his shopping bag broke. His "crisp" new shirt lay lying on the back seat looking like a dead cat. Stifling the urge to giggle (you just would have had to have seen his face--and the state of the shirt) we carefully stretched the shirt over the seatback, assuring him that it didn't look too bad and that it would dry just fine. Actually, once stretched, it did look as though it would be OK. Somewhat mollified, Diarmuid started smiling when we joked that the major story of the party that night would be, "The Deluge of Dunnes."
We gave a report of our museum field trip, telling him that the Thomas Casement exhibit was more than worth it. Diarmuid recited more details of the local Easter Uprising history, especially about the 1923 Massacre at Ballyseedy. I told him that while I was aware of the massacre, I had had no idea that it had taken place here. We shared that we had been fortunate enough to have had one of the best guides ever at Dublin's Kilmainham Gaol years ago, a guide that had everyone, men and women alike, scrambling for tissues because the guide was so descriptive about the events inside and outside the gaol. The guide told us that to this day, certain family members will not sit at the same table as each other, even though they weren't born at the time of The Uprising.
Our conversation was sad, but the end result was that we had almost redeemed ourselves by the time we reached Connor's pass. Almost.
Next: Galway to Dingle: Our First Night in Dingle
Aug 1st, 2023, 08:59 AM
#51
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Galway to Dingle Cont'd: Conor Pass and Our First Night in Dingle
We were now on the Dingle homestretch, fast approaching Conor Pass. Wow. The views as we meandered up the pass were fantastic--that is, they were fantastic whenever the thick mist cleared. With ever-shifting visibility, the road edges were terrifying. We were so happy we were not driving, and innately imagining our former selves cycling in mist, we were equally happy we were not cycling either. We would have loved the climb, not the danger.
Thank goodness Diarmuid knew every single pull-in to progress on the less-than double lane road by heart, a quite helpful skill in drifting mist clouds with opposing and quite careless tourist drivers.
Diarmuid also knew all about the various sheep breeds we were seeing, and since I had grown up in an area where sheep breeding was highly valued, we were intrigued by the pros and cons of the various breeds.
Then Diarmuid talked about "famine roads," a pertinent topic because we were driving on the latest edition of one. Depending on who is telling the story, Irish famine victims, including small children and pregnant women--were either "lucky" or more victimized by receiving food for the harsh labor of dragging stones from fields to build roads, doing so for endless hours and in all kinds of inclement weather. We peppered him with questions about it, finding this discussion so interesting that we didn't realize we were practically in Dingle.
I dug through my backpack for my shopping list, asking Diarmuid if he would mind pulling into Garvey's SuperValu to stock up on a few provisions. I had mapped out everything in the town at home, knew our VRBO was at the top of the hill and the larger grocery stores were nearer the harbor. I figured I'd get heavy items out of the way down here. Diarmuid was happy to oblige.
With that goal accomplished, Diarmuid thought it would be wise to give us a tour of the town to get us oriented. Good idea! He had accepted by that point that these American idiots--I remind you that we always DO quality for that term--might actually know that Trad music does NOT include sing-alongs to "When Irish Eyes are Smiling," and he was happy to point out the best Trad pubs for what he considered "good" sessions.
I shall be ever grateful for his help in figuring out all the mechanics of our VRBO, too. Our VRBO hosts had sent us a digital guidebook to the place. There were different switches for different types of water heaters, plus master electric switches for various items too. I had a secret fear I'd press some wrong button and blow the place up.
We thanked Diarmuid for our lovely day, wishing him a wonderful evening with his siblings and extended family.
Now it was time to unpack and check out our VRBO. Hmm.
The positives: our roomy VRBO had a wonderful location at the top of the town near some good Trad pubs and a Centra. It had a washer and dryer--not one of those combos that take a lifetime--and two bedrooms plus an extra half bath. Great, right?
Almost. It was, in a word, dirty.
