My Overly Verbose W. Ireland Trip Report
 

You've been warned (again)... hope the punctuation worked OK for this one!

Day 1:

About an hour and a half into the flight from BOS to SNN I came upon my first lesson learned: bring your own food when flying Aer Lingus cattle-car class. In planning for Ireland, I had forgotten that problems encountered flying a troubled airline tend to be both "mechanical" and gustatorial, and "Dinner" was a rubbery wad of hacked-up chicken thigh accompanied by anemic "vegetables." When you can't tell where your plastic fork ends and your meal begins, you're in trouble. Thankfully after a swift 5:28 we landed in the predawn mist of Shannon Airport.

Our AL/Sceptre package had us picking up our teeny stick-shift Fiat Punto (I was not allowed to call it "cute") from Dan Dooley, where we were charged up front for a tank of gas (to be reimbursed if full at turn-in) and a mysterious delivery fee, in addition to a $750 "Hold," regardless of the fact that I'd paid with a Platinum MC. Huh. All told, $85 went on the card, but we were both too fuzzy to fight with the girl after questioning why we'd been charged in dollars. Later on we would discover that they'd cheated us out of almost a quarter of a tank of gas when the needle dropped precipitously after only 25 km, but I'm not sure how we could have prevented this. Another lesson later learned: Irish pumps shut off quickly? keep going past the first auto-cutoff when you fill up. Our fortunes turned, though, when we headed to the surprisingly-elegant-for-an-airport-hotel Great Southern 100 m across the way, where at 6:20 AM they had a nice two-bed room available. After a quick cleanup, we were off to Ennis.

Dawn was breaking foggy and brisk when we parked in a muni lot and wandered the still-quiet streets and cobblestone alleys. We watched garden center folks unload their dewy wares for the flower market on, appropriately enough, Market Street, then found a nice coffee shop to tuck into our first "mini" Irish breakfasts and read the local paper (Total + paper + 3 coffees = 11.5 Euro). While strolling the quiet, gated storefronts of the pedestrian zone, my husband, who can smell bread baking 1.609 km away, found a bakery and picked up a loaf of brown bread for later, and we were off to Kilrush. Total "Drive Left!!" cries thus far = 3. Number farm animals passed in the lush, rocky countryside = approx. 3 billion.

The wide avenues and flashy colors of Kilrush woke us up almost as much as the palm trees, clear sky, and salty breezes. Walking along the empty promenade one old salt greeted us with "You're on holiday late! We're all just about to start hibernating!" Off to the attractive little resort town of Kilkee, largely closed up for the season, and we walked the beach, contained in a neat natural amphitheatre carved out of the rock over the millennia. We looked around for signs directing out to the Loop Head Lighthouse, and back in the Punto we followed the "scenic route" signs and wound up at a little car park at the foot of a long, long trail hugging some gorgeous cliffs. We found a bench past a white concrete storm bunker and quietly watched and listened to the stubborn Atlantic, and it was twenty minutes before we saw a single person walk past. We spent so much time walking around we scrapped the lighthouse idea, mapped a different route back to Ennis, and headed to Bunratty for a late snack at Durty Nellies.

Ahh, our first Guinness in Ireland. I was heartened to see our pub table surrounded by Irish patrons, and after a salmon sandwich and a punto of unremarkable seafood chowder (total = 19 Euro) we moved on to the Woolen Mills to browse and get coffee, then on to the castle. Which we promptly decided to ditch after looking at our watches and the impatient herd of tour buses in the lot. Maybe next time. Off, then, to Limerick, "Stab City" of old, for other castles and real streets with a little dirt under their fingernails. The impressive edifice of the 700-year-old King John's castle took up much of the rapidly-gentrifying waterfront, and inside the castle there is an incredible photograph of rowhouses that had been built in the 30's INSIDE THE CASTLE COURTYARD to ease a housing crunch (now gone, of course. Admission about 7 Euro pp). By now it was past 5, and we trekked back and forth down bustling O'Connell Street, past the handsome grey stone edifice of the Hunt Museum (which I wished we could've gone to - closed at 5), and stopped by McDaid's pub on Denmark Street for a pint. A massive place that can hold up to 500 people, with huge wooden trestle tables and an old wooden pulpit in one corner that serves as a DJ booth. Window-shopped, found a Tesco for a little punto of cheese and jam, then back to Shannon for a picnic in the room and an early bedtime.

