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Our Latest Adventure in Ireland: Two Music Festivals Be Us
This report will cover our June 2025 journey to the Westport Folk and Bluegrass Festival, our stay in Galway, and our trip end at the Doolin Folk Festival.
I was hesitant to write this trip report. My reports for our 2019 Northern Ireland and our 2023 Republic of Ireland trips covered far more key information helpful to others planning a trip to Ireland, especially those without a car. This one includes just a few things new to us, but then again, they might be new to you, so who am I to decide what's useful and what's not. However, if you are a Bluegrass, Trad and/or Folk music fan, this report might be of keen interest to you. You decide. Readers should be aware that we are 80 and 72. My husband, who daily walks 10 or more miles a day, just isn't as interested in travel as he once was. I, the rather idle 72-yr-old with crumbling knees and feet am the one still keen on adventure. These facts shaped this itinerary and our eventual day-to-day travel in 2025. |
Planning When, Where, How: Irish Trad, Flying with Points, and "Rules Be Rules"
After our successful Scandinavian adventure June 2024, I came home excited to plan our June 2025 trip. My husband? Not so much.
"Let's go somewhere easy. Ireland would work." OK. That decision meant I had an instant outside framework. We could return to Westport, probably hit Galway at some point, and maybe I could find another music festival we'd like. No matter what, I already knew his rules: no car rentals, stays of three or more nights, trip length preferably less than 14 nights. A quick check of online music calendars showed a music festival in Doolin. We could spend time between Westport, work our way down to Galway, hang, do the Doolin thing. Now to route the air with points, a game I love to play. After all, my own trip rule is to have a lie-flat seat over any ocean. I had made major progress planning relatively free flight legs when my husband started putting more preferences in place. No JFK. Then no Dublin if possible. Then "I don't want tour drivers." O-Kay. Gee this was getting hard. I was changing flights and redepositing miles daily for a bit. Finally I came up with a plan and proposed it. It would involve two flight legs to get to Ireland and two flight legs to get back home. We could do drivers or buses. My husband gave a thumbs up. The result? A routing for the absolutely insane. But hey, if the shoe fits... |
Our Crazy Routing
*First time flying Virgin Atlantic **If the term "Upper Class" hit you wrong, you are not the only one. It really bothered us (but not enough to fly Economy) ***Beginning November 2024, Aer Lingus has allowed booking with AAdvantage Miles ****Yes, this one-night stay in Ennis and our ending stay at LHR broke our three-night stay rules. But it did end up working well for us. |
More Planning--The Bits and Pieces
I spent my time after nailing flights and reserving two hotels working out some of the finer points. I had to get tickets for both music festivals, get a driver from Ennis to Westport (husband approved it), perhaps reserve our old driver from the 2023 trip from Westport to Galway (husband happily approved), and figure out where we'd stay in Galway this time.
I nailed the drivers pretty fast. Tony Wood Chauffeur, an Ennis company, would get us up to Galway; our favorite driver from 2023, Mary O'Toole of O'Toole Taxis, would be zipping us down to Galway from Westport. The Galway hotel ended up being more of a problem. We had returned to The Park Hotel again and again over the years, but we wanted a different area. There were several lovely places in the Salthill area, and if we weren't up for walking to and fro, the Bus Eireann #401 would work fine. But on a whim, I booked The Heron's Rest B&B on the Long Walk because I love that area. And heck, it was part of Ed Sheeran's "Galway Girl" video. I was proud of myself. My husband, however, two weeks later, took one look at the unit photos and said, "Uh, did you see the stairs?" Oh darn, he was right--the unit's steps would just kill me. My left knee constantly gives out without warning, and there I would be: dead at the bottom and my husband would be in charge of shipping my body back to the States. After a Guinness, I'm sure. Now I spent frustrated weeks "walking" around Galway on Google street view. I finally found another on AirBnb in the West End that would give us access to some of the Galway Trad pubs--The Crane, Monroe's--we never get to try. Our dates worked perfectly for that location's landlord because the Galway Folk Festival would be ending the night before we came and all her units would turn over for the next few days. We just had to decide which unit and we would be done. My choice was heartily husband approved this time. Note: I don't give the names of our chosen AirBnbs in my trip reports for several reasons. It was around this time of planning that I subscribed to the online entities representing the Westport Folk and Bluegrass Festival and that Doolin Folk Fest. Wow--it was quite noticeable that the Westport festival had become more sophisticated in its online presence since our last visit--you can now easily find Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter links on their website's contact page. It was also quite noticeable that the Doolin Folk Fest link was more or less buried within the Doolin Arts website. Indeed, other than being able to buy festival tickets (available rather late online compared to Westport), deciphering the schedule at the Doolin FolkFest would be a continual problem. I now linked up with more general social media. I was already a longtime visitor to The Session, a website devoted to listing Trad sessions all over Ireland. The website can be very inaccurate but sometimes can give a good pointer or two. I'm not a regular Facebook user, but this past year I did sign up for various Trad Music Facebook groups online--most importantly "Session City Galway" and "Traditional Irish Music Sessions in Clare". These pages tended to be updated more often. ---- Sidenote: Somehow the Facebook page "Irish Musicians" led me to the Facebook page of Tony Kelly, where he posted a clip of banjo phenom Adam Kelly (his brother?) performing in Westport's Matt Malloy's in August 2024. The tune? "Catharsis", written by fiddler from Putney, Vermont, Amy Cann, who wrote it after an argument with a friend. I believe Amy Cann now is an instructor at the Upper Valley Music School in New Hampshire. Lucky students! Sadly, if we had arrived in Galway one day earlier, we could have caught Adam, formerly with the famous group The Fureys, performing with his new group, Shillelagh Law, at Monroe's. Darn. Well, one can't plan for everything. Supposedly Shillelagh will be coming to the States in 2025-2026 and maybe we can see him then. Just don't confuse his new group with the American band Shilelagh Law (one "l") in searching for their bookings. |
Virgin Atlantic ATL-LHR; The VA Revivals Lounge
Please just skip this part if you aren't interested in Virgin Atlantic ATL-LHR Upper Class flight details. I only look at these types of details while I'm booking flights and choosing seats. For this trip, I swear I watched every available video on the Airbus A350-1000 Upper Class cabin produced in the last three years.
------- We usually limit ourselves to carry-on overseas, easily done on AA and Delta First Class flights, but the Virgin Atlantic carry-on rules might not work for us. Delta and Virgin Atlantic have merged lounges and miles and often exact routes, but their rules on certain things are different, and I was unsure. I did know that if our landing was delayed the next morning, I had scheduled our second flight to Shannon (SNN) late enough that picking up baggage would not be the deal-breaker. Resolved: we would just check our luggage, a decision that prevented my having to deal with any persnickety TSA agent about the legality of my collapsible, blunt-tipped hiking poles. We didn't pack any heavier than usual. We couldn't! We were planning on using buses in the upcoming days, and our "one roll-on" and "one convertible backpack" method has always worked like a charm for transport flexibility as long as we keep things light. The secret to traveling in Ireland, even in summer, has always been light layers. Daytime temperatures in our past June trips have ranged from the 50s to the 80s. We're talking silk long underwear, quick-dry Kuhl pants, and enough quick-dry short-sleeved tops and long-sleeved tops to last until our first washing opportunity. Add a thin sweater, a fleece jacket, a rain jacket. Toss in thin cheapie hats and cheapie gloves. Tuck in a "just-about-presentable" eating out outfit, which means I also pack a silk scarf or two and earrings and my husband adds a less dilapidated sweater and a collared shirt. I did add rain pants at the last minute; my husband refused. Done. Prepared as we were, something we had no clue about was exactly where to check in. Online, I had to preselect meals via Virgin Airlines communications, but then check in via my Delta app. So I assumed we would drop bags at Delta. Once at the terminal, we found we could not create baggage tags at the Delta kiosk. A nearby agent thankfully noticed our confusion and directed us towards the official Virgin Airlines desks way across the floor. As we handed over our luggage there, the desk agent chuckled at our two small bags each. "Is this all?" "It's too much as it is!" replied my husband. Passport control and security went smoothly. Having CLEAR certainly was a benefit at this early evening hour. Boarding, however, seemed a tad disorganized. Usually Delta boarding is pretty organized if they have room to make clear lines. Virgin Airlines did have room to organize here, and yet their queuing made no sense. It would be a harbinger of the flight service. Every attendant seemed to be frazzled and unclear about what they were doing. Disconcertedly, our "Upper Class" seats on this Airbus A350-1000 looked as though someone had let a toddler loose with a hammer for an hour. My research videos had indicated there was a lot of wear and tear in these rather limited storage cubicles, but I was totally unprepared to see that sections of the wall in front of me were covered with gaffer tape. I was leery of testing the seat in case it refused to work properly. Thankfully, the seat worked--and it was quite comfy! I grabbed the Virgin Atlantic PJs offered in this section, changed, and settled in. Because of the early evening departure, I had pre-ordered the Express Meal of a tomato bisque and toastie (soup was ok; the toastie wasn't me) instead of skipping all eating entirely. I ate while I watched a movie, "Across the River and Into the Woods" that kept me interested enough to order the cheese plate and a port while it finished. FYI--While the movie wasn't faithful to the Ernest Hemingway book, Liev Schreiber and a stunningly photographed, tourist-empty 1950s Venice, filmed during Covid, was totally intriguing. How ironic that a tragic event granted a once-in-a-lifetime cinematic opportunity. Movie finished, I then told the attendants I was out until landing and would not eat breakfast. I pulled down my oldie-but-goodie British Airways sleep mask, put my earplugs in, and totally zonked for at least four hours. Mission accomplished. Note: My husband refuses to wear ear plugs. The door track on the restroom closest to his seat broke mid-flight. It took a loud passenger alert, two flight attendants and a lot of racket to fix it. I didn't hear a thing. Passport control was swift (our ETAs, to my relief, must have shown up in the system) while baggage pick-up was a tad delayed. Still we were on track to make use of the Virgin Airways Arrivals Lounge that closes at 12:30 PM. The lounge is located via a corner elevator one floor up from Terminal 3 Arrivals. The decor in this small lounge is bare bones IKEA style. The service, however, is unbelievably good. Made-to-order coffee and cappuccinos magically appeared alongside constantly refilled water. Our selected Vegetarian Full English breakfasts were good, but we had other lovely options too. Full to the brim, I still had to walk over and test a fresh pains aux raisins and a pain au chocolat. Time was on our side, and we each were able to take a long shower in a super clean room and put on fresh clothes. As we left, my husband said, "Wow--that more than made up for being awakened by plane repair in the middle of the night!" We indeed had been spoiled rotten. Onwards to Terminal 2! |
LHR Terminal 2 from Terminal 3; Aer Lingus to Shannon; Travel to Ennis
Before we left our house, I had sent my husband concise written directions that included a lengthy, step-by-step
Once we had self-checked our luggage with Aer Lingus in Terminal 2, something we did for all our flights in Scandinavia, our Aer Lingus AerSpace fare gave us entry to their Terminal 2 Lounge. We signed in, took a look at it, looked at each other, and walked out. The atmosphere was like church and the lounge had a steamy smell. The lively bar next door was full of groups traveling together, and we were soon invited to join one group at their table. Yeah, this was more like us. Our waiting time passed swiftly. Boarding at Aer Lingus was simple and sensible, as was going through Customs at Shannon. I had always like this airport, and I was so happy that expansions really hadn't changed its vibe. We soon got a taxi to the Old Ground Hotel in Ennis at the airport transport desk. Note: I was fine with just waiting for the Expressway #51 bus--we would only have had to wait 10 more minutes and our walk from the stop to the hotel probably was 5-10 minutes, but my husband said, "I'm done! Get a cab." |
Our Stay at the Old Ground Hotel in Ennis
We set foot inside The Old Ground Hotel, and memories came flooding back. In 2003, my daughters and I stayed here our very first night in Ireland. The hotel and town were like a warm hug to us. While my husband would join us a week later, he never got that same initial experience. I happily would text my girls that he had reacted to the hotel and the town the way we had back then.
