Ireland Part I: Return to the Homeland
The last time I wrote I was sporting cowboy boots, western shirts, and working on a Wyoming dude ranch for the summer. After six consecutive summers working at summer camps and ranches—expending long hours to facilitate summer vacations for others—I decided that this summer it was time for a vacation of my own. Eager for a new adventure, my family and I packed our bags and boarded an Aer Lingus flight bound for Ireland, the Emerald Isle.
With Irish ancestors in every root of my family tree, a trip to Ireland served not only as a scenic get-away, but an opportunity to get a flavor for the land left behind by our family five generations ago. McKenna, O’Neil, Sullivan, Flanagan, Maloney, Conoley, Gleason, and Manning, among others, are the names of my great-great and great-great-great grandparents that emigrated from Ireland to America in and around the 1860s, pausing first in New York before finally settling in Southeastern Minnesota and Northeastern Iowa. One can assume their story is similar to that of many of this region’s early Irish settlors. Though their arrival is now many decades distant and their culture largely assimilated into the American melting pot, their unique legacy is still evidenced by the names of the places (Wexford, IA, Irish Hollow, Irish Ridge, Cork Hollow, etc), the names of the people, the region’s traditional foods, and the heartiness and spirit of this region’s inhabitants.
While I wish I could report we were welcomed into the open arms of, and immediately fed a hearty Irish breakfast by, distant relatives we found by scanning the local phone book upon our arrival, this was not our experience. Connecting with unknown and distant relatives takes more effort than I was able to invest prior to our arrival. Nevertheless, we were able to navigate the island in our small rental cars, experience the breathtaking scenery, soak up the Irish mist, meet friendly locals, learn about Ireland’s history, visit sites of cultural significance, and of course, stomp along to traditional Irish pub music while enjoying Irish whiskey and beer. For those interested, I share some of our experiences and my impressions in this column. Whether you proudly trace your roots to Irish ancestors or not, whether you have visited the Emerald Isle or hope to one day visit, or whether you are simply curious as to why people of Irish ancestry are so proud of that connection, I hope in the next few weeks this column will take you to Ireland’s green shores and shed some light on Ireland—as best as words can describe the sights and sounds of this rich land across the pond.
Central to the Ireland’s history and the primary cause for the massive outward migration from Ireland to America is, of course, the potato famine. The potato was the central source of nutrients for most Irish poor and some estimates suggest that working men consumed up to 60 potatoes per day. Many of the potatoes planted came from a single variety, the Irish Lumper. Potato crop failures were not uncommon in Ireland prior to the famine, but the famine marked the most sustained, widespread, and devastating crop failure, stretching from 1845 to 1852 and destroying between one third and one half of the acreage planted. The blight and subsequent famine caused one million Irish peasants to perish, and an equal number fled the country during that period—reducing Ireland’s population by 25%. The Irish continued to immigrate to America in large numbers after the famine and an estimated 3.5 million Irish arrived between 1820 and 1880. It was during the latter part of this period this region was settled by Irish immigrants.
Most Irish immigrants traveled to America in what are now known as “coffin ships.” With death rates during the six-week voyage commonly reaching 20%, one can understand how these vessels inherited that ominous name. While it may have taken our ancestors six weeks to make the voyage, today a six-hour flight from Chicago to Dublin can get you back across the Atlantic. Even accounting for the guy in the seat next to you hacking and coughing all over your personal space, your odds of surviving the passage back to Ireland in good health are substantially greater. When one studies the living conditions of steerage passengers, suddenly the obtrusive airport security, the cramped seating on the plane, and the insatiable microwave dinners and meager rations of pretzel snacks served by the airline become insignificant inconveniences that we dare not complain about.
It is with this background our wheels touched down in Dublin for a ten-day adventure that would take us around most of the country. From Dublin to Belfast, Bushmills to Galway, Limerick to Dingle, and Killarney to Cork we hit the big tourist sites as well as many lesser-traveled roads in-between (and not all of them on purpose!).
Next week the journey begins—on the left side of the road. As they say in traditional Gaelic, slán go foil (goodbye for now).
Ireland Part II: The Rules of the Road
Statistics suggest that odds of death are much greater when traveling by automobile (1 in 98) than by plane (1 in 7,178). This was a comforting statistic to keep in mind as our plane wheels lifted off the ground and we turned toward the North Atlantic during our overnight flight to Ireland. Upon our safe arrival, however, the odds of dying in an accident not only increased when we switched back to ground transportation, but became exaggerated by the fact that we were in a foreign country, interpreting foreign road signs, and most importantly, driving on the left side of the road in a busy city! (I note that you best say “left side of the road” instead of “wrong side of the road” or you will find yourself corrected by a local who disagrees with your perspective of which side is the “wrong” side.)