I'm not talking about absolute filth. Our towels and sheets and toilets were clean. The tub was clean (if a little moldy around the caulking). Instead, I'm talking about how every mirror in the place was smeared, how every floor felt gritty, how dust bunnies floated from underneath the bed when we opened windows, how ledges beneath the coffee and occasional tables had weeks of dust on them. Every corner had cobwebs somewhere.
I felt dirt calling me to get to work, and I was just about to embark on a total clean the way I always did whenever we rented beach houses for family vacations, but my husband stopped me when he spotted my list of needed cleaning items. "STOP! We're here for THREE nights. JUST DON'T LOOK."
He was right of course, but the only way I could avoid looking was to whip off my glasses. And I would do so every time we re-entered the house. I thus wandered around blind for our entire stay.
We were rather exhausted, which makes no sense when all we had done was ride all day, but we figured we'd eat something light, have a pint or two, and just settle back for the night. I pulled out my handmade Dingle Trad pubs map and off we went.
As we worked our way down the hill on the left side, we heard music coming from Curran's and we stopped in for a quick glass each. It was OK, but time to move on.
Looking for food, we checked out Geaney's and the Dingle Pub through the doorways. Some musician was setting up in The Dingle Pub, so we each had a glass there while we checked things out. Well, the small early session at The Dingle Pub was so lovely that we never got a meal. We just ordered chips (yes, fries, we assured the bartender) at the bar (Pat's Café portions were still residing in our stomachs) and took in the music and the atmosphere.
Bedtime! At least it wasn't that far of a climb to our new home.
Next: We Enjoy Dingle A Bit Too Much
Thank goodness Diarmuid knew every single pull-in to progress on the less-than double lane road by heart, a quite helpful skill in drifting mist clouds with opposing and quite careless tourist drivers.
Diarmuid also knew all about the various sheep breeds we were seeing, and since I had grown up in an area where sheep breeding was highly valued, we were intrigued by the pros and cons of the various breeds.
Then Diarmuid talked about "famine roads," a pertinent topic because we were driving on the latest edition of one. Depending on who is telling the story, Irish famine victims, including small children and pregnant women--were either "lucky" or more victimized by receiving food for the harsh labor of dragging stones from fields to build roads, doing so for endless hours and in all kinds of inclement weather. We peppered him with questions about it, finding this discussion so interesting that we didn't realize we were practically in Dingle.
I dug through my backpack for my shopping list, asking Diarmuid if he would mind pulling into Garvey's SuperValu to stock up on a few provisions. I had mapped out everything in the town at home, knew our VRBO was at the top of the hill and the larger grocery stores were nearer the harbor. I figured I'd get heavy items out of the way down here. Diarmuid was happy to oblige.
With that goal accomplished, Diarmuid thought it would be wise to give us a tour of the town to get us oriented. Good idea! He had accepted by that point that these American idiots--I remind you that we always DO quality for that term--might actually know that Trad music does NOT include sing-alongs to "When Irish Eyes are Smiling," and he was happy to point out the best Trad pubs for what he considered "good" sessions.
I shall be ever grateful for his help in figuring out all the mechanics of our VRBO, too. Our VRBO hosts had sent us a digital guidebook to the place. There were different switches for different types of water heaters, plus master electric switches for various items too. I had a secret fear I'd press some wrong button and blow the place up.
We thanked Diarmuid for our lovely day, wishing him a wonderful evening with his siblings and extended family.
Now it was time to unpack and check out our VRBO. Hmm.
The positives: our roomy VRBO had a wonderful location at the top of the town near some good Trad pubs and a Centra. It had a washer and dryer--not one of those combos that take a lifetime--and two bedrooms plus an extra half bath. Great, right?
Almost. It was, in a word, dirty.
I'm not talking about absolute filth. Our towels and sheets and toilets were clean. The tub was clean (if a little moldy around the caulking). Instead, I'm talking about how every mirror in the place was smeared, how every floor felt gritty, how dust bunnies floated from underneath the bed when we opened windows, how ledges beneath the coffee and occasional tables had weeks of dust on them. Every corner had cobwebs somewhere.