Full disclosure: Our room was comfortable but quirky. The bedding was beautiful and the bathroom was huge, but outlets were few and in odd places. The bathroom only had those bare-bones towel racks that fit under pedestal sinks. No towel bars on the walls. No shower door railing. No towel hooks. In fact, there weren't even toilet roll holders. But what the heck, it took only seconds to see that we'd sleep well. We meandered downstairs and out to the connected pub, The Poet's Corner. A server saw us looking for any table that didn't have "reserved" on it, and she whisked one sign off. We must have looked hungry. Soon we were eating a lovely roast salmon with perfectly cooked vegetables. When we came up for air, we noticed that the room seemed to be full of locals, not tourists. Two young men sitting next to us said, "Are you enjoying your food?" We nodded. We asked if the people in the room were all tourists or were there locals here too. "This room is mainly us. The tourists tend to go to the dining room." My husband said, "Fools." They laughed. It was bright as day out at 7:30 pm, but we knew we couldn't last. I was sad because I had placed this stop for a reason: I wanted to see uilleann piper Blackie O'Donnell, and he was scheduled for a 9 pm session that night at Lucas's Pub. Blackie, of whom I'll post a sample I told my husband that I knew Blackie often performed at Doolin's McGanns and McDermotts (you can find various old videos online), and fingers crossed, we'd see him in Doolin. We did sleep well, so well that we almost missed an excellent breakfast. This room was full of the tourists--lots of golfers, senior citizen tour groups, and other groups. I found the corner where my daughters and I had met up with our cycle group all those years ago. The participants had been lovely people, and that week remains a joyful memory for my daughters and me. While I showered and repacked (I admit I'm a slow re-packer because I need everything to be "just so"), my husband was content to explore the town. He came back in the room and said, "This town is terrific!" I smiled. We were sad to leave, but Westport awaited. |
Ahhh The Poet’s Corner. We have wonderful memories of eating delicious food, listening to some great music and sitting with some wonderful people. We were there for the Fleadh Nua many moons ago.
I am enjoying your report and realizing that I really want to go back! |
Paqngo--How fabulous you attended the Fleadh Nua! I'm envious. We can never go places in May--family and work commitments. Thank you for the kind words. They motivate me to keeping plugging away here at the keyboard.
AZ |
Westport--Friday
Talk about timing. We opened the door of the hotel and a van pulled up practically at our feet. It was Dave Woods, Tony Woods' son, ready and willing to drive us to Westport.
Someone had mentioned Tony Woods as a driver on a travel blog way back, and I managed to find all the contact info: Company: Tony Woods Chauffeur Mobile: +353 87 254 7511 Email: [email protected]?%20target= Mary was the person who responded to my very first inquiry, and she gave me various prices for how I wanted the day to go. I had considered stopping at Athenry on the way up for a lunch break because we had cycled through there years ago and liked it so much. After discussion with my husband, we kept it simple--we'd just head to Westport. FYI--I booked this transport in November 2024. Dave told me it was smart to book early because they provide for a lot of tours groups that block out weeks of transport. Dave was a great guy. He had recently left his job as an Ennis firefighter to drive full time for the business, plus he has a sideline as a hunting dog trainer. There were lots of things to talk about on our two-hour journey, and the time went fast. We knew our room would not be ready at the Westport Plaza Hotel, but that wasn't a problem. We dropped off our luggage and headed up the street to our Westport "home"--Matt Malloy's. We happily settled onto our barstools and chatted away with the locals, feeling like we never left. Our hotel texted us the room was ready, and we quickly went back to unpack. The Westport Folk and Bluegrass Festival has become even more organized than it was in 2023. Printouts of the festival line-up had been placed all over town, and the website itself broke the events down by day, too, for easy reference. Luckily, we had unpacked in time to make our way up to Blouser's, a pub we'd not been in the last time for a "Homecoming Session". I have to tell you that I have NO idea of who was performing. This tiny pub had only inches to spare, and we had to move our way to the very back of the bartop just to breathe. Seeing and even hearing the musicians was out of the question. However, the positive was that we were near the bar and quenching our thirst was pretty easy. I, a non-Guinness enthusiast, liked the fact that the Blouser's Session Beer exactly matched my tastebuds. Soon we were chatting with people from Scotland, Canada, Wales, and a few US States, all excited to be there. After a few hours, we knew we better get food down us fast. Across the street was An File, a bar we had eaten at the last time. We each had the simply prepared fresh fish and fresh vegetables with many glasses of water. Restored to some sanity and sobriety, we crossed the street to The Westport Town Hall where the evening concert would be. Manning the desk was the festival founder himself, Uri Kohen. He's an unassuming, rather modest man, and I think a recent The theme of the night's concert was "American Old-Time Music", consisting of three groups: Golden Shoals, Erynn Marshall & Carl Jones, and Nadine Landry & Stephen "Sammy" Lind. We were a little disappointed with Golden Shoals because the female half strangely only seemed to talk about the merchandise they were selling and she spent way too much time tuning every darn instrument she picked up. Erynn Marshall (who could flat-out "saw" on the violin) and Carl Jones were true Country/Bluegrass professionals. Nadine Landry is actually from Quebec, and their music naturally include Cajun and Acadian folk music, although she also sang an amazing Brazilian country song that we loved. Her husband Sammy Lind, Minnesota born, is a superb fiddler and would spend a lot of the festival leading seminars. The both have been part of the Foghorn Stringband from Portland Oregon and have a huge repertoire. There are several videos online of some of each group's performances that night, but I'll just post the ending "jam" of all three groups so you can get a flavor of our evening in There were at least for venues we could go onto that night. Not us. We headed out of the hall with a "Direct to bed, no stops" mindset. But as we passed The Jester Bar,the sounds of a classical mandolin set against a jazzy string bass floated out. What? I pulled my husband inside and listened in awe. I asked a woman my age sitting on a stool who these guys were. "Liam Purcell and Cane Mill Road. Aren't they marvelous?" Liam looked like a kid in high school (fact: he is 22). After 10 minutes of listening to him and his fellow musicians, I turned to my husband and said, "I bet Liam has done Boston Berklee (yes, I would be correct) and his bassist has to have been trained in jazz (also correct)." Sadly, we could not last their entire set. Jet lag--and age--was still presenting a problem for us. |
OP's correction edit for end of post above:
"There were at least FOUR venues we could go onto that night." I wrote up too many posts yesterday and couldn't proofread for the life of me by the end. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. |
Old People Test Out Leap Cards
We slept late again, and unfortunately, we missed the best timing for getting a bus out to the Achill Sound area and back. So today we'd head over to the much closer Croagh Patrick area and try to ascend the trail enough to get a view of Clew Bay. Our secondary goal was to test out getting and using Leap Cards.
Before this Ireland trip, I had tried to gather as much information as possible about Leap Cards from Ireland's official transport website, Transport for Ireland. I even started a thread on this forum to get advice. It became obvious that most tourists outside of Dublin don't use the card or just the Dublin Visitor's Leap Card. In fact, many potential tourists didn't understand the point of the Leap Card. My goal was to have a transport card that would allow us to hop on and off transport at will without digging for change. As I understood it, the Leap Card would accomplish that, plus it often would give us discounted fares on Bus Eireann (not Expressway) routes, and it could be used towards a variety of Irish transport. The Transport for Ireland website has often been unwieldy because certain links end up in dead ends and it took awhile to gather the right facts. While I originally planned to order Leap Cards from abroad (it's doable), I decided to wait until just before we'd have the opportunity to use one. I downloaded three apps to my phone: the TFI Live app, the TFI Go app, and the Leap Top-Up app to my phone before we left. If you are wondering why Bus Eireann doesn't have contactless payment, well, that's a goal that's in the works and has yet to be uniformly enacted across the country, much to the frustration of the Irish tech-oriented populace. The last time we were here in 2023, not all buses had GPS trackers that allowed people to see where their much needed bus was on the route. Our Westport bus had been cancelled that day, but no driver stopping by on other buses could tell us or the poor souls dependent on this type of transport anything. I can say those trackers were certainly working this year--my Google maps could now tell me the delays or early arrivals in any direction. I was determined, wisely or not, to test Leap Cards today. After looking for Leap card purchase venues near us on my phone, I sent my husband to the nearby Westport Post Office to get ours where he also put five Euros of credit on each. We grabbed rain gear, I tucked in my collapsed hiking poles, and away we went up to Mill Street to catch the next Bus Eireann #450 towards Louisburgh. We stepped onto the bus, laid our cards on top of the machine, told the driver "Croagh Patrick", she nodded and said quite clearly, "Murrisk." The cards worked. I sidled into a window seat, and my husband sat on the aisle at first. As we approached the Westport Quay, we started looking for our rest stop of the previous year when we had walked out this way from town, and for some reason, we just did not pay any attention to the remaining stops. At the actual Westport Quay stop, the nice lady driver excited and a rather gruff male driver got on. My husband decided to get another window seat in the back, and I could understand why--the view of Clew Bay is just so wonderful on this route and why look left at all when one can be looking right. But this all really doesn't explain how BOTH of us could miss the Murrisk stop. Folks, just so we're clear, there's a monitor overhead that SHOWS the stops. Google Maps on my phone was working just fine. The driver certainly announced the stop, but his gruff voice did make the actual word "Murrisk" incomprehensible. A half minute after that stop, the lightbulb went on in my head. I turned to look for my husband, who was absolutely clueless as to what had happened. He came up to my seat, found out, and went up to talk to the gruff driver. There was nothing we could do but ride to the end of the route, around 10 minutes away, because this was the only bus that would be taking the route back to Murrisk. In the meantime, the weather took a turn for the worst, and scrambling up a rocky path in possible driving rain became less of an appealing idea. We agreed to ride back to Westport. In the meantime, I tested topping off the card with the Leap Top-Off app mid-ride. Easy peasy. Just make sure your NFC setting is operating, place the Leap Card behind your phone, your balance shows up and you can top off right there with a credit card. Back at the ranch... We hopped off the bus in Westport feeling like the old fools we were. I looked up the street and said, "There's the Clock Tavern. I've always wanted to see what the inside of that one looks like." Little did I know how that decision would impact our afternoon. |
How We Ended Up Manning a Table with RULES
As we last left this story, my husband and I arrived at the Clock Tavern, seeking solace in beer for our utter elderly failure in approaching Croagh Patrick. The place was empty except for two people at a small table near the bar watching a hurling* match.