The instructions from Enterprise were simple: drive on the left side of the road, no right on red, and yield to cars when entering the roundabouts. We were given a quick tutorial on the pair of diesel Volkswagen Golfs we would take around the country. Mine included new technology that would kill the engine whenever the car came to a complete stop to save fuel. Upon removing my foot from the break pedal, it would quickly spark back to life in sufficient time to accelerate and continue on. Driving on the left side means the driver also sits on the opposite side of the car from what we are used to here at home. Drivers are allowed to park facing either direction on a two-way street and in bigger cities will frequently park on the sidewalks. Finally, roundabouts rather than stoplights control most intersections. These numerous differences all add up to give the driver quite a few things to adjust to as they pull away from the airport.
Determined to not make any foolish mistakes, I gave driving my full attention as we embarked. I swung toward the left side of the three-lane road, but not far enough I quickly realized when I (and my three frightened passengers) immediately noticed an oncoming double decker bus occupied my same lane. In clear hindsight, I should have erred on the side of caution by choosing the far left lane instead of the middle lane. It would have helped to also understand their line-painting scheme (where the center lines are painted white and the outer lines painted yellow) prior to departure—at least that’s the excuse I’m leaning on to explain my folly. It is very generous of the Irish to permit an American like myself, with no prior training or experience beyond my U.S. driver’s license, to get behind the wheel.
It doesn’t take long to get used to driving on the left side of the road. More difficult is growing accustomed to the narrow roadways—often with fences, walls, power line poles, and even buildings abutting the edge of the pavement. There are no ditches along Irish roads. Instead, hedges lines each side of the roadway, obstructing all peripheral views of the landscape and making it seem like you are driving through a passageway in a maze. The hedges, in most cases, aren’t entirely plant vegetation. They are old stone fences that have over time been obstructed by plant overgrowth. The Irish also do not believe in paving a shoulder alongside their local, regional, and even some national roadways. Instead, the vegetation comes right up to the outer pavement lines and it wasn’t uncommon for the plant life to brush along the side of the car as we whizzed by. You can tell the Irish do not have to negotiate snowy roads on a routine basis.
Their roads are generally posted with speeds limits that far exceed the speeds the roads would be rated for if they were in America, despite their narrowness. Judging by the number of cars lined up waiting to pass us those first few days, the locals can actually drive them that fast, too.
These challenges are amplified when traveling on narrow coastal roads, especially those that are common routes for large tour buses. In one instance, the passage was so narrow (vertical rock face on one side, cliff drop-off on the other) I had to fold my side-mirror in to prevent a passing bus from knocking it off as the driver expertly passed with only a couple of inches to spare. Other times, a person is forced to reverse down the road to a wider spot where both cars can pass.
Even once you have the quirks of the car, driving laws, and roads figured out, you still have to know where you are going. Thankfully we had a GPS that was accurate 90% of the time. While the locals were always very friendly and helpful in trying to give you directions that other 10%, we quickly learned they tend to exaggerate drive times. Though Ireland is less than half the size of Minnesota, travel is much slower due to the more primitive nature of their roads. Thus, we were usually searching for the night’s bed and breakfast lodging well after sundown.
I was continually surprised when the GPS would tell us to turn down a one-lane country road, what by our standards could be considered a good bike path, in order to reach our destination. A person can easily get frustrated and wonder why they do not widen their roads to make them safer and more navigable. On the other hand, it was exactly what I would have expected of this mostly rural country. Though much of the country has modernized, you can still find that authentic Irish country charm down some of these paths that require you to slow down and soak in your surroundings before winding past to the next small town or fishing village.
As a spoiler for all of those wondering, we did ultimately get both rental cars back without any “significant” damage. It must be that old luck of the Irish that a scrape on the plastic bumper is the only modification I made to my car in our 2500 kilometers (1550 miles) of travel.
Ireland Part III: Northern Ireland
Immediately after arriving in Ireland we left the country—that is, we drove to Northern Ireland. Many mistakenly think of the entire Emerald Isle as a single country when it is comprised of two similar, but distinct countries. The country of Northern Ireland is part of the United Kingdom along with Scotland, Wales, and England. They proudly fly the British flag and still use the English Pound Sterling as their currency rather than the Euro. These days those are about the only differences the casual traveler might notice. But even within my short lifetime things were different.
This is a complicated issue, but here is a summary of “recent” events. Prior to 1922 all of Ireland fell under British rule. Beginning with the Easter Uprising in 1916, the Irish fought for and eventually won their independence from England—at least most of them did. As part of the peace negotiations, however, the signed treaty allowed Northern Ireland the opportunity to opt out of the newly created Irish Republic. Composed of a Protestant majority loyal to the crown, they exercised this option.
The two countries coexisted peacefully until tensions began to rise in the 1960s as the Catholic minority began to feel oppressed by the Protestant majority. Known as the Troubles, the minority challenged Northern Ireland’s status as part of the United Kingdom rather than part of the independent republic that comprised the rest of the island. Many of the Catholics desired to see all of Ireland united as one common republic (the Nationalists) while many of the Protestants remained in favor of maintaining ties to the United Kingdom (the Loyalists). Groups such as the Irish Republican Army fought to sever Northern Ireland’s ties to England. Up through the late 1990s, bombings and riots, like those now regularly witnessed in the Middle East, were quite common in Northern Ireland.