I felt dirt calling me to get to work, and I was just about to embark on a total clean the way I always did whenever we rented beach houses for family vacations, but my husband stopped me when he spotted my list of needed cleaning items. "STOP! We're here for THREE nights. JUST DON'T LOOK."
He was right of course, but the only way I could avoid looking was to whip off my glasses. And I would do so every time we re-entered the house. I thus wandered around blind for our entire stay.
We were rather exhausted, which makes no sense when all we had done was ride all day, but we figured we'd eat something light, have a pint or two, and just settle back for the night. I pulled out my handmade Dingle Trad pubs map and off we went.
As we worked our way down the hill on the left side, we heard music coming from Curran's and we stopped in for a quick glass each. It was OK, but time to move on.
Looking for food, we checked out Geaney's and the Dingle Pub through the doorways. Some musician was setting up in The Dingle Pub, so we each had a glass there while we checked things out. Well, the small early session at The Dingle Pub was so lovely that we never got a meal. We just ordered chips (yes, fries, we assured the bartender) at the bar (Pat's Café portions were still residing in our stomachs) and took in the music and the atmosphere.
Bedtime! At least it wasn't that far of a climb to our new home.
Next: We Enjoy Dingle A Bit Too Much
Aug 1st, 2023, 09:49 PM
#52
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That is a really interesting and detailed trip report, thank you for taking the time to write it. I am really looking forward to reading how the rest of your trip went. It looks like it's a really fun trip, thank you for sharing your experiences with us
Aug 2nd, 2023, 01:21 AM
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bilboburgler--Just told my husband this articulated lorry thing this morning over coffee.
As soon as I submitted that post, I thought, "Egads, I should have written ANTartic." But you know how it is--I'm busy writing the next post where we get into trouble.
Right now, I'm thinking about what to edit OUT about that day.
AZ
As soon as I submitted that post, I thought, "Egads, I should have written ANTartic." But you know how it is--I'm busy writing the next post where we get into trouble.
Right now, I'm thinking about what to edit OUT about that day.
AZ
Aug 2nd, 2023, 02:47 AM
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What a wonderful report!
I really enjoyed your Liverpool descriptions. I've not been there, but....
Ireland is my favourite country, outside Oz - and your report has given me some great ideas for another trip. I really must stay in Galway next time. On two previous occasions I've stayed out of town. Dingle - not been yet!
I really enjoyed your Liverpool descriptions. I've not been there, but....
Ireland is my favourite country, outside Oz - and your report has given me some great ideas for another trip. I really must stay in Galway next time. On two previous occasions I've stayed out of town. Dingle - not been yet!
Aug 2nd, 2023, 03:19 AM
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margo_oz Thanks. Oz has always been on OUR bucket list. I'm so envious of my sister who managed to tour much of Australia and even added Tasmania to it. We beat her to NZ, though.
In recent years, we've ended up with more motivation. My husband's great-great-grandfather came to the US from Cornwall (and hard as it is to believe, he did NOT end up at the bottom of a mine!) but turns out my husband has oodles of cousins in OZ who have all found us on Ancestry and we keep in touch.
In recent years, we've ended up with more motivation. My husband's great-great-grandfather came to the US from Cornwall (and hard as it is to believe, he did NOT end up at the bottom of a mine!) but turns out my husband has oodles of cousins in OZ who have all found us on Ancestry and we keep in touch.
Aug 2nd, 2023, 09:03 AM
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Our Dingle Demise--Part One
The next day on my trip calendar, a Sunday, was listed as "FREE." It was good to have nothing on.
We played with our VRBO's coffeemaker until we managed to extract enough caffeine, and my husband darted out for some breakfast items from the nearby Centra. We caught up on reading while we did a load of wash (thank you, Diarmuid, for ensuring I did not blow up the place).
It was great to chill. And we did not start getting into trouble until noon.
We left our VRBO, and unlike yesterday, we descended Dingle's "main drag" on the right side of the road. Our first stop was Foxy John's, a 1/2 hardware store, 1/2 pub establishment. One side of the small bar was lined with taps and liquor; the other counter side consisted of the weirdest collection of hardware items I'd ever seen.