Day 2:

After a generous buffet-style breakfast where I discovered I really like black pudding for some unknown reason I dare not analyze, we were off through misty rain to the Cliffs of Moher, our hopes for a clear view kept judiciously in check. But the first order of the day was to nose around the small seaside town of Liscannor to try and find John Holland's birthplace in the pouring rain. Who, you say? John Holland (b. 1841 d. 1914), often erroneously credited with inventing the submarine. In fact, he engineered many new designs to make submarines that were better for diving, surfacing, and maneuvering for Naval combat*, and he's credited with being one of the fathers of the US Submarine Service. Anyway, we eventually found Castle Street where, sure enough, the ruins of an old O'Connor castle sit impassively next to a beige school, and right across the street lies the green-shuttered gray cottage of his birth and youth. A small marble plaque carved with a rough outline of a sub and the words Holland House mark the spot, and if the current occupants are reading this, we're the ones who left you a little something?

*- example: When a torpedo is launched, how do you account for the lost mass and not wind up bobbing nose-upright in the water? How do you not lurch backward in the water after firing? He helped figure it out.

Off to the Cliffs, where a cold, windy, rainy, Scooby-Doo fog had settled in. We parked outside the gates and took a quick peek at 30 feet or so of cliff base and ocean, then back in the Punto to Doolin, where the angry gray seas matched the overly lush green fields and we had an obligatory pint at O'Connors. Moving on towards Galway, through the otherworldly Burren, I finally figured out the Punto radio station in time to catch an old retrospective of what's best described as the Irish Prairie Home Companion. Driving through switchbacks carved from rock, we listened to a beleaguered Everyman trying to guide two American tourists:
"Did you see the cliffs?"
"Yes, we saw them."
"Did you see the lake?"
"Yes! Yes, we saw it."
"Did you see the castle?"
"Yes, yes?"
"Did you see the-"
"Yes!"
"Well why did you step in it then?"

On the way towards Ballyvaghan, we stopped by Newtown castle, which has been turned into a kind of art colony. It was closed, but we poked around the big square tower ? would've been neat to look in. On through Kinvara to Dunguaire castle, a neat little castle that is one of many now hosting medieval banquets (Admission 9 Euro for 2). Here I decided my next house shall have Machicolations, openings on parapet bump-outs that allow one to drop projectiles on one's enemies. Backtracking to Kinvara proper for food, we found Keogh's, where I had a huge, awesome bowl of seafood chowder stocked with chunks of salmon, whitefish, shrimp, and tons of fresh mussels, with brown bread to boot. Worth all five thousand calories (and 5.85 Euro!). H had a sandwich and fries, and with some Guinness the total was about 20 Euro. Yum.

On through the maze of roundabouts in Galway to the Bayberry House B&B (www.bayberryhouse.com) in nearby Salthill, a lovely, nearly new place with a nice room and ensuite bath. When I was booking, it was a bit further out from the Centre than I wanted, but then again the Galway International Oyster Fest was going on (www.galwayoysterfest.com). It turned out to be but a 25 minute stroll to Quay street, down tony Taylors Hill road with its big homes sporting cool Gaelic names that your suburban Fox Hunt Chase Landing Hill Run Estates Meadows can only dream about. The fest brings in people from around the world to compete in opening, and eating copious amounts of, the local bivalve. That afternoon the tasting was going on, but as we approached the raucous red-and-white tent I remembered blanching at the now-sold-out 95 Euro per person ticket price on the website, so once we were turned away we happily walked to the Quay street pedestrian zone lined with bars and merrymakers for what would prove to be the best craic of the trip.

Thus began our eight hour pub crawl.