*By the way, I love hurling. I have no comprehension why it's not the most popular sport internationally. It has it all. I obviously have digressed. We looked around where to plop and there were two window nooks. I love window nooks. I chose one. It would end up being the RIGHT one. My husband had gone to the bar, brought a beer over to me and returned. He had settled in with the bartenders at a corner, chatting away. Fine. I was catching up with my daughters back home on the phone, and I noticed a couple of musicians walk in. Were they playing here? They sat at the middle-of-the-room table. Odd. I knew sessions rarely started in the middle of a room. My husband came back with a beer refill, all excited. "This guy (the tallest bartender) is an NFL fan. I told him I'll talk about our home NFL team only if he can explain the reason Cricket even exists as a sport." He went back to the bar. Okay, I had a Kindle book to finish, and I was fine. More people started filtering in. Maybe something was happening here. I looked at the online Westport festival schedule. Oooh--there was a session here at 5 pm: Freda Hatton, Julie Langan, Declan Askin featuring Brendan Butler. But where would they be playing in this space? At first, the incoming crowd assumed it would be in the opposite window nook. Then the musician clientele told me it would be in the area right next to my nook. Alarmed, I signaled my husband to report back ASAP. We had to establish a beachhead so we had sight and hearing lines. Just when we thought we were grand, in walked this crazily dressed woman with a cane with a man with a white seeing-disabled cane. She plopped him down at the end of our table, laid down some Euros, and said, "Here is the money for his beer. He is totally blind, he's deaf in one ear (she didn't tell us which ear), I'm leaving for a bit, and he needs to save me a seat for when I return." Our jaws dropped. She exited. Well we had been raised God-fearing Golden Rule people. My husband got him a beer, and we started a conversation, trying to figure out which ear was operable. He was a sweetie, and we really warmed to him. We would protect him with our lives (his wife, not so much). We soon arranged the seating a tad to accommodate him better. Thus came into action "Our Table Rules". Just so you know, I'm a great enforcer. One of my horrible high school duty teaching assignments outside the classroom as a new young teacher was monitoring the "smoking room" in the 70s in a high school. Yeah, "smoking rooms" in high schools were was a thing. I had had a knife put to my neck and didn't even waiver (I still have no clue why I didn't waiver). That perhaps explains why when people who didn't look as though they would be considerate of "our guy" approached, my husband and I could so easily rebuff them with "saving space." But a sweet-voiced young woman asked if she could sit with her aunt, we explained the situation and asked if they were willing to sit in certain seats. Their faces showed utter compassion. For sure they were admitted. They asked if the husband, who had been delayed could sit and we said sure. "We're just trying to make sure no one is disrespectful." When he arrived, he looked A-OK. In fact, he took extra special care of "our" guy. A woman closer to my age leaning against the corner, overhearing all this, said, "I think I could pass your rules." We laughed and said, "We think you could too." She sidled into the corner after we gave her the drill on the hearing arrangement. Our judgement was well founded. Her husband entered the bar, and she explained the situation. He magically manifested a stool and would for the entire session preserve the blind guy's ability to hear. They were both from Cork. I'm tearing up just thinking about all of this. The early evening would become magical. The session started. The man from Cork told me Brendan Butler was from Cork, and that Brendan knew Bluegrass front and back. Brendan had usually played with a group at the White Horse in Cork. Brendan's voice is certainly a Bluegrass voice, and while I don't have our session's clip, The rest of the musicians were wonderfully talented and so generous to each other. My new Cork buddy told me this was a prime group. Soon musicians finishing from other sessions across town were joining. The music thus would vary from a wall of sound to an absolute hush as one lovely vocalist after another would do haunting solos. At the table, we all kept looking at each other saying, "Aren't we lucky?" The best was yet to come. The Cork wife told me to get her husband's attention. "This young woman next to me has an astounding voice. Can you ask them if she can sing?" Obviously, my new Cork friend had connections. We pulled (dragged) the niece out from behind the table, and lo and behold, her voice held the floor. All of at the table were so proud of her command not only of the room but also of the musicians. Our table members were wiping tears away right and left. Too soon, the session came to an end. Why? It was time for the evening concert to go on stage at the Westport Music Hall. I'm attaching a pic I found of the night. Sorry I don't have a sound clip. You'll just have to believe me they were all great. But then again, we did drink a lot of beer. And yes, the wife came back for her husband, just barely in time. https://scontent-atl3-2.xx.fbcdn.net...tA&oe=685E24C1 |
The Evening Concert--It's All About Bluegrass
While we were holding down the table at the Clock Tavern, eight other Saturday events had been held throughout town, which a quick peek at the 2025 Program page can show (I hope the link works long enough to be useful to any readers) and four others would be held after the evening concert. My new Cork buddy told me that he was very interested in the 10:15 pm session with Blue Weed, a group from Italy of all things! I hugged both him and his wife goodbye because I knew we would not be staying awake long enough to see them there. I was truly grateful to them for sharing their knowledge of Irish Bluegrass, their insights into the local musicians, and their kindness.
We barely made it in time to the Westport Town Hall, a spit from the Clock Tavern, for the evening concert. First up was Sylamore Special, a young group from Arkansas. They were superb musicians, but at the end of their set, my husband and I looked at each other and agreed there was something missing. I still don't know quite what it was. My husband would later say, "They were like vanilla ice cream--great if you don't like flavor." Maybe that was it. To each his own. Next up was Liam Purcell and Cane Mill Road. There was nothing missing from them. Liam obviously could play anything with strings--and his group had a rock band energy. His bassist Jacob Smith, will be leaving the group to set up family life back home, and it was a wonderful thing that they granted him center stage for "Summertime", of which I have a clip Finishing the night was Seth Muldar and Midnight Run. My husband said it was like watching those great country TV shows of the past of which The Glen Campbell Show had been a musical standout--every song was better and better. We complimented Uri Kohen on the way out. A lot of effort goes into finding and selecting the groups, and he and his team had brought over some gems from the United States and elsewhere. In search of food--we had not eaten since breakfast--we made it inside Apache Pizza just before closing. On the way home, I marvelled at how many evening entertainment venues there were in this small town that were NOT a part of the festival. On our short walk back to the hotel, we passed Lofty's, Danny's and the over-23 club, The Castle Late Night Venue, which would close at 2:30 am. We could hear the bass pounding through our room's well-insulated windows, but as you might imagine, nothing could prevent us from sleeping. |
Back at Blouser's
We got up late again, and over breakfast, we thought we plan out the last day of the festival more carefully. We almost could make the "Gospel Hour", a free event that's traditionally held in a local church, but because of renovations, was being held at the town hall. My husband nixed that. Sylamore Special was performing at the Clew Bay Hotel, but we had had enough of them. "Hey, how about returning to Blouser's?" I asked. "I'd like to see what that place looks like without people! From what I could see through bodies, it's sort of cute." There would be a session at 2 pm. I had no clue who the performers, Tim Rogers & Friends, but since this seemed to be more of a Westport-oriented group and we had done so well with local musicians the day before, I was up for it. My husband agreed.
While my husband was taking a shower, I looked up Blouser's on my phone to check it out a bit more and happened on a super old classic Guinness commercial filmed there that I thought I'd share We left shortly by 11:30 am so we could get a seat or at least a wall to lean against. Our plans turned to mush when we found that Blouser's was closed. Say what? I checked Google. Hmm, Blouser's opened after 4pm on Sundays, unlike other pubs in town. What to do? My husband said, "Stay put." A young woman opposite us leaning on one side of the door smiled and silently nodded. OK--we took up positions on the other side of the door. Soon, we had a comedy routine going. Whenever anyone approached, we'd alternate saying "It's not open." Most people would leave. Some would actually try to argue with us. "All the pubs in town open at noon on Sundays" would be the typical statement. I had my "hours open" listing ready on my phone and would flash it. They'd move on. Thus when the doors finally did open, we three were the first through. The three of us quickly chose our table, the one that formed a peninsula just opposite the session. The young woman was expecting her husband at some point, and she took the head of the table and plopped her purse on the right. My husband and I chose the "smooshed against the wall" side. I could hang our daypacks up there. We were good. Our pints were ordered and I looked around. Well, it was just as small without people as it was with people. Wow. It was super cute. It turned out that our door co-sentry was an American, something I could not tell by the accent. As the afternoon would go on, we would find out she was a Northwest USA girl who met had met her Irish husband near Belfast. When illness struck his family, he returned to Westport and took her along. She now considers herself to be a local, and I think her accent has adjusted beautifully. She looks Irish (and doesn't have one drop). We would later find out her husband is a local musician, and I'm ashamed to admit I never did find out which genre he specialized in or even what instrument he played because another wonderful young lady had just seated herself opposite him. This new arrival was older than she appeared. She had teenage sons, and she told us she had handed off responsibility for them to her husband and family for a few hours so she could take this session in. I could not place her accent at all. She had to be a local--she seemed to know everyone in the bar--but the vowels sure didn't line up. It turns out was an Aussie! She had married a local and had returned with him here to raise her family. In walked--I know you are expecting this--the crazy lady and her sweet husband. She went to take a seat between our American and our Aussie and thank goodness, the American said, "I'm saving this for my husband. I'm sorry." The crazy lady then looked for other victims. My husband told the women, "You just escaped a bullet" and he related our experience yesterday. But this is where I must feel guilty. What if my husband had been struck with these medical conditions? Should I just let him stay home and languish? Surely, I myself would become dependent on the kindness of strangers. I knew my husband would later reflect on his inclination, too. Luckily, the crazy lady had found a spot for him in a window nook, a safer spot for his sight limitations anyway. Soon musicians started entering. I found one of the official session pictures here. This shot was taken before more fiddlers, more banjo pickers, and more mandolinists joined the event. Tim Horgan is the red-bearded, bespeckled man in the black T-Shirt. Leaning over the half wall is Brendan Butler. Although he would join the instrumentalists later, this perch would be perfect for his Bluegrass voice to shine. You can spot railroad-style capped Sammie Lind and his co-musician, bandana-scarfed Nadine Landry, at the table. I think that's Sammie's twin brother over his shoulder. I'm not sure of the others. My husband did get the intel from our American friend, but of course, forgets anything that isn't about finance and numbers (believe me, he remembers every number FOREVER), so he's been no help in informing me. In a few minutes, fifty more people would enter the door, and the musicians Erynn Marshall and Carl Jones would come in to hover over the group. I asked our American friend was she was drinking because it was in a bottle, not a draft. I had seen the name emblazoned on all the festival T-shirts and had not put it together. "It's Mescan. It's a local brewery with Belgium-style beer. The owner is such a great..." and just then, the doors opened and all outside light was blocked by the sheer mass of a tall, big white-bearded man. "Speak of the devil!" our Aussie friend exclaimed. It was brewer Cillian Ó Móráin himself. He hugged our Aussie, and kissed our American and settled at the table. I guess the American's husband's saved seat was immediately given up, and I could see why. Cillian was a warm, outgoing person. As more and more people squeezed in, our sightlines were lost but this time, our auditory abilities were still darn good. Our only problem was that we could not get another beer. There was no physical way to the bar without picking up people and tossing them to the side. Our Aussie friend spotted my husband's money out, and she said, "Do you want me to order?" He said, "Confirmed. Add your next order to our bill." She nodded, turned slightly around, and immediately got the attention of the bartender. It was like magic. My husband was in awe (and he's good at getting a beer anywhere, even in the middle of the Turkish countryside where no one, including the bartender, spoke a word of English). She said, "I used to work here." Do we lead a charmed life or what? The music was picking up. The crowd parted a fraction so that Erynn Marshall could clog dance a tad. A tourist from Sweden near my husband turned to us and asked, "Is this Irish dancing?" My husband said, "Ask her. She knows." My husband's theory about my knowledge base is that I know everything about anything that cannot make money. OK, this time, I actually did. I knew clog dancing shares a lot of its roots with Irish dancing, but it also has English roots from the wooden shoes, the clogs, that English mill workers wore. Remember, so many of those mill workers had poured in from Ireland and Scotland, too. Some people insist the dance form has Native American and African roots too, but many historians say those are influences over the years rather than its roots. I told the American that Clog Dancing schools, aka "Clogging", are just as common in some areas of the USA as Irish Dancing schools in other areas. The shoes are different (nope, they are no longer wooden), the loose posture is very different, and the percussive strikes are different. Soon, Erynn Marshall and Carl Jones and Brendan Butler were seated at the session table. I had no idea how they were fitting all these musicians in (just think about the elbow room needed to "saw") because people were still coming in the door. But it the sound sure worked. We loved it as they effortlessly played their way through so many Bluegrass standards and wove in some classic Irish Trad intervals. Way too soon, the session started winding down. One by one, fiddlers were departing. I knew the festival's Square Dance had started at 4:30 pm at the Clew Bay Hotel, and I was interested in seeing it, too. We thanked everyone at the table for our lovely afternoon and skedalled. |
I'm going to try to insert the picture from the previous post rather than link it:
https://scontent-atl3-1.xx.fbcdn.net...-Q&oe=686084F4 |
I was quite inspired by your last trip report from Ireland, and I'm enjoying this one as well!
|
rosalicious, I'm glad you are enjoying it and I hope you can make use of some of the information on your next adventure.