It was a different place for sure. Everyone was such a local there in such a small space that we felt as though we were intruding--sort of like when the villain enters the town saloon to rattlesnake music. All the bar seats by the taps were taken--and that was within five minutes of opening--so I found myself parking my glass on the opposite counter next to boxes of rodent extermination powder.
No exaggeration. FACT.
After a few minutes, we still were feeling we were encroaching on private territory, ready to leave our only half-emptied glasses behind, when in walked a young man kitted in a fullly covered road cycle outfit who shyly asked if they had a puncture kit.
My husband and I looked at each other. Well, we just HAD to stay to see how this panned out.
It seems everyone in the bar took an interest in the situation too. The young barkeep scratched his face and said, "Hmm". He slowly grabbed a ladder, crossed the room, inched his way up to one of the higher shelves, poked around towards the shelf back, and--tah-duh!--produced one.
We were impressed.
The lone local woman at the bar said, "If you've had a puncture, you need a beer. And we need to know where you are traveling."
And soon enough, this shy young man was being seated (guided, uh, forced) onto a bench and was being pried open to explain himself. Turns out he was a German student, had cycled here from Killarney, and he would be heading over Conor Pass.
He could barely get a word out before the next question came. My husband and I chuckled quietly as we left. God Bless this guy. Let's pray they'd let him leave sober before he hit the Pass.
Note: Much later I would understand that behind this tiny front bar was a huge back bar that opened later. And it was back there one could find bike rentals, and so on.
Life Lesson: What you see is not necessarily all there is.
Yes, I have learned that before, but it seems as though I must relearn it every darn year.
We worked our way down the road, scouting out all the places around town that were on my homemade Trad music pub map (too early for most of them to be operational), noting on my map what the scribbled signs said would be happening either that night or the next. We explored little side streets with simply lovely gardens and little streams, went on to check out the dock area, tested drafts in some places, and decided we should stop for a late lunch somewhere. We either ate at the Boatyard or someplace next to it. Honestly, I can't remember because the meal was neither good nor bad. The fish was fresh and we were fine.
We trudged up the hill to our new Dingle home, started another wash, showered, and left early for the night, figuring we'd probably be back early.
Hmmm.
Next: Our Dingle Demise--Part Two
We played with our VRBO's coffeemaker until we managed to extract enough caffeine, and my husband darted out for some breakfast items from the nearby Centra. We caught up on reading while we did a load of wash (thank you, Diarmuid, for ensuring I did not blow up the place).
It was great to chill. And we did not start getting into trouble until noon.
We left our VRBO, and unlike yesterday, we descended Dingle's "main drag" on the right side of the road. Our first stop was Foxy John's, a 1/2 hardware store, 1/2 pub establishment. One side of the small bar was lined with taps and liquor; the other counter side consisted of the weirdest collection of hardware items I'd ever seen.
It was a different place for sure. Everyone was such a local there in such a small space that we felt as though we were intruding--sort of like when the villain enters the town saloon to rattlesnake music. All the bar seats by the taps were taken--and that was within five minutes of opening--so I found myself parking my glass on the opposite counter next to boxes of rodent extermination powder.
No exaggeration. FACT.
After a few minutes, we still were feeling we were encroaching on private territory, ready to leave our only half-emptied glasses behind, when in walked a young man kitted in a fullly covered road cycle outfit who shyly asked if they had a puncture kit.
My husband and I looked at each other. Well, we just HAD to stay to see how this panned out.
It seems everyone in the bar took an interest in the situation too. The young barkeep scratched his face and said, "Hmm". He slowly grabbed a ladder, crossed the room, inched his way up to one of the higher shelves, poked around towards the shelf back, and--tah-duh!--produced one.
We were impressed.
The lone local woman at the bar said, "If you've had a puncture, you need a beer. And we need to know where you are traveling."