An agreement was entered in 1998 that mostly ended hostilities, with Northern Ireland remaining a part of the United Kingdom. But no agreement can suddenly eliminate decades of ill will, and in some cases all out hatred, between the Loyalists and Nationalists. Even today one best not breach the subject of religion or politics with locals who may have strong feelings on the issue. Though border checkpoints are gone, murals around Belfast still tell the story. Meanwhile, groups work to nurture understanding and acceptance among Northern Irish youth in the hope the conflict will remain a chapter in the history books and not resurface in tomorrow’s newspaper headlines.
The largest city in Northern Ireland is Belfast. Traditionally an industrial and shipbuilding center, it was the port in which the Titanic was built. The city now hosts a brand new museum describing the creation of the ill-fated, first-of-its-kind luxury liner.
The ship took 26 months to construct and was the largest of its time. The local shipyard constructing the Titanic employed 15,000 men, 8 of whom perished in the process. The ship was built on what is called a slipway. Once the exterior was completed, 22 tons of soap and tallow were spread on the slipway to lubricate the surface and allow the 46-ton ship to slip into the water with 100,000 onlookers celebrating the occasion. I need not describe how this story ends.
A scenic drive up the coast takes travelers to a unique feature known as Giant’s Causeway. This small section of coastline is famous for its hexagonal shaped rock columns that rise out of the ocean. A bird’s eye view shows a repeating honeycomb pattern that was created when volcanic lava slowly cooled under water and then cracked to create over 40,000 vertical columns. Similar rocks can be found on the Scottish coast just a short distance off in the horizon.
This was our first opportunity to enjoy the scenic Irish coastline. A strong and steady wind howled from the East and pushed away the ominous and dark clouds that greeted the day. With the regular rainfall and mild temperatures that characterizes their maritime climate, every surface that can possibly provide plant life even the most meager foothold is green with summer growth. The parting clouds allowed the sun to illuminate the hillsides and provided us the best photos of the trip.
Sheep and cattle grazed the nearby hilltops. Traditionally, it wasn’t unheard of for a cow to get blown over the edge of the coastal cliffs should they dare to stretch for that luscious grass at the edge at the same moment a big gust comes by. Now days fences guard against such a bovine tragedy.
Northern Ireland is also home of Bushmills Distillery—the oldest whiskey distillery in Ireland, chartered in 1608 with a license from King James the first. During our tour we learned that many of the barrels in which they age their whiskey are imported from Kentucky after first being used to age Kentucky Bourbon. That immediately brought to mind the Staggemeyer Stave mill—where the white oak pieces for many of the barrels used in Kentucky are first milled from local hardwoods. Therefore, it is entirely plausible that my complimentary tasting of Bushmills 10 year old aged whiskey spent some quality time soaking in the aromas and flavor of our local tri-state oak trees. It’s a small world, indeed.
The whiskey wouldn’t be our last run-in with traditional Irish alcohol—the best was yet to come.
Ireland Part IV: A Guinness a Day
“A
pint of the black stuff” is all one need utter to the barkeep to get a pour of
Ireland’s most famous contribution to the world economy. The beer famously
known as Guinness seems to be the lifeblood running through the veins of most
Irish. Every pub features elaborate Guinness taps and it is the most commonly
ordered brew in Ireland, comprising approximately 25% of all beer sales. Back
alleys lay cluttered with stacks of empty Guinness kegs, awaiting their return
to Dublin for a refill. Guinness billboard advertisements promote sentiments of
nationalism and who better to sponsor their professional soccer and rugby leagues?
Whenever a foreign dignitary stops by for a visit, you can bet they will be
treated to a pint, as happened when the Irish proudly hosted President Obama and
the First Lady in 2009.
Arthur
Guinness founded the Guinness brewery in 1759 when he executed a 9,000-year
lease at a meager £45 ($66) per year for an unused brewery in Dublin. With a bargain
like that one suspects Arthur permitted the owner of this land to taste-test a
few pints of the prospective brew prior to the negotiations. In the 1930s,
Guinness was the seventh largest company in the world. Now approximately 1.8
billion pints of Guinness are consumed worldwide each year in over 100
countries. The United Kingdom is the number one consumer (approximately 1
million pints per day), followed by Nigeria (Africa), Ireland, Cameroon
(Africa), and then the U.S.