At Taafes, we settled in with some pints and trad music.
At Tigh Coili, more music, and we chatted with some fun, nattily dressed Bostonians who had gone to the tasting with their Irish friends. At one point the bar was covered with more than ten freshly-pulled Guinness. What a beautiful sight.
At the Quays pub, we wound up outside drinking and talking to a wonderful South African couple, and ran into my sister-in-law's father. Small world. At one point H almost shot Guinness out his nose when a random woman walked up to a kilted gentleman, lifted the back of his kilt to reveal a full Scottish moon, nodded with great satifaction, and walked on with her friends without saying a word.
At McDonaghs we had huge takeaway plates of fish and chips that we ate outside with a friendly, sport-loving West London family (total = 13.5 Euro).
At Murphys, an older crowd, and we met several nice locals and swapped travel stories.
At Kings Head, a much younger crowd, and we noticed Ugg boots are tragically still in fashion in Eire.
Everywhere we went, be it in the street or in a pub, the friendly folk were wonderful, and at the end of the evening we taxi'd back to the B&B.

Sigh. Disabling the smart quotes isn't working completely - there should be some ellipses... in here where there are currently question marks. Oh Well.

And exclamation ! points.

I'm enjoying your narrative.

The 'delivery fee' for the rental car was probably the surcharge for airport pick up and drop off.

Did that thing with the Kilt really happen?? And, how did you know it was a Scot?? Some Irish wear the Kilt - I guess you have to know the Tartans to be able to tell the difference.

In Ennis, You should have gone into Dunne's supermarket for breakfast. It has a fairly nice Cafeteria.

Doolin: Gus O'Connor (O'Connor's Pub) passed away in April, 2003. I guess one of his relatives is carrying it on.

I travel by BusEireann (or CityLink) in Ireland. In Galway, I often have lunch (not a 'Carvery') at Garvey's right across the street from the Bus / Rail station.

I have a foto of the musicians inside Tigh Coeli (if that's the place just across the pedestrian walkway from Taaffes). It's at http://groups.msn.com/IrelandPicturesGolfMore.

By your second day you have probably figured out that the Irish Republic is an expensive place to visit. In May, 2003 it replaced Finland as EU's most expensive country to visit.

Keep the Trip report coming!

Nedsireland - you're right, he could've been Irish, but according to my husband and verified by one of the S. Africans this did happen right in front of them - I walked out with fresh beers just as he was laughing and trying to keep from horking his Guinness...

That's funny! I bet those S. Africans got a kick out of that. It gives a whole new meaning to full Military Inspection.

Here's the correct URL
http://groups.msn.com/IrelandPictures-GolfMore

I'd like to go to the Kilkee-Kilrush area to walk Greg Norman's Doonberg Golf links. They showed a short film clip of it on our AerLimgus flight to Shannon at the end of February 2004.

You don't mention Lahinch. We got some fantastic bargains at the ITB Store in Lahinch last March: 30% off everything and they prepare the VAT rebate forms too.

Day 3:

The next morning one of us was staggering like a darted polar bear, and turned green when reminded of the ill-advised consumption of a pair of deep-fried, breaded sausages before hailing the taxi. I, however, was busy having a lovely breakfast. Oops.

We set out for the Connemara and Joyce Country, beautiful scenery that is best described in photos, surprisingly different still from what we had seen in the days before, save for the constancy of sheep-white fuzzy fleas on the ancient, reddish rocky hide of the region. I convinced my husband to pit at Ballynahinch castle hotel, and I happily nosed around the high-ceilinged parlors, welcomed by the pungence of a smoldering fireplace. Men in outrageously expensive outdoor gear with even more expensive trout rods and reels conversed next to a Martha-perfect stack of mossy logs, and before H's imploring looks got to be too much we left, exiting by the bar with its not-fish, not lobster, but oyster tank. My next home shall have one of these, too.