AZ |
Our Last Ventures on Sunday
We dutifully trotted down to the Clew Bay Hotel for the Square Dance. First we made use of the rest rooms, then we shelled out the 5 Euros at the door. Sammy Lind and others were providing the music, and there was some enthusiastic dancers in the room. We found seats and soaked up the atmosphere. My husband leaned over and asked, "Are you feeling this?" I told him I wasn't. I was surprised neither of us were enjoying it. So we left.
I consulted the online program. "We could try to hit our Cork buddy's fave group, the Italian ones, Blue Weed, at 6 pm at McGings. My husband said, "I think we need food--and water--more now." Agreed. We headed over to where we had gotten some sobriety in 2023, JJ O'Malleys. We were in luck that they could seat us under the stairs just outside the bar. We practically inhaled our salmon dishes, and downed glass after glass of water. Our intention at this point was to cross the street to Matt Malloy's, settle in the middle room where visiting musicians often set up a spur-of-the-moment session, and then go on to attend at least the first half of the Sunday concert, "That Folky Thing" at the Yard Bar, for which we had tickets. Our plan just wasn't to be. Two musicians with an amplifier (!) had settled into the corner of the middle room. I mean, who wants to sits two feet from that? And what incoming acoustic musician in search of a session wants to be with them? We had a beer at the entry bar, thought about life, and decided... We should just go home. So I'm sorry I can't report more. We were just done in. Tomorrow we'd head to Galway. |
Facts If You Want To Attend The Westport Folk and Bluegrass Festival 2026
When are the dates for 2026? The next festival will be June 4th to June 8th, 2026. 2026 will mark its 20th Anniversary.
When to buy the tickets? I bought our tickets online as soon as they became available in February 2025, but I had watched the festival's Instagram, Facebook pages like a hawk for months, and of course, I used the website* constantly while the festival was ongoing. *If I recall correctly, the festival website wasn't there in 2023, and its online ticket sale methods were a tad clunky. The current website and the newer 2025 ticket method worked beautifully once a few initial kinks were worked out. How much do things cost?* The highest priced event in 2025 was a "Combo Ticket", which could get you into the three Westport Town Hall nightly concerts for 80 euros. We only bought the Friday & Saturday combination for 45 euros, plus we bought tickets for the last event Sunday evening at Matt Malloy's for another 20 euros. These events were all sold out before we landed in town. Still, there were various other smaller events that only allowed payment at the venue's doors for between 5 and 10 euros. *Note: You could easily attend this festival without buying a single ticket to anything. The whole town seems to be invested in the event, and in 2025 Blouser's, McGing's, Clew Bay Hotel, McCarthy's, Jesters, The Clock Tavern, The Cobbler's all held the free** in-between sessions throughout the festival. Any other pub in town that holds Trad sessions throughout the years is likely to have spontaneous sessions of the visiting musicians, too. **A Reminder: As with all pubs with music, you are expected to buy a drink while you listen. No one is going to pressure you, but it's good manners. It could be a soft drink. You could nurse a pint for an hour or so. You just shouldn't take up a seat and/or standing room as a freeloader who displaces seats or room for paying customers. And you are expected to chat to your neighbor--it's Ireland! So don't be rude! Do I Need a Car to Attend All the Events? While the festival is going on, you don't need a car unless you stay out of town. If you were to take a look at a Westport, Ireland map, most of the events take place between Bridge Street, James Street and The Octagon. Nothing is that far away from each other but you just need to know before you go that Westport is hilly. If you are staying out near the Westport Quay, a combination of taxis and the Bus Eireann #450 should work just fine for you. I found a parking map that might be helpful if you are forced to find a bed too far away. |
We Depart for Galway--Mary O'Toole
If you read my 2023 Ireland Trip Report, you'll find an entry where a driver comes to our rescue. Her name is Mary O'Toole.
She was gifted us then by the front desk of the Westport Plaza Hotel. Our bus to Galway had not shown up, and a kind young man waiting with us with tech skills had been able to find out that the NEXT bus probably would not show up. We had hobbled back to the hotel on a super hot day and thrown ourselves at the mercy of the staff. Two of the receptionists looked to each other and said, "We should call Mary." My husband loved her. She has a total Irish-style school-marm personality, and she is one heck of a driver. My husband said after she dropped us off at our Galway hotel, "That woman has NASCAR skills." Thus, when I was proposing for our 2025 revisit that we take the bus or find Mary to get to Galway, he automatically said, "Bring Mary back!" My problem was finding her contact details. We had never contacted her--the front desk had. I finally unearthed an email address and phone on the web and zapped her. Mary O'Toole of O'Toole Taxis +1 353 87 243 2600 [email protected] As I had done with Tony Woods Chauffeur to get to Galway, I emailed her months before our trip. She took awhile to get back, but she confirmed she could take us. And as I had also done with Tony Woods, I told her I'd reconfirm close to the actual date. Done and dusted. Mary showed up at the Westport Plaza Hotel entry, gave me a big hug, shook hands with my husband and off we went. Mary commanded the road and the conversation all the way to Galway. We skirted errant sheep, stalled vehicles, and a pothole or two without decreasing speed and without Mary's taking a breath. She'd pass cars while pointing out sites right and left. In fact, the only sign of discomfort she exhibited was when she was trying to approach our West End lodging. Her GPS had gone zooey. I assured her that my GPS often went AWOL inside cities, and that I'd load mine while she drove with hers so that she'd have extra confirm of the way. She was fine with that. Goodness know, I'd never offer her advice without her permission. Soon we were pulled up outside our alley entrance. Typical for Mary, I think, a car immediately left to give her a perfect pulling in space. We both hugged her goodbye, and I think we all felt blessed we had met up again. God Bless Mary. May we meet again. |
We Settle Into Galway
Our major touring goal for Galway was to do nothing. We just like being there.
My husband is particularly content in Galway. Even though he still works at age 80, he takes constant walk breaks. No, not strolls around the block. We're talking 2- or 3-mile strolls, two to four times a day in suburbia. Ergo, while he enjoys all the dogs on his walks, there's really nothing to see. In Galway, he can safely indulge in both people-watching and beer-quality testing while he walks for hours at a time. By switching our usual location to the West End, I had gifted him with new horizons, and he was a happy man. I was sure happy about the location too. There was a West End restaurant or two nearby I wanted to try. We finally would be near enough to The Crane and Monroe's to test their Trad sessions out. As you can tell by now, we just don't stay up late. Later Trad sessions that begin at 9:00/9:30 pm are pretty hard for us, not only for the hour but also for any drinking at that hour. A 20-minute walk back to a hotel after 10:30 pm is not fun for us. This time, all the timing might be feasible. In the meantime, after dropping off our luggage in the entry so we could come back at check-in hour, we headed straight for "home"--Tig Coili. We arrived at an "only locals" hour--in other words, because there was no action and no music, the Tig Coili locals were holding down the fort. Tourists would come in, look around, and leave. My husband got me a beer (some session-type that I'd order on repeat) and a Guinness for himself, and he reported back to the bar to continue a conversation that had been started there. I was happily reading my latest book on my Kindle app on my phone, a Samsung Fold, when two old ladies settled in next to me with their shopping. Of course they wanted to know about my phone, and I handed it over for them to test drive. They wanted to know what part of the States I was from, and as always, wanted to know what I thought of our latest president. I just said, as I had already done and would do on repeat for the entire trip, "I'm on a T-----cation." They laughed, and we moved onto other topics. Of course, as would happen over and over again, they still returned to the T-word, and I wasn't having it. I told them I had blood pressure issues (NOT), and it was best to discuss something else for the sake of my grandchildren. They laughed and we moved onto more agreeable issues. It was time to check-in. I said goodbye to my companions. My husband said farewell to his new bar buddies who had been busting his chops, and we were out. As we sauntered back to our rental, I said to my husband, "I feel like Dorothy in Oz. 'There's no place like home. There's no place like home.' " |
The Pitfalls of a Rental
We met up with our landlord at the rental unit, one of several small units in an ancient building. Our unit would turn out to be both fascinating and fatiguing.
The pros--
But the view!! But the location!! We quickly unpacked a few things, made a list of items we'd need, and headed out. Near Tig Coili, there was a Spar and a EuroGiant, and between the two, we got paper towels, etc. I noticed that most of the cleaning product shelves were vinegar-based. Must be an Irish thing. Back at the rental, I cleaned a bit while my husband was otherwise occupied--he goes a bit nuts that we always leave a place cleaner than when we arrived--but "houseproud" never had a negative connotation in my maternal* line. *My two daughters? Not so much. After more unpacking, we headed out. We had tasks!!!! |
Reserving a Good Restaurant; Experiencing a Bad One
4 Attachment(s)
The weather was getting dicey, and we made sure we carried some rain gear before we left our rental. We'd hit the earliest Trad session near us at Taaffes, jump over to our favorite restaurant as soon as they opened to see if we could land a seat at the bar, and we'd go back to catch up at Tig Coili to see what was happening.
As I mentioned before, I consult various websites for local Trad sessions, plus if we can, we check the postings outside each pub. It's funny how often NONE of those are 99% accurate. But I'd say the Facebook group "Session City Galway" was very helpful. We knew Taaffes, just a diagonal walk across from Tig Coili was known for its 5:30 pm early session, and that page confirmed it. We popped in, ordered our beers and drifted to the back of the session room into a corner, mainly to observe the locals and the tourists, not to listen to the Trad. I said to my husband, "I think we may have passed 'tourist' designation now, but we just aren't local. I wonder if there's a name for us." A man sitting next to my husband overheard and said, "I feel the same. I've lived here for three years, and I'm no longer a tourist, but..." We all smiled. Thank goodness, he did NOT desire to discuss any political situations. It was time to try to get a place at Kirwan's. If you are wondering why I did not make firm reservations before we left, well, you aren't the only one. Where was my mind? I remembered the way down the alley, and we were there as soon as the place opened at 6 pm. The hostess shut us down. We could get a seat at 9 pm (not happening). We made a reservation for Wednesday at opening, and that would be the best we could do. We went back to the pedestrian area and dipped into Tig Coili for their first Trad session. Luckily, some entertainer had drawn a crowd outside, thus temporarily evacuating the place and we quickly claimed two seats at the bar. We settled in and watched away. Just watching the barkeeps work is entertaining--the various stages of Guinness pints, which always take at least two pours--were lined up all the way to Cork, I swear. The locals were commanding their rotating posts throughout the pub, prime spots for watching all the tourist action. It's funny how we had not noticed that in our past visits. One of the early afternoon local crowd, back again, loved repeating his send-up of my husband, and my husband was game for it. After much laughter, we left to find food. There was a cloudburst as we were crossing the bridge over to the West Side. We dipped into a doorway, and saw this building held one of our landlord's favorite restaurants--Il Vicolo. We wondered if they'd take two soaking-wet tourists in. They would! The pros--Pretty darn good wine, and a fabulous atmosphere and view: Attachment 9476 Attachment 9477 The bad? Most of our food was inedible. Super salty; lumpy (no, hardly "al dente") pasta. "I'm wondering now about the opinions of our landlord" said my husband. Little did we know that days before, the local Health Department had shut the place down. We exited and scurried to our rental unit. Our view was still amazing, and we would have yet to find all our unit's faults. Because the building was now rather unoccupied, we only heard our own banging pipes throughout the night. |
A Walk Too Far
Our morning view was gorgeous, and it somewhat made up for the banging pipes and the deep squats necessary to get in and out of bed to use the facilities. My husband had found a great coffee place nearby that opened early, so even though our Nespresso machine produced rather vile coffee, the fresh takeout more than compensated.