Guinness has
long had the reputation of being good for the heart and recent studies
substantiate the claims by showing it tends to slow down the deposition of bad
cholesterol in arteries and contains healthy antioxidants. An early
advertisement suggested “seven
glasses, seven days of the week and seven beneficial reasons to drink Guinness
(for strength, nerves, digestion, exhaustion, sleeplessness, tonic effects and
the blood).” Today blood donors and hospital patients recovering from surgery
frequently indulge in a pint to speed recovery—though the tradition of a free
pint of Guinness after blood donation was ended in 2010 to the disappointment
of many who felt the “pint for a pint” was a fair trade.
Our host at
one bed and breakfast taught us that it was common for pregnant women in
Ireland to drink a half pint of Guinness each day. Guinness is high in Vitamin
B and Iron, two essential nutrients for pregnant and nursing women, which corroborates
this unsolicited medical advice. Our host did not follow this recommendation up
with a disclaimer like I do now: consult your doctor before exchanging the Iron
supplements for a six-pack.
Some
consider Guinness a “meal in a glass” despite the fact that it has fewer
calories than most lighter beers (about 200 calories per pint). It is brewed
with the traditional ingredients used in any beer—water, barley, malt extract,
hops, and brewer’s yeast. It is their barley roasting process that gives
Guinness its dark color, which is actually a deep ruby, not black, as you will notice
if you hold it up to the light. The water comes from the nearby Wicklow Mountains.
The strains of yeast descend from those used when Arthur Guinness first began
brewing beer.
Not only is
the brewing process a revered tradition, pouring a pint of Guinness has a
ceremonial nature to it. From start to finish the process is supposed to take
125 seconds to get the perfect pint. The glass is held at a 45-degree angle,
filled three quarters full, and then left to settle for a short period before
being topped off. Done well, the pint should have a smooth foamy head about an
inch deep. Supposedly a pint of Guinness tastes better in Ireland than anywhere
else, but “scientific” studies suggest that might be due more to the natural
ambiance of the pubs and psychological excitement of having a Guinness in
Ireland than anything physical about the beer.
We planned a
stop at the St. James Gate Brewery where Guinness is made. When asking a local
how long it would take to hoof it to the brewery, he estimated 20 minutes or
so, depending upon how “tirsty” you are. Unfortunately, his joke about being
thirsty was lost on those in the group who, due to his Irish accent and failure
to pronounce the “h,” thought he said touristy.
Though much
celebrated, I must confess that Guinness is not my favorite Irish brew, and for
every enthusiastic Guinness disciple there is someone who will gladly pass on a
pint. Fortunately, Harp lager and Smithwicks red ale provide popular local alternatives.
Bulmers, an alcoholic cider sold under the name Magners in the U.S., is always
found on tap alongside these other Irish classics. If you dare pass on the
local brews and select an American import, a move that is sure to blow your
cover and expose you as a tourist among the locals (if they hadn’t already
figured you out), you can expect to pay even more than you would for a
Guinness.
The
Irish enjoy their beer and whiskey, of that there is no doubt. The importance
of Guinness to their identity and culture cannot be overstated. But just as
important as the drink itself is the camaraderie that comes with it. Going to
the pub for a pint is just as much an excuse to get out and socialize, catch up
with the news, listen to music, and dance, as it is an excuse for a drink, but
that’s the topic for another week.
Ireland Part V: Farms and the Weather
It takes a steady and adequate supply of rain to keep Ireland as green as the pictures depict it, and a steady supply of rain is what they receive. Ireland soaks up 30–50 inches of rain per year, on average, and a “long drought” in Ireland is the record 37 days without rain in 1938—a laughable length of time for those who can recollect entire summers with hardly a drop. We encountered at least one rain shower every day but one, when it decided to downpour shortly after sundown instead. The rain showers were mostly brief and intermittent, and when they did appear, were rarely heavy downpours and better described as a healthy Irish mist. Our first day, however, gave us a good welcome-to-Ireland-soaking as we puddle-jumped our way through Dublin from attraction to attraction.
Temperatures in Ireland are mild compared to those we experience in Minnesota, but that alone doesn’t say much. Ireland benefits from the North Atlantic current that sweeps warm water from the Gulf of Mexico region to the higher latitudes. The highest and lowest temperatures recorded anywhere in Ireland are 91.9 and -2.4 degrees Fahrenheit respectively. The typical range is between 30 and 80 degrees. During our visit, daily highs were generally in the 60s.
Most locals, accustomed to the sporadic weather, are wisely equipped with umbrellas. Thinking ahead we made certain to pack rain jackets and an umbrella, too—one of those collapsible, light-weight umbrellas that are easy to travel with and completely worthless if the wind happens to be blowing more than 3.5 miles per hour. It should have come as no surprise that within minutes of opening it up one of the spindly arms caved from the force of the moderate breeze and bent out of shape, significantly limiting its effectiveness at shedding water. Travel Tip: leave your wimpy umbrellas at home and buy a good one when you arrive. They are sold everywhere. We weren’t the only ones with this problem, however, as I saw 3–4 abandoned, half-broken, collapsible umbrellas throughout the day—all generously left for someone damp and desperate enough to make use of their remaining shell.