Onwards, from the pretty village of Roundstone to the comparatively booming metropolis of Clifden, and through the mist and rain to Kylemore Abbey, postcard-perfect in an ethereal light fog. We continued on through the wonders of Joyce Country (my favorite vistas of the whole trip - gorgeous), keeping an eye on the clock, knowing that wherever we were at 3 PM, it was imperative we find a pub with a TV (cheers for the directions, Kieran and Kieran-'twas a grand drive!!)

Before we left, each of us had a wish for the trip: I really wanted to see a hurling game, and DH wanted to stay in a castle (Ed. Note: DH wishes all reading to know that he is a Tough Guy. Thank you.). With hurling season over, we hoped to catch one of Irelands' two Super Bowls?the Senior All-Ireland Gaelic Football Championship held in Croke Park, Dublin, where nearly 80,000 fans gathered for County Mayo to square off against perennial power but recent runner-up County Kerry. By 3 we were coming up on Cong, just inside the Mayo line, and I noticed that even the backs of the traffic signs were spray-painted the Mayo green and red. Nary a business or home in Cong was without green and red bunting, flags, homemade signs, etc. We quickly found our way to a green hotel across from the Pat Cohan bar, and joined a busy crowd of fans and families in front of the wide screen, Guinness at the ready.

Maaay-O!
May-ay-ay-O!
Kingdom come and dey wan' go home!
Was the cry, but for two wince-worthy 35-minute halves Mayo got shellacked, particularly by a young redhead who seemingly never missed. Kerry the Kingdom triumphed - Final score: Kerry 1-20, Mayo 2-9.

A word about rules and scoring: In Gaelic football, at each end of the field there's a goal much like a soccer goal, but with two poles continuing upwards from the frame, like goal posts. A ball that's kicked or thrown over the goal net but between the posts counts for one point, a ball kicked into the goal proper past the goalie, being the more difficult task, counts for three. The scoring is split into # 3-pointers and # 1-pointers, hence Mayo was defeated by an actual score of 23 to 15?

And a rant: On TV at least (and I prob. have rose-colored glasses, but this WAS the national championship), Gaelic Athletic Association sports were a welcome relief from the blatant whoring of American sport to the conjoined-twin johns of commercialism and the entertainment industry. During each half, there were no TV timeouts, no station breaks with annoying car ads, no grandstanding and gyrating from the players other than happy hugging, no gratuitous shots of celebs in the stands, just thirty-five minutes of running, tackling, and passing, broken only by a rare foul or penalty shot. This was a real game. And the crowd we met at the bar-newlyweds, families with little kids, teenagers, old farmers- were as polite and mostly sober as can be. If you're in Ireland, IMHO you'd be missing out if you didn't go to a local GAA game (for schedules, see "fixtures" at www.gaa.ie). Maybe next time I'll see hurling in person.

We bid the dejected crowd adieu and headed back to the B&B, and again walked into town for an unremarkable dinner of chowder and some mildly disappointing oysters. Pub-crawled for a bit, where at one point at Taafes' a group of girls got up (three in Kerry shirts, one in Mayo gear) and did an impromptu set dance for the crowd, earning whistles of appreciation. I raised my not-too-sweet Bullmers cider in tribute, and we walked back up the hill.

AHA!! Thank you, thank you. We were in Ireland at the same time you were and were caught up in the excitement of County Mayo vs. County Kerry. (We pulled for County Kerry since that's where we were...) But when we read the score the next morning we were baffled by the numbers and never had the opportunity to talk with a local about it. We left shortly afterwards.

Your explanation of the scoring scheme satisfies our questions. Thanks!

AHaugeto,

I am SO enjoying your recounting of your Irish experience and can not wait for the next installment. Keep 'em coming!

For anyone interested in Irish Football (or hurling for that matter) in the US, believe it or not, it IS available. And you probably have a team in your nearest bigger city.

For a list of all the teams, visit: http://www.nagaa.org/

Or my home team in San Diego, for links to many of the West Coast teams: www.NaFianna.com
(North American 2004 Champions, I'll have you know!)

AHaugeto, you are so lucky! I have yet to be in Ireland for an All Ireland Final. It is one of my dreams and I highly suggest, as you do, for everyone to take in a game if you can while visiting.