We had nothing really planned for the day, but I had to let the landlord know that the pedestal sink in the largest bathroom was leaking. Yeah, I debated whether or not to have an interruption to our day, but I knew that once a subfloor gets wet, there are a whole host of other issues that take place. The landlord was grateful and popped by to take a look. It would need a plumber, and I was informed I did not need to stand on sentry duty while it was taken care of. In the meantime, I was back to sharing a bathroom, the teeny-tiny dark one, with my husband. I'd survive. I had other things to do anyway. Our dirty clothes were beckoning. I had not done my usual nightly sink washes since we began our trip. The directions to the washer/dryer combo in the binder were in miniature print, and I had to read them through the camera lens on my phone screen, paying extra attention to the water temperature. I don't know why I bothered. The result would be that a) my clothes did not dry through, yet b) the wrinkles would be baked in. GRR. My husband went out to walk for a mile, 2 miles, 5...whatever he does when not on a leash. He came back in around 11 am, and told me he had just seen his Tig Coili buddies opening the bar. "You didn't join them, did you?" I queried, a bit alarmed. "Heck no, but I might tomorrow. I want to see what they are up to." The day was warm and no rain was in the offing for a change. We decided we'd explore the West End a bit more thoroughly. We'd check out the locations of landlord's various eating suggestions, the live session hours of a Trad pub or two, and maybe we'd walk out to the Galway University campus and find a sandwich place out there. For a bit, the walk was fun. We roamed waterside walks and back alleys and enjoyed seeing the Galway Cathedral again. It's to believe that although it looks as if it has been in Galway forever, the cathedral was actually finished in 1965. It was then that I made the fatal decision--so I can't blame my husband--that we should walk to the "best sandwich place in Galway", according to some of my sources, Matt's Sandwiches. I had felt a few twinges on my right foot arch even while we were in Westport, and on this day, I had started out our walk feeling as though I was walking on a pebble at times. By the time we neared Matt's, I knew I was in deep doo-doo. It was a return of my plantar fasciitis, something I had endured decades ago. To make matters worse, Matt's had no seating. We ordered our made-to-order sandwiches from their lovely staff, who all wanted to ask us about the US political situation. I thought, "Oh great, I'm in pain and I'll have mental trauma to boot." I spotted outside seating at a cafe just a few yards down on the same street and limped down that way. My husband paid up at Matt's, kindly dipped into the cafe while I plopped outside to order drinks, and then went back to Matt's to pick up the sandwiches. While he was otherwise occupied, I had to figure out how to get back without doing more damage to the fascia. I knew we had passed a bus stop, and I figured I just might be able to hobble down to there and use our Leap Cards. But a quick check on my phone told me even that option would take a transfer or two plus more walking to get back. I chewed on some Motrin, and saw several FreeNow taxis going past. I thought, "Didn't I research those?" What the heck, I downloaded the FreeNow app, and checked out a few things. By the time my husband settled in, I told him we were taking a cab. Our sandwiches went down quickly because they were darn good, and our bottles of water were divine*, plus I knew I'd have use for the empty! *I must add here that while I don't know if Matt's Sandwiches was worth my injury, they were indeed quite good. If I had been a Galway Uni student, I'd be a regular. Our driver picked us up in minutes, and we were quickly deposited outside our rental. While I refilled my water bottle and put it inside the freezer, I saw a text from the landlord. No plumber had been able to make it, but a handyman had placed a temporary fix on it. I hobbled back to the large bathroom and used five more cleaning wipes on that bathroom floor. I noted areas of grime that indicated to me that sink leak had been there before our arrival, although I'm pretty sure the landlord didn't know. My Motrin had kicked in a bit, and I settled onto one of the great living room couches, foot propped up, to read a book and look at the glorious view. "Life could be worse," I thought, although I was totally bummed about the injury. I interrupted my reading to reserve a table at a nearby restaurant, another one on our landlord's rec list (Yes, I hear you. Why were we still depending on that point of view?). My water bottle had frozen, and I rolled my arch on it for 15 minutes about every 20 minutes for the next two hours. My husband? He was out happily roaming Galway again. |
Our Next Evening Meal--Not Quite a Failure
Egads, I should have thought about everything before I reserved our dining place.
The small bar area was full when we entered, and we were shown to one of the two-tops. Our waiter was a whisperer; the clients at the bar were not; the space was an echo chamber. I watched my poor husband wince in pain because the reverb in his hearing aides must have been painful. I told him to turn the darn things down and that I'd have a word. When the waiter next approached us, I said, "I'm so sorry. We are older than dirt and extremely hard of hearing. Would it be possible to give a shout towards us?" He laughed and said he'd do his best. And he did. He did his best to tell us about every aspect of every possible wine choice we were inclined towards, and we did OUR best to act as though we cared*. *Those of you who have read my trip reports know that even on our cycling trips through the world's greatest wine areas, we've disgustingly always been in search of a beer. Our various glasses of wine were good; our "bites" were teeny but VERY good. The place just wasn't us. But it MAY be a lovely place for you. I hobbled again back to our rental with the help of my husband and started icing down again after pounding in more Motrin. My husband went out in search of dark chocolate, his biggest vice. I would not be surprised if he found a beer along the way too. We were content. It was June in Galway, and the sky would be bright forever. We settled back on our two couches, read our respective e-books, and enjoyed the view. |
Reality Check
I hobbled out to the kitchen the next morning to find a nice cup of coffee waiting for me. Mr. Frisky had been to the coffee shop at opening, and he was sipping his large cup at the window, counting swans and pointing to one lonely cormorant. He was so happy he had spotted two ducks earlier, too.
"Is it just my hearing, or have the water pipes been getting louder?", he asked. I told him a party of three had moved into one of the other units the day before while he was roaming Galway. "I think there's one more unit to come today. This place will be banging away tonight for sure." But there were more urgent matters at hand. "I need tape to stabilize my foot. I know they have it in Ireland, but I just don't know what pharmacy will have it. Are you up for the challenge?" He nodded and said he needed a picture, which I zapped him. I told him,"You might want to check Boots first. I think there's one just by Tig Coili." A quick Google maps check informed us the nearest Boots was indeed just a bit down Shop St. and it opened at 9am. The timing would work: my husband was ready to do his first multi-mile stroll anyway. He thought he'd was going to check out a bakery or two and asked if I had any pastry requests. I didn't need anything except for another cup of coffee, which he delivered to me in minutes. I downed some Motrin and settled into the prime viewing couch with the frozen water bottle under my foot while I looked up how to apply tape for plantar fasciitis. While I remembered the taping my foot had really helped me, I couldn't remember exactly how I had done it. It had been more than a decade, and I could bend like a pretzel in those days. These days, not so much. After the 10th YouTube video, I rubbed my eyes in frustration. No one "expert" agreed on the taping method. Oh well, I'd figure something out once I had tape. When my husband came back, he had the right tape. Our first application was a debacle. Our second wasn't bad. I could limp to the bathroom without agony. Success! But I wasn't going to push my luck. I told my husband I was staying put until our dinner reservation. Without missing a beat, he quickly said, "Well, if you don't need anything else, I have to get to Tig Coili before opening. I want to see who gets inside that place first!" I just rolled my eyes. I spent most of the day icing, reading a book, and looking at the view. Brian Wilson had just died, so I was also interested in any blurbs on him. I was able to watch the biopic, "Love and Mercy", with John Cusack and Elizabeth Banks, plus watch a Brian Wilson documentary. My husband would drop in occasionally to report on his latest sightings and then would disappear again. By the time he came back to shower before dinner, I had managed to take a shower by inserting the taped foot in a two-gallon plastic bag and taping around the top. I had also started worrying about how we were going to get to Doolin in a few days. My original travel plan probably would not be that good of an idea. I emailed Tony Woods Chauffeur for ideas. Together, we made our way over to Shop Street for a quick early evening peek at the Tig Coili crowd--my husband now could point out various local characters and tell me about them. Just as we were leaving the pub to backtrack slowly towards dinner, we heard someone calling our names. It was a married couple we had not seen in 20 years when our oldest girls had graduated from high school. We stopped and chatted for a few minutes, delighted to see them again. They were leaving later that night for an extended family reunion on an outlying farm, of all things. Our meal at Kirwan's was just lovely. Again, I kicked myself for not reserving a place every night. I took heed of the manager's comments to the people he was turning away. Grea! I had an idea of where we might be able to go the next night. |
Our Last Day in Galway
We woke up to a symphony of rattling pipes. "Well, we sure know all the units are rented now," we laughed. We'd have one more night to go. Nights were pretty rough but darn it, the view, the view, the view.
My husband zipped out for coffee at 7:55, and by the time he came back, I told him that there was good and bad news. The good: I had landed a confirmed dinner reservation to the place where the Kirwan's manager had directed the people he could not seat--Oscar's Seafood Bistro The bad: It wasn't until 8:30 pm. "What the heck," my husband said with a shrug. "It's not as though we get early sleep here with the pipes." And we chuckled again. A more pressing issue is what to do about our transport to Galway. I had counted on walking or taking a City Link bus down to the Galway bus station on the other side of Eyre Square and taking the #350 bus to Doolin. We had ridden it years ago FROM Doolin, and I had so looked forward to revisiting that trip and method. I'd figured walking over there was out--again, I was less worried about pain than about traumatising the fascia more. I would be wearing my convertible backpack, and that slight added weight was just enough to do damage. An alternative was getting a taxi to the station. There was a taxi rank not far from us on Bridge St, so that would work. My husband was less inclined toward the #350 bus. "Can't you get a driver?" he asked. Yeah, like I manifest those out of thin air. I floated the idea about asking a taxi driver at the rank to take us all the way to Doolin (and that has to be possible--after all, they drive down to Shannon Airport). But he pressed me more towards getting an arranged driver. Luckily, I had an email back from Mary at Tony Woods Chauffeur. She said to contact Gerry Keane, [email protected]. So I shot an email over to him and hoped for the best. I put in a load of wash (wash only!--I'd drip dry everything), downed my first dose of Motrin for the day, did some gentle calf and toe stretching, iced with the frozen water bottle, and settled into the couch for reading and watching the view. My husband? He was reporting for the morning shift at Tig Coili. Last night at dinner, he told me the first arrivals--the same ones we'd see in the evening--mostly went in for coffee. A few had shots with their coffees. A couple of the guys (never women) went straight to Guinness. I was afraid to ask what he did, and did not question him. He said one guy would stroll in just fine and take a seat in the morning, yet every night he used crutches and limps. "And he's back sometimes WITH and sometimes WITHOUT about 2 pm." Ok. My husband added, "Your list really helped me out." What list? Oh, THAT list! OMG. Months ago, I had seen a video of a beefy Mancunian (translation: person from Manchester England) who had tested Guinness pours in favorite Galway pubs, plus oysters (!), as ranked by his viewers. He'd rank the pours throughout the video. After viewing it, I sent the video link to my husband as a joke, and listed all the places the lovable videographer, who calls himself "Primemutton", had visited, writing, "You have your work cut out for you." This list was as follows: Moran's Oyster Cottage, Taaffes, The Crane, Tig Coili , Tigh Neachtain, Hughes Bar, Garavan's, An Púcán, O'Connells, Murphy's, The Bunch of Grapes. The actual video (very long) is It turns out that my husband took it all seriously. He'd already been to many on the list with me, and he had fun trying out all the newer West End pours. Of course, he was never going back to An Púcán (neither of us had liked it our last time in Galway), but he managed to revisit all the ones he had been to, and he even made it a point to head out to Hughes. "You'd really like that place. Nice neighborhood." My jaw just dropped. I would later tell myself that I should attach a video camera to his hat to know what in the world he is up to. In the meantime, once he had "reported" to Tig Coili for the morning, I had heard back from Gerry Keane, who said that while he could not accommodate us, his buddy John Morrisey probably could. I immediately contacted John and heard back within 15 minutes. We were on. I'll post these contacts here for your reference: Gerry Keane GALWAY BAY EXECUTIVE TRAVEL [email protected] Keanes Chauffeur ServicesI [email protected] Moyveela, Oranmore, Co. Galway, H91 PD2Y. Tel: +353 (0) 91 792305 Mob: +353 (0) 83 3101774 John Morrissey [email protected] |
Our Last Night in Galway--Part One
My husband came back early from roaming. "That's it. I think I've mapped the town." He took the chair by the view and settled in to catch up with financial events back home, looking up every so often to report on swan movements.