With the steady rains come productive pastures on which to graze cattle and sheep. Not a single patch of grass is wasted, it seemed, as the livestock, and especially the sheep, could be found everywhere, even abutting popular scenic attractions. The views from the hills and mountains showed valleys that were divided up into a patchwork of grazing pastures, separated by stone fences. Pastures ranged in size from 5 to 25 acres, depending upon the lay of the land. Noticeably absent was anything that we would classify a feedlot. The animals are rotated between pastures regularly enough to prevent the grass from being trampled to mud.
The Irish have a grass-based dairy industry where average herd size is 50 cows, most typically of a Holstein-Friesian mix. Average milk yields are lower than found locally, and farmers attempt to maintain a 12-month birthing cycle so calves are born in the spring months when the grass is becoming most productive. The Irish also raise beef cattle and nearly every restaurant we visited boasted “100% Irish beef” somewhere on their menu, evidencing their strong desire to support their local farms.
Not once did we see a stalk of corn, probably due to the cooler temperatures typical of an Irish summer and fewer tillable acres. Instead, wheat, barley, oats, potatoes, beets, and forages are most abundant.
We seized an opportunity to visit a sheep farm in the mountains near Kilarney National Park. This particular sheep farm has been in their family for 150 years and is so rural it did not receive electricity service until 1980. For a small fee we were able to watch a sheep shearing demonstration and witness their five border collies rounding up a herd of sheep in the pasture. The wool from a sheep is sheared off once a year but is only worth about $1.33, about the same amount it costs to pay a person to shear the sheep, due to oversaturation in the wool market. Nevertheless, it must be sheared once a year for the average sheep’s 13-year life span or the coat will get too heavy, and after a good soaking topple the sheep on their side leaving them helpless to get up again under the weight.
Though Ireland is full of sheep, we rarely saw evidence of local consumption of the meat. We were told many Irish don’t care to buy the meat, which is still pricier than beef, pork, or chicken. Therefore, most of it is exported, with France being the top destination.
The sheep herding demonstration was downright impressive. The farmer stood atop the hill as one-by-one he released the eager and patiently waiting dogs with a vocal cue. He gave each of his five collies the command to veer either left or right around the pasture edges in search for stray animals. He would yell the dog’s name and then follow that with a command, as they crouched around boulders and stalked their “prey,” ready to pounce should any individual find the courage to attempt to cut from the herd. Within five minutes the small herd of 30 animals was gathered and pushed into the holding pen by the circling team of dogs.
This family benefitted by their location and ability to attract tourist dollars to help offset the challenges associated with the depressed farm economy, but most farmers in Ireland aren’t that lucky. Whether the farm would remain economically productive enough for the next generation to carry on the tradition remains an open question in their mind. The tale sounded all too familiar to those of us who grew up in the Midwest. From the rocky landscape to the potato famines to today’s market challenges, farming in Ireland has never been an easy task. Neither has it always been in the Upper Midwest. It seems no coincidence, therefore, that many of those who persist in U.S. agriculture today can trace their roots to hardy individuals (whether Irish or otherwise) that long ago learned how to survive through frugality, creativity, perseverance, and true grit.
Ireland Part VI: Pubs, Pints, & (Bag)pipes
Irish pubs—historically known as public houses—were the social and entertainment hub of the community, as well as refuge from passing rain showers, and in many places still serve these important functions. Traditionally they were a man’s domain, a place men could go to discuss politics and local happenings away from the family. More recently the gender bias has faded away, though as we discovered, a heavy imbalance in patronage remains. Story telling, fiddle playing, and singing often accompany a good drink, while the TVs, if any, are ignored until the occasional soccer or rugby match comes on. For many individuals the pub is a home away from home, the other regular patrons their extended family, and traditionally the pub owner was a central and well-respected figure in the community.
Studying the guidebooks, one cannot help but notice the emphasis placed on the pub experience. More ink is spilt describing where to find the best pubs, the best pub music, and proper pub etiquette than on any other attraction or experience in Ireland.
The stereotypical Irish pub is named O’Conner’s, O’Donnels, O’Sheahans or the equivalent, at any given time, no matter how early in the day, has at least one or two very old men (usually drunk) bellied up to the bar (who may or may not be singing depending upon how many pints they have had), and in the evening serves as a magnet for local musicians, interested in trading a few tunes on the guitar or fiddle for a pint. The sign of a good pub is one with an elderly local in attendance, since one can expect they should know the best local pubs by this point in their life. Unlike some other expectations set by the guidebook, here it did not disappoint.
It was about 6:00 P.M. when we entered Mulligan’s Pub in search for a quick bite. The place was lifeless, except for the sole patron precariously perched on a bar stool enjoying a pint of Guinness and belting out the chorus of “You are the Wind Beneath My Wings” at the top of his lungs and with more heart and soul than Bette Midler on her best day. Not even the bartender was in sight—perhaps no coincidence. We were disappointed to discover there would be no dinner and a show, as this pub didn’t serve food and forced us to find the day’s ration of potatoes elsewhere.