And soon enough, this shy young man was being seated (guided, uh, forced) onto a bench and was being pried open to explain himself. Turns out he was a German student, had cycled here from Killarney, and he would be heading over Conor Pass.
He could barely get a word out before the next question came. My husband and I chuckled quietly as we left. God Bless this guy. Let's pray they'd let him leave sober before he hit the Pass.
Note: Much later I would understand that behind this tiny front bar was a huge back bar that opened later. And it was back there one could find bike rentals, and so on.
Life Lesson: What you see is not necessarily all there is.
Yes, I have learned that before, but it seems as though I must relearn it every darn year.
We worked our way down the road, scouting out all the places around town that were on my homemade Trad music pub map (too early for most of them to be operational), noting on my map what the scribbled signs said would be happening either that night or the next. We explored little side streets with simply lovely gardens and little streams, went on to check out the dock area, tested drafts in some places, and decided we should stop for a late lunch somewhere. We either ate at the Boatyard or someplace next to it. Honestly, I can't remember because the meal was neither good nor bad. The fish was fresh and we were fine.
We trudged up the hill to our new Dingle home, started another wash, showered, and left early for the night, figuring we'd probably be back early.
Hmmm.
Next: Our Dingle Demise--Part Two
Last edited by AlessandraZoe; Aug 2nd, 2023 at 09:07 AM. Reason: typos
Aug 3rd, 2023, 06:27 AM
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Our Dingle Demise--Part Two
Our evening out first began on the left side of the road, where we stopped at Curran's again. And guess what? The noon Foxy John crowd had apparently migrated across to here. The few musicians inside were getting the crowd geared up, and soon various locals jamming the tiny space were demanding attention for their "bits." We loved it.
Noting our delighted reactions, the Foxy John crowd started interrogating us (note--the German cyclist must have escaped) and we got a kick out of it. As a woman said to me years ago in Dublin when we were attending a Sunday "local's" session, "Americans think we're friendly, but we're just nosy." I grew up in a small town where my next-door neighbor queried which sheets we were using on our beds because of what was hanging on our laundry line, so nosiness wasn't new to me. And it's ironic how if one doesn't have to live with it day in and day out, it becomes charming.
These folks WERE charmers. I happily submitted to all.
My favorite question of the night? "Have you had work done on your face?
My response? "And are you thinking all Americans be Kardashians?"
Roar.
Hey, one loves an appreciative audience. Next question?
Sidenote: NO, I have NOT had work done. Ok, I've had a hip replacement and there's a knee replacement in the offing. But no face lift, no Botox, no filler. I don't even use moisturizer.
But in full disclosure, like Norah Ephron once said, "I miss my neck." I do THINK about that procedure--a lot.
It turns out that the Foxy John group was a family celebrating two big-number birthdays, and they were devoting the entire day and night to it. We totally warmed to them, and I think they might have warmed to us. One of the younger men said to me, "You're not that bad for Americans." I smiled, totally getting it.
Or maybe not.
Soon we were all singing the chorus of each song at the top of our lungs. Correction: Only I was. My husband had observed that I was getting too far along on the Road to Perdition, way too fast on my way to what he once termed "Full Fun Mode," and at the first lull in the song list, he pulled me out of danger. He wished everyone a good evening, I blew everyone kisses, and out the door we went. Steps away, we stopped in Geaney's for a small bite.
We then worked our way down to the evening's pre-session with two vocalists/guitarists at The Dingle Pub, nabbing ringside seats along with our "starter" glasses (my husband had stopped ordering pints for himself by this time). Our ringside seats quickly became very uncomfortable, so I asked a couple who had commandeered space for six on adjacent cushioned wall benches if they were saving spaces for friends. They were not, so I asked if we might join them on the bench. The husband, sporting a Grateful Dead T-shirt, was very accommodating; his wife wasn't happy. But I don't think she was happy with anyone, especially with her husband. My husband, Mr. Tact, immediately bought them a round as a thank you, and she seemed to be mollified. For all of a minute.