Our plan for the evening? Do it all while accommodating my foot (herein to be called, as my husband would put it, "THE FOOT"). It probably would be our last time in Galway, and while I could not manage the Long Walk (sigh) down to Eyre Square, I could get in a lot of the action. We reported to Taeffes (the earliest session) and saw the same man (the one who had lived there three years) in the same place. He even moved over so we could settle in. As soon as we thought a session was near at Tig Coili, we said our farewell and walked across the street. We found a table at the back this time where the front trad session was rather well piped in. We found it interesting that a group of local couples met to the left of us regularly, according to one of them who leaned over to explain it all, and they were cheerfully arguing with each other. We loved it, and we loved just soaking it all up, maybe for the last time. One tourist caught my eye--a rather tall man who studied almost every photograph he could spot in the place. Good for him! I wanted to point out a picture in front of us that was particularly near and dear to me. https://cimg9.ibsrv.net/gimg/www.fod...041e5f4f33.jpg It's where it all began for us. As I've mentioned in past trip reports, I do have some sort of a musical history in that both my parents were musicians, and that my father's first string instrument had always been violin. He could appreciate both Jascha Heifetz and Bluegrass fiddler Kenny Baker. I played a lot of piano and was involved in too many choirs to count, but I never played violin. I did force my daughters to play (it's a long story). Neither of my parents had been interested in Irish Trad simply because it did not exist in the USA except in small pubs in Boston and Chicago, and it barely existed in Ireland. It took "The Second Revival" of the 1960s and 1970s, a revival that matched the folk music movement in the USA, to make Irish Trad economically feasible. Irish groups like The Chieftains and The Dubliners could tour the USA, make money on those performance and on their albums, and the sound, particularly the unique instrumentals, would spread back home and abroad. All these groups linked up with other musicians--Bob Dylan and Van Morrison--to name a few, and things exploded. My husband and I saw The Chieftains, The Clancy Brothers, and The Dubliners concerts in the 1970s. One of our shared friends with Irish ancestry would regularly take (uh, FORCE) a group of us to a Irish Trad venue just outside the city, and I'd say my husband--a total NON-musician--and I probably ended up married because of those. We couldn't agree on a lot (that continues to this day), but we could agree that we liked this music. The kicker? Matt Malloy joined The Chieftains the year we got married. His pub is probably the reason we had ever made our way up to Westport. |
Our Last Night in Galway--Part 2
We didn't want to have another beer, and even though our dinner reservation was 45 minutes off, we felt it was time to move on. We said farewell to our arguing couples, and my husband and I ducked out the back. One of the bartenders was taking his break, and he broke out a grin for my husband. "We'll be seeing you two or three times tomorrow?", he asked my husband jokingly. My husband told him we were off to Doolin, but of course, he couldn't leave it at that. He just HAD to ask about one of the regulars who was VERY much a regular in the pub. The bartender chuckled, "He probably spends more hours here than anyone else. He's usually knocking at the door at opening."
We walked back across Bridge St, and down Dominick St, and turned right at Monroe's. Oscar's Seafood Bistro was just a few feet away. We told the hostess that we were a half hour early for our reservation and thought we'd check to see if something earlier had opened up. Yes, we got a table. As soon as I looked at the menu, I was happy, happy, happy to see so much variety of fish and other seafood and so many variations in preparation. The downside was that the beer offerings weren't in our taste zones, but we made do with some good old NZ Sauv Blanc. I think we inhaled our food. As we got our check, we looked at each other and laughed. "We're finally awake at a time when all the good sessions start!" Time to test out Monroe's. This venue is NOT "Ye Olde Irish Pub." It's large, it has table service, and it's hopping. It's music offerings are wide-ranging, as one can see by checking its website's live offerings page. The group on stage--and I have been unable to find out who they are!--performed instrumental Trad with a modern twist. Their flautist was simply superb. There's a representative clip of them on Monroe's Instagram page with the title, "POV: you're in a pub in Ireland." Throughout their set, people were doing Irish dancing--and what sort of passed for Irish dancing :) I just kept thinking, "Darn it, I could have seem "my" banjo player Adam Kelly here!" Our plans were to dip into some of the other Trad pubs in this area, but that was not to be. We just don't tolerate wine well, and our dinner wine had hit hard. Time for bed. Thank goodness, our rental wasn't far away. As we closed the door, my husband said, "Those pipes could rattle all night and I guarantee I won't hear them." I made sure to pull our curtains wide open. I needed to be awake early. We'd have to leave our apartment by 10 am, plus our landlord was coming by at 9:30 am. More on that issue later. |
Galway to Doolin
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We did wake early, although it would not be early enough. All the pipes were rattling, and I sang to my husband, "The pipes, the pipes are calling." FYI--We both detest "Danny Boy."
The landlord had warned us about "dropping by before we leave." We had to be out of the apartment by 10:00AM but the landlord planned "drop-in" at 9:30AM. I had hoped to be out the door before then, and had actually arranged for John Morrissey, our driver, to meet us outside the nearby coffee shop rather than outside our rental so we could bypass the whole thing. Darn it, I got delayed. We had to put up with the interruption. Luckily I could truthfully explain that I was in a state of undress, and my husband has NO need to be social when he doesn't want to be. He was polite, gracious, and firm: "I hope you can excuse us as we try to meet your deadline." I shouted out my "Thank you!" from the back bedroom. Done. I admit it. I was a tad miffed. I've rented VRBOs and AirBnbs for years, and I must say this landlord was the most intrusive person we've ever dealt with. Part of it is a need to protect the property and provide excellent communication, I'm sure; another part of it is not understanding personal boundaries. It was pretty obvious from the get-go that we are good tenants (heck, when a tenant worries about leaks to your subfloor, that should tell you something), our client ratings on everything from AirBnb to Uber are the tippy top. Even when I was in my careless 20s, my landlords would say, "If you EVER need a recommendation, let us know." So if a landlord sets a rather early deadline of 10:00 am, for goodness sakes, give us the peace to get out the door without another chit-chat. But the view, the view, the view. We were out the door before 10:00 just in case the landlord returned for a hug and a handshake and another endless conversation. I remembered to get my frozen water bottle from the freezer to tuck into my day pack. We were approaching our coffee shop when we saw a gentleman outside a spiffy car texting. It was John. Great! He laughed at the size of our luggage (it did look tiny in the trunk) and we were off. John was a lovely man, and as we wended our way down to Doolin, we shared our families, and travels and so on. And then we landed on the dreaded "T-word." Not matter what we said, he did want to address the American elephant in the room. Oh well. I changed the subject by saying that my foot hurt (it was rolling on my water bottle) and I just couldn't take the mental pain, so we could perhaps talk about who had the best grandchildren. He laughed. The lovely thing was the route he was taking was one that my girls and I had cycled on our first trip to Ireland. My husband's jaw dropped when he saw the winding steep route his two princesses at ages 13 and 17 had climbed. It's not that he has never cycled dangerous routes, but seeing it all from the backseat of a car was something else. The vehicle sightlines were terribly limited. The driver said, "You allowed your daughters to cycle this?" I told him that this specific cycling company had big poles on the backs with yellow flags, which were a pain in the neck in getting on and off the bike, but darn it, they were effective in high-walled, narrow-laned Ireland. In addition, the two cycle guides would threaten us if they EVER saw anyone not cycling single file. They sort of had the mentality of "NO one better die on MY watch." I assured both my husband and John, "We didn't even have one close call. And most of the cyclists in our group were pretty inexperienced." I was so happy my husband was seeing what he had missed. We were nearing Gregan's Castle, one of our stays on that long-ago trip, and over 20 years later, I still remembered the approach. "This was such a lovely place with gorgeous gardens." John said that when he picked up clients here, they were always happy. "They talk about the food." "Yes!", I said. We'd have our breakfast and dinners in this lovely room. Attachment 9484 My husband had done a somewhat fractured recreation years later (I have an old old trip report when I was just a guest writer on Fodors), and as we approached Lisdoonvarna, he asked, "Didn't we cycle down into Doolin from here?" Yes. John dropped us off at our next hotel, The Fiddle+Bow. He was a sweetie. |
We Suddenly Visit The Cliffs
We were early for check-in by hours. The desk clerk told us we should snag our driver and have him take us somewhere. We said we'd just like to drop off our luggage and stroll around. We had not been in Doolin in years, and we had to get reoriented.