Enticed by the rumor of a traditional music session, we stepped into the Kingdom bar a couple of nights later only to find a similar scene—but without the singing. A friendly local was enjoying his evening as the pub’s only customer by chatting with the proprietor/bartender, who also appeared to be a close friend by default. Since the pub had long ago ended their weekly jam sessions when Ireland’s economy slowed during the Great Recession, we took advantage of his story telling propensities.
Wanting desperately to find some good, traditional Irish music (all too often we discovered Irish musicians playing popular American music), we surveyed the streets of Kilarney where amongst the various options we discovered two young men playing up-tempo Irish reels and jigs on the fiddle and guitar, with an occasional ballad thrown in the set-list. The pub owner politely interrupted them when it came time for the winner of the Rose of Tralee contest to be announced on TV. This contest is an annual event where representatives from across Ireland and Irish communities around the world compete to win the prestigious title and crown. The locals were a bit disappointed when Haley O’Sullivan from Texas won. I think it fair to assume they would have preferred she stay home and compete to be the Yellow Rose of Texas and left the Tralee contest to the local gals.
We did finally discover the traditional Irish music session we were searching for, the type where locals just show up to play each week for no compensation other than a couple of pints. Fiddle, accordion, guitar, tambourine, and a bodhrán (an Irish drum covered in goat skin) comprised the band once everybody had showed up and settled into the dimly lit corner of O’Sheahans pub. After a bit of small talk the accordion player started in on a tune and the others joined as if they had rehearsed all week for this evening show. Within moments the entire pub was overwhelmed with the driving sound of rhythm guitar, the drone of the accordion, and the smooth melody of the fiddle. This wasn’t just background music. Conversation ceased and everyone in the pub drew their full attention until the last note was drawn. At that time conversation would resume briefly while the musicians took a few sips of their brew and considered what tune to play next, and then the whole cycle would start over.
During one such break, a patron who appeared a little unsteady on his feet approached his friends in the corner and eventually convinced the accordion player to give him a turn at the squeezebox. My low expectations were shattered when after a slow and groggy start this guy expertly squeezed out a quick reel, with the rest of the band joining in sync. After similar experiences elsewhere, you come to the conclusion that most everybody in Ireland can either play an instrument or sing a tune and they aren’t the least bit shy about sharing their talent, especially after a couple of pints.
In the two hours we were in attendance, we watched the skinny, 70-year old fiddle player down five pints of Guinness—each set before him by a bar patron as soon as he finished the last swallow of the previous pint. Meanwhile, the music never suffered in spite of it, and in-fact, makes me think that perhaps Guinness is the key ingredient—keeping those fingers loose and strings in tune. I am eager to test that hypothesis myself to see if a few pints might improve my own fiddling.
My description of the pubs, thus far, fails to recognize or consider the destructive effect alcohol and too much time and money spent at the pubs can have on families and individual persons. Pictures of Ireland often display rows of colorful houses. The joke is the houses were painted different colors so the man of the household could more easily find the right abode after a night at the pub. While there is another side to this story, the Irish (and guidebooks for that matter) emphasize the good cultural aspects of pub life and for better or worse make light humor of the less glamorous past rather than dwell on and take offense at the drunken Irishman stereotype and underlying reasons for it.
I must admit we didn’t find any bagpipers in the pubs, and thank goodness. We might have left our hearing in Ireland if we had. That’s the only instrument I could think of that came close to starting with a “p” to give this piece a clever and catchy title. Luckily the pipers were relegated to performing on the streets for mere pocket change.
And no, I did not take my own fiddle. I knew I wasn’t prepared to keep apace to these pub house professionals. Those ambitions will have to wait for the next trip.
Ireland Part VII: Blarney vs. Baloney
The Irish are impressively good at stacking rocks. Fences, barns, forts, and especially castles showcase this talent over the ages. Fences divide the countryside into a gridded pattern of pastures and line most roadways. Forts that are older than European settlement of America still stand solid guard in Southwestern Ireland. Similarly, castle ruins can be found dotted along the rugged coast and other strategic locations inland. Even modern buildings and houses make significant use of rocks and for good reason—they are abundantly everywhere.
We passed by approximately two or three castles each day. Some are in partial ruin, on others the stonework remains well preserved, and a small number are restored with replicate woodwork and furnishings. Many are owned privately or by the government and charge admission, but yet a good number remain neglected relics of history, merely ivy covered obstacles in the middle of quiet cow pastures.
The Irish castle most familiar to Americans is Blarney Castle, made famous for its revered Blarney Stone and a popular pilgrimage spot for those yearning to lay a smooch on it in hopes they will be given the “gift of gab,” or “blarney” as some call it. What makes this particular stone magical, you might be wondering?