Cheers and can't wait for more of your trip,

Wendy

Day 4:

Another great breakfast, and we bid Galway goodbye for our longest drive, heading towards Tralee and Dingle. We stopped when the mood hit and were entertained by a DJ's heated call-in discussion of another unfortunate trend - ponchos. Quickly the green and red of the Mayo devout switched to the yellow and green of the Kerry the Kingdom faithful, and we arrived in bustling Tralee, where Every Single Shop And Restaurant had some sort of yellow and green display, and banners hung across the streets - later we would find out that the victors would return to Tralee at 6 PM that evening for a rally, continuing on to Killarney. After a quick, (relatively) inexpensive lunch at the Snackery on the Mall, we wandered amongst the gorgeous roses in the town park, next to the Kerry Museum (closed Mondays), and my jaw dropped as my husband went in search of a Kerry jersey, bought one in a department store (55 Euro), and put it on to literally blend in with the locals, who were all sporting the same. We stopped into the beautiful cathedral (check the holy water fonts - wow), where elementary school kids were rehearsing a song, and we managed to find the Holy Water tap outside for a picture.

Anyway, more browsing (I really liked Tralee- lots of school and college kids, locals going about their business, a good vibe), then off to Dingle to land at O'Neills John Street B&B, a place that did not pass my "Would I put my Mom up here" test. Don't bother. We wandered the town, and an irresistible force led us (okay, me) to the Lisbeth Mulcahy shop on Green Street next to Dick Mack's (www.lisbethmulcahy.com) where I swooned over the gorgeous scarves. Stunningly textured, elegant, and some a little edgy, I wanted one of each. After hitting the wallet I could tell H wanted to explore more of the town and then hit the pubs, so:

At Foxy John's Hardware/Bike Shop/Bar, they're resting on their hardware?slash-bar laurels a bit, and from the jumbled mass of wares I can only surmise Dingle has a sizable rodent problem. All local patrons, though.
At Murphys, we were surrounded by loud Americans debating the 49ers, so we sucked down our pints and quickly fled.
At O'Flahertys we were in exact-opposite-land, with Gaeltacht at the bar and Irish tracts and local articles on the wall (some wonderfully snarky), which we perused before dropping off my goodies then heading for the Dingle Pub for a pint or two and a dinner of Irish stew, shepherd's pie, and a huge plate of chips (how do you say "angioplasty" in Gaelic?). Bonus: caught a bit of soccer on the TV from some Arabic sports channel (ARN?), and then on to An Droichead Bag (www.thesmallbridge.com) for leisurely pints and an excellent guitar and violin duo. We lingered for a few hours with a couple we met from Chicago, then walked back to the B&B.

Day 5:

We tried to get up and out early this morning, and after a breakfast of salmon and eggs for me and traditional Irish for H, we were off in the Punto like a bat out of...a warm oven. Not the Punto's fault, rather everything they say about Irish roads is true. Off to the beautiful Slea Head drive, where nary a Beehive hut, stone fort, or Oratory was to be missed. We got out and hiked for a while near Dunquin and the Blasket ferry pier, and I took a gorgeous photo of the misty skies, the majestic cliffs, a little cluster of homes in the distance, the bluegreen Atlantic...and sheep scat. H will no doubt veto its inclusion in the scrapbook, but I shall sneak it in. We spent the half the day roaming, getting lost, and roaming some more, until we finished the loop and headed back to Dingle for a snack before setting off through the Connor Pass to our much-anticipated stay at The Shores B&B (www.theshorescountryhouse.com).

At the Oven Door bakery/sandwich shop we had soup of the day plus brown bread, and scored their next-to-last serving of Banoffee (sp?) pie. Mmmm (13 Euro total). Picked up a loaf of brown bread for the road, and off through a light rain towards the pass, where about 25 feet to the overlook a roman blind of fog stretched completely horizontal across the mountains. Oh well. Driving up, we listened to a classical station broadcasting live from the Plowing Championships (!!), and someone requested something to get a friend working on his house back home moving a little faster.