We picked up a few layers from our bags, slung our daypacks over our shoulders, and set out down the road to Hotel Doolin, the site of the Doolin Folk Festival/Doolin Folk Fest. My husband had to hit an ATM, and supposedly there was one inside that hotel's lobby. We started laughing as we walked. Doolin had seemed strange to us decades ago and it really hasn't changed all that much. Sidewalks appear and disappear on what remains a country road. Any business intersection, even on the other far end of town, seems to border a field. The Fiddle+Bow Hotel is new, newer than the relatively new Hotel Doolin. Otherwise, Doolin seemed the same to us. Even the breeze on the mildest of days still came in the same gusts. My husband got his cash, and we were walking out the door to decide if we'd head to McGann's or McDermott's, two of the historic Irish Trad pubs we had loved, when Bus #350 drew up. "That's the bus we would have been riding from Galway," I told my husband. "See? The timing's basically the same." He just shook his head, saying, "I'm fine with what we did." Then a thought crossed my mind. "Do you have your Leap Card?" He said, "It's here somewhere." I pulled out mine, walked towards the bus, and I asked the driver, "Cliffs of Moher?" He nodded. My husband just shook his head and followed me. We were off. I laughed to my husband as the bus started climbing the last hill. "The girls and I didn't bike up this. We coasted DOWN it." He smiled and knew without my telling him that my oldest daughter would have been flying down that route. She was a beast on a cycle. I was totally unprepared for how much the Cliffs of Moher had all changed from our experience decades ago. When the bus dropped us off near what was now an entrance, most of our eyesight was taken by parking that stretched to the horizon on our right. "Wow, when we were here, I don't recall a formal entrance, but maybe our cycling guides took care of that", I told my husband. "There was bus parking somewhere over there and there was regular parking around here, and we just walked up a trail to see the cliffs." We paid our fee and then had to find out on the spot what was included. Remember, this was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and I was totally unprepared for the 2025 arrangement. If anything, I had planned on our hiking up the free trail part from Doolin, or at least parts of the trail that were open (repair had closed much of it). One of the things that was included with our entry fee was a free shuttle we could take back to Doolin. It was a good thing that a person behind us in line asked where the shuttle would pick up, because in giving the answer, the entry associate said, "Have you booked your return shuttle?" She pointed to the QR code on the window. "Get that done now--it fills up." My husband and I looked at each other, and we hurried up to book a return in about 1.5 hours. We turned the corner to go through a tunnel, only to find long paved paths in all directions. Most were going up. I headed towards the area where I think the girls and I had once walked a dirt path. My husband said, "Whoa! Are you sure you should be doing this?" I frowned, put up my finger as though to say, "Wait a second", and pulled out my collapsible hiking poles from my daypack. "Onwards." My husband shook his head. The crowd was heavy! As we made our way through the throng to a final approach before we could lean against a stone wall to look over, my husband pointed to golf carts* transporting the old, the infirm (and also some of the lazy). "Don't you think we should be plopping you on one of those?" I just stared at him. "It was just an idea" he said, shrugging. We got to a good "look-over-the-wall" point, and my husband, looking left and right at the sweep of cliffs said, "Huh. I think I like looking at them from that ferry better." I was in shock. Two years before, I had booked us on a ferry from Galway to Inishmore that had included a return via the Cliffs. He had HATED that experience. Well, I guess time does heal after all. *The mobility carts are called "The Lifts of Moher." I'd talk to the entry people or email them or call ahead to get details. And be aware, sometimes they are not available because of repair issues. I have to tell you that just like with my return decades later to Inishmore two years before, I was totally saddened by all "the improvements". When the girls and I had visited, there were no walls. There was just a dirt pathway with frightful crumbling edges, ones that could toss the hiker, trying to stay upright against the wind, into the sea at any point. It was fantastic. On that day of our visit long ago, a young woman had settled in around the bend with a harp and was playing Sting's "Fields of Gold." What a memory! The sound of the sea, the roar of the wind, and the sweetness of the harp were perfect together. But a death two months before in the same year, 2003, was the final impetus for a major overhaul. Little did we know when we were visiting, the Clare County Council commissioned a 5-year development plan for the Cliffs of Moher. I'm sure that development saved lives, but now I was looking at an Irish version of the average Grand Canyon tourist experience. I tried to explain how I felt to my husband, and I was actually wiping away tears. He got it, and added, "That's why I never want to go back to Bright Angel Trail." I nodded. I hiked that Grand Canyon trail three times, twice with my husband, and our last hike was with our girls when the youngest was only seven years old. We started down at dawn when the trail at the top still had ice on it. Yes, we had crampons, but all of us could have fallen off into the Canyon at a zillion points--and the danger was WONDERFUL. There were no people at that hour, and the only sound was the song of the "They've probably fenced it all in by now!" we laughed. Oh well. "Hey, at least the kids still have the 'I Hiked Every Switchback on The Bright Angel Trail' T-shirt! I put them in their memory boxes." And the girls still remember the harp and "Fields of Gold" thank goodness. We were in need of water and maybe some carbohydrates. After a few more explorations of the walled area, we descended (it's hard as heck when my left knee that tends to slide over to some other planet, but my hiking poles really helped!) to the Visitor's Center. We nabbed seats, water and crisps, and accessed the restrooms. We still had time before taking the shuttle back, so we strolled around the Visitor Center for exhibits on the geology, the flora and fauna, and the history of the area. Not amazing, but not bad either. We descended at the exit to get back to the entry shuttle pickup point, the same place our Bus #350 had dropped us. A few groups of twos and threes were waiting, and we all checked in with each other to make sure we were in the right place. A 16-seater pulled up and we all looked at each other--there were too many of us. Ah, another pulled up behind. My husband smiled as we descended our route, I'm sure imagining his oldest daughter flying at top speed down the hill. Soon we were dropped back at the Hotel Doolin. If you need to know: You could easily stay with or without a car at the Hotel Doolin or Fiddle+Bow and explore the Cliffs of Moher, The Burren, the Ailwee Cave and other points with the free Summer Shuttle, the 2025 version I shall post here. Indeed, if we had not had plans with the Doolin Folk Fest, we would have been doing that! And upon further investigation, it looks as though there's an offer of free entry to The Cliffs if you arrive by shuttle, but I'm unsure how that all works. Ask! +353 65 708 6141 +353 87 6566 133 [email protected] |
We Don't Make the Folk Fest Friday
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As soon as we got off the bus, we figured we'd check out the Doolin Folk Fest. After all, this was the festival site. We decided to have a beer in the hotel's attached bar, Fitz's Pub, and ponder things. As I've indicated, this music festival was not on the scale of Westport's festival, which I can understand. But what I could not understand was that if all events were taking place in ONE location (the Hotel Doolin complex), why in the heck had it taken so long to find out the line-up? I managed to find something on Facebook from a post made on June 5. Here was the Friday schedule:
Attachment 9485 As you can see, the earliest event was at 4pm, and then one had a wide selection of venues (all contained within a quadrangle, so that was nice) until the early hours of the following day. "What do you want to do?" I asked my husband. He said, "You said our dinner reservation back at our hotel was 5:15. Let's go back, shower, get dinner, and then see if we're up for anything." Fine by me. He walked and I hobbled back to our hotel, where our luggage had been popped into our rooms. I checked my semi-frozen water bottle--I still had some frozen stuff in it and I rolled away. I then went down to the front desk and said, "Is there any way I can have you put this in a freezer?" I held out my hermetically sealed water bottle (BRAND NEW BAG), and the desk clerk said, "Hmm. Health and Safety Rules. Let me check." The powers that be determined this qualified as "medical", and it was whisked away. I said I'd retrieve it after dinner. The Fiddle+Bow's restaurant was named Russell's. There's a bar dining room, a regular dining room where we'd have breakfast, and an outside marquee dining room. We were seated inside the dining room at a two-top along a banquette where the seat padding was overstuffed burlap feed bags. The problem is that whoever was sitting on the feed bag was in danger of sliding off the surface. We requested and got another chair and that solved the issue. That was our last problem of the night. Among the beer offerings was one new to us: a Pale Ale by Heineken of all things. The name? Cute Hoor. Yeah, sort of hard to order that without blushing. But it was 5%, perfect for our ABV liking. Our server said she didn't really like it because it was "too hoppy." We told her, "Sold!" We loved it. We then ordered a seasonal salad with Bouillabaisse as our main course. Both were perfect, and they were accompanied by a wonderful sourdough bread and great Irish butter. We were in heaven. Live music was in the offing here, and we figured we'd just hang for a bit and check things out here. It was an unusual place--not "Trad-ish" at all. I was trying to think of what it all reminded me of, and my husband burst out, "You know, this place really belongs in Colorado." Wow, that was it. As we'd later see down at the Hotel Doolin too, the vibe was for natural materials, natural landscaping, recycling, carbon neutrality. A few tunes in by the musicians, who were tucked into a booth in the bar, I turned to my husband and said, "I think you are going to have to go out without me. I'm retrieving my water bottle and turning in." He said, "Thank God. I thought you'd be mad, but I'm really done in." |
A Bit of a Doolin Revisit; We Finally Show Up at the Folk Fest
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We laughed when we woke up the next day. We had exchanged the sound of our Galway banging pipes for the sound of moving chairs. Our room was 207, and it was situated over the restaurant and kitchen. But at least that noise ended before midnight and who cares if any of it woke us up in the morning, because we needed a wake-up. The only room window was in a far corner, so we were essentially in a cave and could have slept in forever.
The plus? The very BEST pillows, the very BEST sheets and the very BEST mattresses we've ever enjoyed. The room was clean, clean, clean. Breakfast was good, too. Yes, we had to explain we needed chairs, not the burlap feed bags, and but that was no problem, and we were good to go. Lots of French press coffee, lots of that sourdough bread, lots of that Irish butter and jam. Everything else was just gravy to me. Hint: Get the vegetarian Irish full breakfast and tell them to go light or skip the potatoes. The mushrooms are to die for. Soon a party of three entered the dining room. Oh my goodness, it was the tall man who had studied all the pictures in Tig Coili! "You are following us", I told the party. "We'll need to sync calendars now." Over breakfast, I unearthed the Folk Fest schedule pic and zapped it to my husband. Attachment 9487 I told him I only cared if I got to see Nadine Landry and Sammie Lind at 2 pm. We had enjoyed them so much at Westport, and I would like to see the Doolin crowd's reaction to them. I knew Mr. Frisky would be itching for walks, and I said, "When we were here the last time in 2005, we stayed at The Sea View B&B. I'm thinking that the current The Lodges @ Sea View House is the reincarnation of it all. I'm seeing Darra Hughes as one of the owners. My husband started chuckling. "You know, I remember her (FYI--this is the man who remembers nothing but numbers). When we checked in with the two girls, she told us she had already knew all about us because she had talked with our taxi driver before he met us at the airport. We knew our rooms would not be ready, but foreseeing all this, she had more or less browbeaten us into going down to a breakfast place where one of the guests had a room key he could give us so we could get back into the house to change clothes after breakfast. And we had strict instructions to eat breakfast there." I laughed. "I know--and I can't remember why the guest automatically handed the key over to us." My husband said, "I think all of Doolin must have known to obey Darra." My husband accepted the mission: Are the two differently named places one and the same? I was sure he would check out our old Trad pub haunts too: McGanns and McDermotts. In the meantime, I showered and returned my thawed water bottle to the front desk so it could be returned to the freezer. A few Motrin later, my husband returned with a report. "Yes, it's one and the same. I was afraid to meet Darra--I knew she'd take over my life for the next decade." We laughed. "Do you remember when we returned from our first hike? She told us, 'You'll be wanting to attend the fundraiser tonight. It's for the Rossport Five.' " We had no clue as to who they were, but we knew we'd have to buy tix or suffer the consequences. I'll post separately about that event on my next entry. Yes, Darra was another Irish "warm hug" on our early visits to Ireland, and she's never stopped her efforts to make people welcome. Look at the various reviews of The Lodges @ Sea View House. Sort of down? Wet clothes? Muddy boots? Need a cuppa? As you can see from the various reviews of the place, Darra to the rescue. I probably would have returned to her if a) we had not been relying on getting that #350 bus from Galway that had made the Fiddle+Bow and its proximity to the Folk Fest so appealing and b) had been less inclined to do Irish or UK B&Bs. Our driver from Westport, Mary O'Toole, told us she felt so bad for all the B&B people in Ireland because Airbnbs had taken up the bandwidth. Kudos to Darra for adapting her little B&B to a much wider market! And by the way, yes, my husband had explored McCann's. He hadn't made it to McDermott's yet because he had spent so much time looking at all the pictures everywhere on McGann's walls, plus I suspect he had fallen in with evil companions there again (it takes SO little time). I was finally ready. We'd do a retread of his path down to our old Trad pubs and then head back to the Folk Fest for Nadine and Sammy. |
A Trip Report Interruption--The 2005 Rossport Five Fundraiser
As I had linked above, The Rossport Five were five farm owners who opposed a sweetheart deal between Shell Oil and the Irish government to lay pipe across their land. All over the country, citizens started speaking up on it and gathering funds for legal representation. Galway had a big protest march. Doolin's event, held in its Russell Cultural Center, would also make news, and we were lucky enough to be there for it (Darra was right to "persuade" us to attend). My edited notes from the night are as follows:
All musicians in Doolin and many from across Country Clare poured into the hall for the 10 Euros pp entry. At the end of the night, we thought our total 40 Euros investment had been a bargain. Session musicians from the three Trad pubs--Gus O'Connor, McDermott's, McGann's--were there in force. There were step dancers who had just returned from competition in America that very day, the superb flautist Brittany, Michel Bonamy, and a classical violinist from Israel in the mix, too. The most amazing voice of the evening was a singing taxi driver from Limerick, but my favorite performer of the night was the flautist from the McDermott's pub session band "Caher", Paeder Reilly. We sat in the audience next to locals and tourists. A couple from Vermont sitting by us said "People in Vermont would really appreciate the cause of this concert." In checking for the links for my notes, wonder of wonders, I found a YouTube video of the event |
Side Comment
I told my husband that I'd been writing about Darra. He said, "You know, I've been thinking about her. Is it possible that she and Mary O'Toole (our Westport driver) are secret twins?" If so, two towns in Ireland, Westport and Doolin are in good hands.