Anyway, the duo with the early session finished up, and the trio performing the late session geared up. The room was getting crowded now. No wonder, this trio was GOOD. We were singing and stomping away when in walked...our Foxy John crowd. They shouted over to us, we shouted back. My husband said, "Now this [performing group] will get the audience it truly deserves." The Grateful Dead guy and I would just start to say, "I hope they play..." and low and behold they would! Sheer delight, best night ever...
Not so fast. What sort of stopped the Foxy John crowd and others in their tracks was the entrance between songs of an "Obviously American" family of mom, dad, and four bored young adults in their late teens and twenties. They were accompanied by a person who I'm assuming was their tour guide. Why am I even bothering with this? Well, the sight was rather like when one first sees those skyscraper cruise ships go past St. Mark's in Venice--jarring. The family looked as though they had just finished their Christmas card photo shoot, the one they take every year beachside on summer vacation. If you are American, you've received the card. Heck, when my kids were little, I SENT the card. These folks were sunburned, dressed head to toe in designer denim, and even though it was past eight o'clock, all sported sunglasses pushed up over their foreheads. I swear every darn one of them, male and females, had blond highlights. I can't make this up. All they were missing was a boogie board and sunscreen.
The Foxy John crowd didn't even bother to ask them questions, instead they looked over at me as if to say, "Can you translate this?" I just shrugged and shook my head in wonder. I did mutter to my Grateful Dead companion, "Just so you know, I don't think these are MY people." He chuckled.
Thank goodness, the trio started again. The whole room responded. Well, most of it did. The Obvious Americans, who had taken over an entire corner of the place, insanely oblivious to the atmosphere and to other people, took pictures and 360 videos of themselves in the room. They then busily sat/stood while they communicated or posted on their individual phones, and then...just left. I kid you not.
Sidenote: Later on, in moments of transport boredom, I passed the time by mentally writing their 2023-2024 Xmas letter.
At our Grateful Dead table, we all got another round and went back to enjoying ourselves. As if things couldn't get any better, David Geaney, the local champion Irish dancer who has appeared on Broadway and on Britain's Got Talent, came on to perform. Cheers went up from the locals, and we all stood up on chairs and benches to watch. After he excited, the trio managed to amp things up even further. The unsmiling wife at our table started to smile, too! Yay!
The trio's session finally ended, and my husband said, "Make a fast exit; otherwise, we'll be here 'til closing. Heck, we might be here PAST closing."
He was right. I was certainly in "Full Fun Mode," which is fine in itself but always uber dangerous to extend (rather like The China Syndrome). We thanked the Grateful Dead gentleman (he was from Finland!) and his wife profusely (no reaction), hugged each person in the Foxy John contingent who had been so lovely to us, and headed home up the hill.
Thank goodness...
a) we didn't have that far to go, and
b) we each had three bottles of water on our bedside tables.
Next: Paying the Penalty in Dingle while We Tour Slea Head
Noting our delighted reactions, the Foxy John crowd started interrogating us (note--the German cyclist must have escaped) and we got a kick out of it. As a woman said to me years ago in Dublin when we were attending a Sunday "local's" session, "Americans think we're friendly, but we're just nosy." I grew up in a small town where my next-door neighbor queried which sheets we were using on our beds because of what was hanging on our laundry line, so nosiness wasn't new to me. And it's ironic how if one doesn't have to live with it day in and day out, it becomes charming.
These folks WERE charmers. I happily submitted to all.
My favorite question of the night? "Have you had work done on your face?
My response? "And are you thinking all Americans be Kardashians?"
Roar.
Hey, one loves an appreciative audience. Next question?
Sidenote: NO, I have NOT had work done. Ok, I've had a hip replacement and there's a knee replacement in the offing. But no face lift, no Botox, no filler. I don't even use moisturizer.
But in full disclosure, like Norah Ephron once said, "I miss my neck." I do THINK about that procedure--a lot.
It turns out that the Foxy John group was a family celebrating two big-number birthdays, and they were devoting the entire day and night to it. We totally warmed to them, and I think they might have warmed to us. One of the younger men said to me, "You're not that bad for Americans." I smiled, totally getting it.