He played the William Tell Overture. Awesome. And amusingly inappropriate for our drive.

We found the Shores, but Annette wasn't present and the room wasn't ready, so we wandered the quiet streets of Castlegregory and drove a narrow road past cows and hay bales to walk on the beach and watch the surfers. We checked in to the beautiful B&B around 4, getting the beautifully appointed front room with the nice divan, placed our dinner order, and decided to try and see the Kerry County Museum in Tralee before it closed at 6. Well, we thought it was 6, but our wretched guidebook (Michelin NEOS) had it wrong. They were closing up when we arrived, so we went back to the Mall to the excellent Town and Country Pub for a pint and some more soccer (Arsenal vs. not-very-good). We bought a bottle of white rioja to have the B&B chill for dinner, and we headed back to have a cuppa and rest up. At dinner we were surprised to note that we were the only ones partaking, and we met the famous Annette, who was being actively cajoled by her Kerry-shirt-wearing kids to get to Dingle ASAP for the Kerry team's continuing victory tour that night. With Norah Jones on the CD player and the softly-lit room all to ourselves, we had a heavenly dinner of soup, salmon, and the Baileys dessert for H, and the butter/garlic prawns, sole, and warm chocolate cake for me. Absolutely delightful, and as Budman and wojazz attest, a great bargain at 25 Euro pp. We lingered, hearing the CD repeat I think three times, then off to the room, catching the last of Wayne Rooney's coming-out party for Manchester United (a hat trick his first game), and then collapsed.

Brace yourselves, Shores fans, I have a complaint. Neither of us slept well that night, and I had a spring digging into my side all night long. The mattress in the front room needs to be replaced. Other than that, a wonderful B&B, as promised.

Good report, thank you.

"In May, 2003 it replaced Finland as EU's most expensive country to visit." No, NEDSIRELAND, not EU's most expensive. Most expensive country that uses EURO. And not "to visit", to LIVE IN: housing, cars and so on.

Most gaelic teams in New York and Chicago are manned by Irish players--they are paid to come over just to play the matches, and then go home. But immigration is finally getting wise to them, and a bunch of guys on their way to play in NY last year weren't permitted on the plane!

Also, there are no goalies in gaelic football or regular old football. Only goalkeepers!

AHaugeto--glad to know I'm not the only one that didn't think much of Dan Dooley.

Elina, well put. I just assume its living expense as I live here but it could be different in differnt perspectives i.e. is it cheaper to visit than live :-). I was in Finland as an 18 year old and back then I did think it was the most expensive place on earth!

Ann41, interesting you say that - when we left there were four flights to the States all at the same time, and the one going to Chicago had an entire hurling team waiting to check in...

Day 6:

Before breakfast we chatted briefly with Annette, and she told us the festivities in Dingle (which they all wound up going to) had finished at around two in the morning at one of the players' homes, but she packed her kids off to school anyway. I handed her Budman's recent trip report with everyone's praises for her B&B, and she was excited to read it over her own breakfast. When we sat down for our meals (Irish for H, great French toast for me), my husband leaned over and said, "Who comes home at 2 in the morning only to get up, get the kids set, and have breakfast ready for a full house at 8 AM?" Good point. Wow.

With a warm mist and a double rainbow over the water we thanked Annette and set off for Tralee, thinking the third time's the charm for the Kerry Museum, and I'm happy to report it was definitely worth it. The top floor currently has an exhibition on Tom Crean, the Irishman who accompanied four Royal Navy expeditions to the Antarctic, and who traveled twice with Shackleton. I didn't know too much about these expeditions, but at the end of the exhibit I sure did, and it was dramatic, exciting, and heartbreaking ? I cannot imagine living on a windswept, frozen ocean for months and months on end, waiting for your relief to arrive and eating your sled dogs for sustenance. Nor can I imagine covering almost thirty miles nonstop of ice, floes, chasms, and God knows what else all alone through the God knows how cold night to try and save the life of your colleague, and oh, you've got your own scurvy and frostbite to deal with while you're doing this. The exhibit has tons of original letters and equipment from the various teams, including one particularly sinister amputation kit, with a sawblade as big as my forearm. If you're in Tralee, don't miss this exhibit. The lower floors have a well-laid out guide to the long history of the region, and the basement level has a neat recreated medieval Tralee for you to walk through. After several hours poking around, though, it was time to head to Dromoland for our last night.