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On the Irish Road Trip website, I found a map that can show you how the major Doolin pubs are situated. Our hotel, the Fiddle+Bow, was between the Hotel Doolin's pub, Fitz's and the glorious Trad pubs McDermott's and McGann's.
We left the hotel so I could revisit our old pub haunts, walking over to McDermott's first. We were shut out. McDermott's was holding a wedding reception there. Darn it--this was the pub of which I had the clearest memories. We headed back to McGann's, just back over the bridge and across the road. Wow, I didn't have a visual memory of this one, but my old notes told me we had eaten here decades ago. The manager was trying to get an incoming lunch crowd situated, and as fast as mere drinkers were exciting tables, he was putting down "Reserved" signs. He took pity on my limp, especially when my husband said, "We're just here for a quick gulp, not for an hour." We sidled into a table with one of the remaining drinkers. My husband was disappointed he couldn't show me all the pictures he had studied from his morning visit. Still it was interesting to see how many people could pour into the place within 15 minutes. "Un-oh", I said, "With McDermott's closed, all those tour groups coming to town will have to eat here. No wonder he was in a sweat." Sure enough, when we left, we say passengers vans and even a bus in the tiny parking lot. The back outdoor area was full of tourists, too. We made our way to the Hotel Doolin for the Folk Fest. The festival folks had set up inside the lobby, and we were given ribbon bracelets and plastic pint glasses. "You'll get a discount on the beers as long as you use these." We planned to make great use of these. We entered the garden quadrangle to get the lay of the land. Wow, this was set up rather well. There was a small stage, The Garden Stage, to the front of us, and a bar to the right of us. Further down was the entry to The Barn, where we'd find two more bars. To the right was a back entry to Fitz's Pub (another bar), and somewhere up the stairs must be the White Horse Stage. If we were wedding planners, this would be a heck of a venue. You can see an evening overview of the grounds from the hotel's website here. https://www.hoteldoolin.ie/cmsImages/612109621b527.jpeg One problem was except for raised flower bed border tops and some picnic tables, there was limited seating, probably to provide space for the crowd that would assemble by nightfall. To get out of the sun, we watched the performers on The Garden Stage by leaning against on of the walls by the trash bins. Hey, worked for us. The performers, who shall be nameless, didn't really work for us but that was OK. We decided to check out The Barn so we could be situated for Nadine Landry and Sammy Lind. No seats were available in The Barn--it was mainly just an open space. Oh well, we'd do the wall lean again. Heck, we'd sink to the floor. It's not like we'd be seeing these people again anytime soon. With refreshed beers, we were happy. Nadine Landry and Sammy Lind were worth the price of admission. The crowd was enchanted. They were just amping up for their last few numbers when a stage manager came over to talk to them. Their set was cut 15 minutes short for...wait for it...a sound check of the upcoming performer, piper Brìghde Chaimbeul. The crowd booed (ok, I started it.) Apparently, according to her webpage, Brìghde Chaimbeul is a big deal. All we know it that the sound check went for around 15 minutes BEFORE Brighde came out to test the system, and apparently she'd test it for another 15 minutes. We didn't witness that because we were gone--we'd found a great group on The Garden Stage. Greta Curtain, Jessie Healy, Keolan O'Connor and Eoin Murphy were wonderful. I can't find a good video of the four of them, but you can get a sample of how skilled childhood pals Greta and Jessie are from Too soon their set ended. We had "taco fries" at the refreshment stand, and we stuck around for The Davies Brothers, who were OK. My husband raised an eyebrow and I nodded. I wanted to overdose on Motrin and ice up my foot again anyway. It was time we went back to the hotel. After a short rest and an ice roll, we went downstairs to the hotel bar, which did not serve food, apparently. But the young bartender said, "I could probably get you soup." Bring it on. Soup, bread, and a few Cute Hoors--perfection. We listened to the bar's session group for a bit and headed up to bed after I had turned in my frozen water bottle to the front desk again. We barely heard the moving chairs that night. |
Trip Report Interruption
Because we're headed out of town for around five days, I won't be posting for a bit. I do want to make sure that if you are interested, both the Westport and Doolin links are available sooner rather than later.
Once again, The Westport Folk and Bluegrass Festival will take place in 2026 June 4 through June 8. Tickets are not available yet, but their contact page shows all the social media links so you can be up on it all. Surprisingly, the Doolin FolkFest tickets are already for sale for their June 12 to June 15 event in 2026. The Early Bird ones seem to be sold out, but there's another option on this page. Since the entire event is within Hotel Doolin (as opposed to Westport where the entire town seems to be involved), I'd just contact the hotel with any questions. |
The Locals Shine at Sunday's FolkFest--Part One
Over breakfast, we reviewed our plans for our last full day in Ireland. "Do you want to go up to the Burren? You don't have to take a guided tour--the center now tells all about the geology and the flora and fauna the kids and I learned about years ago. It's really interesting." My husband gave me the, "Do I look crazy?" face to me. Okay, no Burren for him.
I pulled up the photo of the FolkFest's Sunday Schedule and passed it over to him. "I only need to see two performances--The James Cullinan Tribute and Piping Heaven, Piping Hell." My husband studied the rest of it and said, "OK. I'll meet you back here about an hour or more before The Tribute and we'll try to get situated in The Barn." And off he went to wander over, up and down Doolin to visit his pubs and a few cow friends. As we made our way down to Hotel Doolin for the FolkFest, he pointed out all the campers in the parking lots. "There were a lot here yesterday but there are a lot more here today." We had brought along our FolkFest pint glasses and soon refilled them, making our way to The Barn. We just barely got our against-the-wall-on-the-ground space. The Barn was indeed filling up. My husband asked, "Is this a big deal?" I nodded, took out a fresh packet of tissues from my daypack, and handed it to him. "You are going to need these." I started to explain. While my husband had been on "roam mode" in Doolin, I had researched James Cullinan. It's heartbreaking. Here is this really nice guy, a pillar of the community in so many ways, who had fought cancer once, won, and then finally lost another battle in early middle age at the end of March 2025. Raised in nearby Kilfenora, Jame's talent with a violin was recognized before he turned 11. But as far as I can find out, he never chose a professional path. Instead, he worked in kitchens and became so skilled, he eventually became a Chef Tutor at the nearby Shannon College of Hotel Management. He remained a part of every musical event in the area, and his wife and his children's musical talents would shine too. He and his wife Carol ran the nearby Cullinan's Guesthouse. His former culinary students, former guests, and former musicians all used the same terms to describe him: "So Talented" "Modest" "Patient" "Soft-Spoken" "Kind" "Humble". His diffidence in manner and his striking musical skill are exemplified in I encourage you to listen to and watch carefully some of the video clips listed in the article and find more. His fingerwork is nimble, and he provides nuance in all of his phrasing, even with common tunes. The Tribute began not only with a packed house but also a packed stage. So that there would be elbow room, the performances were done in smaller group shifts, each with a moving introduction. Tears were flowing, both in the audience and onstage. My husband was certainly pulling out tissues left and right. When The Tribute ended, my husband turned to me and said, "And THIS is why I'll always come back to Ireland." https://cimg3.ibsrv.net/gimg/www.fod...321a6380fa.png Rest in Peace, James Cullinan |
The Locals Shine at Sunday's FolkFest--Part Two
Now that we had a breather, my husband ran off to refill our beers while I spread out to save our wall-leaning space. Coming up soon was Piping Heaven, Piping Hell, the County Clare group well-known for fostering the tradition of the Uilleann pipes. Their leader was master piper, Blackie O'Connell. If you recall, a little over a week ago, I was doing my very best to stay awake long enough to see him in Ennis and utterly failed. The fact we'd see him today accomplished a major trip goal.
Like James Cullinan, Blackie was a local. Unlike James, he had chosen a professional path, performing all over the world (even at Carnegie Hall). You can read more about him on this slightly outdated but rather extensive bio blurb. Joining him onstage was his life-long mentor, Mickey Dunne, famous in his own right, as you can see in this article. It was so heartwarming to see their relationship, and you can see it so well in this photo of the two of them a few years ago. Blackie made sure to give Mickey props when introducing the group, and in turn, Mickey explained to the audience that before Blackie, there were very few Uilleann pipers in Clare and in much of Ireland. He emphasized that Blackie's truest achievement was mentoring so many young pipers in Clare and beyond. It's fitting that on the Piping Heaven, Piping Hell Facebook page, you are offered the moments where Blackie's son experiences piping for the first time in a public session. Blackie's children would be included today. Mid-set, Blackie called for some little Irish dancers, and the crowd parted so his kids, still in their morning's football practice gear, performed on the floor near the front. Missing from the stage, sadly, was bouzouki master Cyril O'Donoghue, who had passed away September 2024. He and Blackie had toured and recorded together for decades, and they were both local fixtures at Trad pubs throughout the area. You can see one of their performances together in Shannon for the Wings Festival 2024. Great, weren't they? I wish I had caught the name of the skilled bouzouki player who seemed to have replaced Cyril. He obviously fit in well, so I shall assume he is also a local. FYI, you aren't crazy if you are saying, "Wait--isn't a bouzouki a Greek instrument?" Yep, you are right. A few Irish musicians tried using it in the 1970s after they had restrung it and altered it a tad, and now the Irish bouzouki's "not quite a guitar; not quite a banjo" tonality seems to fit in perfectly. Joining the group a few tunes in was the--duh,duh,duh--piper who had consumed all the sound check time the day before, Brighde Chambeul. As soon as Blackie introduced her, I shook my head and muttered to my husband, "Oh great, she's going to do a 15-minute sound and tuning check, and if she gets a solo, I leave." Not to fear, Blackie and the gang just went on while she got her act together. Here is a sample video of the day with her included, and where they all seem out of sync, well, I've decided to blame that on her. It ended all too soon. I looked up to catch my husband's reaction, knowing he, unlike me, is not a fan of pipes. Today's event, though, suited him just fine. "Now THOSE pipes", he pronounced, "I could get into." Again, if you want to see Blackie and are in Clare, just ask around in Ennis and in Doolin. Chances are you'll catch him in a pub near your stay if he's not on tour. |
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