Or maybe not.
Soon we were all singing the chorus of each song at the top of our lungs. Correction: Only I was. My husband had observed that I was getting too far along on the Road to Perdition, way too fast on my way to what he once termed "Full Fun Mode," and at the first lull in the song list, he pulled me out of danger. He wished everyone a good evening, I blew everyone kisses, and out the door we went. Steps away, we stopped in Geaney's for a small bite.
We then worked our way down to the evening's pre-session with two vocalists/guitarists at The Dingle Pub, nabbing ringside seats along with our "starter" glasses (my husband had stopped ordering pints for himself by this time). Our ringside seats quickly became very uncomfortable, so I asked a couple who had commandeered space for six on adjacent cushioned wall benches if they were saving spaces for friends. They were not, so I asked if we might join them on the bench. The husband, sporting a Grateful Dead T-shirt, was very accommodating; his wife wasn't happy. But I don't think she was happy with anyone, especially with her husband. My husband, Mr. Tact, immediately bought them a round as a thank you, and she seemed to be mollified. For all of a minute.
Anyway, the duo with the early session finished up, and the trio performing the late session geared up. The room was getting crowded now. No wonder, this trio was GOOD. We were singing and stomping away when in walked...our Foxy John crowd. They shouted over to us, we shouted back. My husband said, "Now this [performing group] will get the audience it truly deserves." The Grateful Dead guy and I would just start to say, "I hope they play..." and low and behold they would! Sheer delight, best night ever...
Not so fast. What sort of stopped the Foxy John crowd and others in their tracks was the entrance between songs of an "Obviously American" family of mom, dad, and four bored young adults in their late teens and twenties. They were accompanied by a person who I'm assuming was their tour guide. Why am I even bothering with this? Well, the sight was rather like when one first sees those skyscraper cruise ships go past St. Mark's in Venice--jarring. The family looked as though they had just finished their Christmas card photo shoot, the one they take every year beachside on summer vacation. If you are American, you've received the card. Heck, when my kids were little, I SENT the card. These folks were sunburned, dressed head to toe in designer denim, and even though it was past eight o'clock, all sported sunglasses pushed up over their foreheads. I swear every darn one of them, male and females, had blond highlights. I can't make this up. All they were missing was a boogie board and sunscreen.
The Foxy John crowd didn't even bother to ask them questions, instead they looked over at me as if to say, "Can you translate this?" I just shrugged and shook my head in wonder. I did mutter to my Grateful Dead companion, "Just so you know, I don't think these are MY people." He chuckled.
Thank goodness, the trio started again. The whole room responded. Well, most of it did. The Obvious Americans, who had taken over an entire corner of the place, insanely oblivious to the atmosphere and to other people, took pictures and 360 videos of themselves in the room. They then busily sat/stood while they communicated or posted on their individual phones, and then...just left. I kid you not.
Sidenote: Later on, in moments of transport boredom, I passed the time by mentally writing their 2023-2024 Xmas letter.
At our Grateful Dead table, we all got another round and went back to enjoying ourselves. As if things couldn't get any better, David Geaney, the local champion Irish dancer who has appeared on Broadway and on Britain's Got Talent, came on to perform. Cheers went up from the locals, and we all stood up on chairs and benches to watch. After he excited, the trio managed to amp things up even further. The unsmiling wife at our table started to smile, too! Yay!
The trio's session finally ended, and my husband said, "Make a fast exit; otherwise, we'll be here 'til closing. Heck, we might be here PAST closing."
He was right. I was certainly in "Full Fun Mode," which is fine in itself but always uber dangerous to extend (rather like The China Syndrome). We thanked the Grateful Dead gentleman (he was from Finland!) and his wife profusely (no reaction), hugged each person in the Foxy John contingent who had been so lovely to us, and headed home up the hill.
Thank goodness...
a) we didn't have that far to go, and
b) we each had three bottles of water on our bedside tables.
Next: Paying the Penalty in Dingle while We Tour Slea Head