Legend has it the builder of Blarney Castle, Cormac MacCarthy, found himself on the wrong end of a lawsuit. He appealed to Clíodhna, a goddess in Irish mythology, for advice on how best to plead his defense. She instructed him to kiss the first stone he came upon during his travels to the court. He did this and as a result was able to plead his case with great eloquence, and of course, he won. As a result, legend has it that the Blarney Stone is able to impart “the ability to deceive without offending,” or in shorthand, the gift of eloquent speaking. He then incorporated the special stone into the castle structure. Of course this is only one of the many explanations behind the myth of the Blarney Stone. People from around the world, including many politicians seeking the power of persuasion and great oratory skills, have made the climb to kiss the stone (most notably Winston Churchill).
As a recent law graduate, it would have been a blunder to pass up this opportunity to endow myself with an eloquent tongue so I might find similar luck and skill as Mr. MacCarthy when in the courtroom. We drove to Cork to find this infamous bluestone. The Blarney Castle is one of the taller castles we saw and 131 steps up the tight spiral staircases takes you to where the stone is located on the top rim of the castle, cemented into the base of the battlements.
Because it is perched in a precarious location, kissing it is an exercise in upper body flexibility. After a short wait in line you are guided by the grey haired attendant to lay on your back, grab a steel support bar with each fist, arc your back over the two-foot gap opening, and then lean back far enough to get your head low enough to kiss the stone. Meanwhile, the attendant is there to grab your jacket or legs should you start to slip backward and through the gap and plummet to the ground below. They hardly give you enough time for a peck before you are being pulled back up and shooed off to keep the line moving.
I can’t say I felt any different after my brief moment with the stone. I still stumble over my words, but hold out hope that in those moments of greatest need Clíodhna will bestow me with a little bit of that Blarney magic. At least she had better, or I fear I fell for the greatest tourist scam in all of Ireland.
Over the ages blarney has also developed into a useful adjective to describe a certain form of baloney, and I don’t mean the good stuff found at the New Albin Meat Market. An Irish politician described it best when he said, “Blarney is something more than mere flattery. It is flattery sweetened by humour and flavoured by wit.” A plaque at the castle gave a nice example. “Baloney is when you tell a 50 year old woman she looks 18. Blarney is when you ask a woman how old she is because you want to know at what age women are most beautiful.” Most Irish are naturally skilled in the latter.
Many of the castles have a similar layout. Tight spiral staircases stake out each corner. The stone slabs used to construct the steps are well worn from centuries of travel by knights, princesses, and more recently, Nike-clad American tourists. In the corners on various levels are the bedrooms while the center of the castle is reserved for the banquet hall. The roof is designed with castle defenses in mind. The more “luxurious” castles, like Blarney Castle, incorporated fancy waste disposal systems comprised of special, slanted windows on the downwind side—out of which one could do their business and expedite its deposit outside. Like most castles in Ireland, only the resilient stone structure remains and all wood components have long ago rotted away.
As an amateur in castle architecture, I suggest that once you have seen one you have pretty much seen them all. I often wondered what the locals think of all these picture-happy tourists stopping to take photos of castles along the roads or in a farmer’s back 40. To them I suspect these castles are about as commonplace as traditional dairy barns with gambrel roofs in the Upper Midwest. I might be exaggerating a little bit, but the day isn’t far off when that might be true.
I can imagine that any season now we will start to see busloads of Japanese, German, and New York City tourists kicking up a cloud of dust down Prairie Ridge Road or slowing down traffic on Highway 44 while they snap pictures from the side of the road and pay to take tours of the last of these wooden relics from an earlier farming era. First we will wonder with amusement and a little annoyance what all of the commotion is about, but after the dust settles we will eventually come to the difficult realization it is already too late and another chapter of our agricultural heritage will be over and in the books—just another nostalgic attraction exhibiting “the way things used to be.”
But let’s hope that’s all just a bunch of blarney.
Ireland Part VIII: Irish Roots--Family and Potatoes
After bouncing around between one Bed and Breakfast to another for the first few days, we spent a week residing on the small peninsula jutting into Castlemaine Harbor, south of the Dingle Peninsula and north of the small village of Cromane. For a reasonable sum, a person can rent a “cottage” in Ireland. The one we inhabited wasn’t as quaint as I would imagine an Irish cottage to be, but instead was a very spacious newly built home. It was also a symbol of the rise and fall of what is known as the Celtic Tiger economy. A surge in the technology and pharmaceutical industries created an economic boom prior to the new millennium, the effects of which continued until the Great Recession in 2008. Our cottage was built on the tail end of the Tiger. After the real estate bubble burst it never sold.
Weeks ago I started this column by referencing my Irish ancestry. Quite a few branches trace back to communities across Ireland. It is probably not much of a coincidence, therefore, that our primary place of lodging, we later learned, happened to be near the town in which the McKenna branch purportedly originates—Killorglin in County Kerry.