For those who like to sneer at such places, arguing that all authenticity has been stripped for the benefit of pampering high-paying tourists, I say: what, like you'd really sleep on moldering straw, eaten alive by fleas before realizing you'd forgotten to use the chamberpot when you tucked in to your five-thread-count sheets and ratty wolf hides? Come on. Our room was beautiful, with a huge bed and bathroom, but even more fun was being shown around our room by the porter, who pointed out the CD player, CD collection, complimentary brandy, etc. As the weatherman had promised rain in the early evening, I called the front desk and booked horseback riding, and thirty minutes later we were suiting up on our gentle if a bit lazy steeds for a muddy, misty walk through some nearby countryside, where we admired the stable owner's sheep, cattle, dogs, and occasional horse-spooking pheasant. Grinning, I noted that once we were done riding we should probably head back to the castle, earning rolled eyes and a don't-get-used-to-this look from H (one-hour ride, 40 Euro pp, I think).

Anyways, upon returning we wandered the grounds and the walled gardens, and as the rain grew steady we scrambled back to the gorgeous octagonal bar, with a huge fireplace, even larger mirror, and loads of Meissen (??) dogs on single shelves. A beautiful, elegant bar, requiring jacket between the hours of 7 and 10 PM. And oh, Lord, did they know how to make a good Irish coffee, the kicker being the freshly whipped cream from a big glass bowl out of the fridge. Heavenly. We met some nice folks from Detriot and their parents, had a few drinks, then back to change clothes for dinner at the country club (we were too late for reservations at the Earl restaurant), where we dined on superb oysters, lamb, and chicken. Afterwards we found the Detroit folks eating dinner while relaxing on a sofa outside the Earl restaurant (a good idea!) and chatted a while, then H gamely went to the front desk to borrow a jacket so we could go back to the bar and charge yet more beverages to the room. We listened to the wonderful guitarist/singer for a while and eventually moseyed back to the room, full, spoiled, and happy.

The next morning we dined on an amazing spread of breakfast goods in the over-the-top restaurant, and I tried to figure out how to get one of the chandeliers into my carry-on. After refusing to charge one to the room, H paid our outstanding room bill (oops, heh heh), and we were off to the airport to turn in the car, noting triumphantly that H hadn't had a single problem, even with stick shift. And as the contrails waved goodbye to the Isle, we both suspected we'd be back some day.

Ann41,

I must have missed that story! Any chance you have a link for it? Yes, often students will come over for the summer and I guess it's common practice to 'hire' ringers for the Gaelic games in the US. The NAGAB is working on fixing the problem so it is getting better. San Diego does not practice the hiring of players though we often will have a student or two over for the summer. It's amazing how much they can bring to a team in terms of skill and playing level! Both San Diego teams are about 1/4 to 1/3 permanent resident Irish, sometimes a student or two and the rest mainly Yanks.

AHaugeto,

I thoroughly enjoyed your OVWITR! So glad that we now have another Irish Lover to add to the ranks. Welcome! Hope to hear about any upcoming trips back, too.

Cheers,

Wendy

I will be doing a Sceptre trip Oct. 19 so am very interested in this lively wonderful report. I have a question. Is there a Dan Dooley's near the hotel where one can pick up a car and avoid the $85 charge? And is there an airport shuttle to the hotel? Thanks.
Andrea

Hi Andrea - Actually the Great Southern is literally across the parking lot from the Terminal, and the only shuttles I saw were for the rental cars. In the end, we filled up the tank at Bunratty before dropping the car off, and were reimbursed forty-something dollars on the card, with the $750 hold removed. I hope this helps - enjoy your trip!

topping for J