Despite my failure to adequately research our family history in advance, we thought we would wing it and see if anyone knew of any locals with the last name McKenna. The inebriated patron we consulted at the nearest pub in town hadn’t heard of any, until he thoughtfully pondered it another couple of minutes and then remembered his wife’s maiden name was McKenna. Without our prompting he dialed her up on his cell phone and then handed it over to allow us to do the talking. I’m not sure what that says about the status of their marriage. Regardless, she was friendly and suggested we stop by the church office and page through their records.
The next day we did exactly that and found the church secretary, like most Irish, was very accommodating. She pulled out the books and quickly gave us the Genealogy 101 lesson I am certain she is accustomed to giving tourists like us searching the country of 4.5 million people for a relative from six generations back.
We began scanning the relevant pages for McKenna when she interjected and warned us that it would be improper to only search for the spelling we were accustomed to. Variations of McKenna could also include Kenna, McGenna, Genna, MaKenna, MacKenna, MacKennagh, MacKinna, MacKena, or even Ginna. We would have to search them all.
As we narrowed it down by name we began to look more closely at dates when again she interjected and urged us not to put too much faith in the accuracy of dates either. If you can’t rely on the spelling of the names or the accuracy of dates, then you don’t have much to go off of, in my estimation. We did have one thing playing in our favor—we were searching for McKenna rather than O’Sullivan. The inflection in her voice took on a sober tone when she stated that the hair on the back of her neck raises high when someone walks through the door announcing they are searching for an O’Sullivan. Our survey of the local cemetery confirmed the frequency of the O’Sullivan name—nearly one in every three stones appeared to bear that moniker.
Despite these inherent challenges, some folks are able to successfully place the pieces in order, but it became clear we weren’t going to do so that morning. Never mind that anyway, as she then came forth with the most critical information of the day—these exact records are all online at www.irishgenealogy.ie/en/ and paging through the books, as romantic as it might seem at the time, was completely unnecessary. Just then the office phone started to ring so we quickly thanked her for her time and assistance and departed.
I also started the column by giving a brief history of the infamous potato famine. I can assure you the famine is no longer, and potatoes persist in abundance despite the absence of widespread poverty that originally made potatoes a staple in the diet many years ago. Dining at a pub one evening I ordered some species of local fish of which I was not familiar and can no longer recall. Like any good Irish meal, it came with some mashed potatoes and a vegetable as advertised on the menu. I was a bit surprised when the waitress delivered a side of French fries with the rest of my meal. This happened again later in the trip. It wasn’t an extra side I had requested, nor had it been indicated on the menu they were included. Bonus fries, I call them, and they seem to be given away like water.
To be more accurate, these fries are technically called “chips” in Ireland. Meanwhile, what we call chips are called “crisps.” Pudding as we know it is nothing like pudding in Ireland. Irish pudding is a breakfast food composed of pork meat and fat, suet (beef or mutton fat), bread, oatmeal, and sometimes blood (from what, I didn’t ask). Pudding is an essential component of the traditional Irish breakfast served by most B&Bs. Soup in Ireland doesn’t have chunks. It is puréed. Stew is more like our soup. Chicken goujons are chicken strips. The Irish do not say they are “hungry.” Instead they announce they are feeling “peckish.” The list goes on.
When it was our turn to get served at the table or the bar, consistently the wait staff would ask, some with genuine concern, “Are you okay?”—almost as if initiating a little friendly small talk. My instincts were always to respond, “Yes, I am doing fine.” But when I did this while waiting to order a drink, of course, they would pass me on by and hustle off to the next customer who wasn’t “doing okay.”
By the time we were done pestering the patient wait staff each night with questions about what unfamiliar words meant and what each menu item actually consisted of, they were probably ready to present us a basket of fries and say, “take it or leave it.” Tipping is generally unnecessary in Ireland. Nevertheless, I usually found myself adding extra, hoping it would serve as an informal apology for our unfamiliarity, indecisiveness, and delay.
Unlike places like Italy or India, you don’t go to Ireland to indulge in great or exotic food, since most of their fare can be found right here at home. Nevertheless, we never went hungry, thanks to those generous servings of potatoes.
Ireland Part IX: The Leftovers
As I wrap-up this column this week and next, I have a few leftovers worth mentioning that didn’t make the cut on previous editions, as well as some final observations. It has been about 150 years since a bulk of this regions first Irish settlor’s arrived, and in that time many components of our respective cultures have diverged despite the common origin, as I have described all along. Therefore, sometimes it comes as a surprise when you find such striking similarities.
Driving around the countryside we had ample time to scan the Irish radio stations. A couple of times we stumbled upon some traditional Irish music, but more frequently the stations were playing American music, including John Denver and Bob Dylan interspersed between more contemporary artists like Katy Perry and Miley Cyrus.
There are a few Irish “country/western” performers, including the young and popular Nathan Carter, performing a combination of Irish country music and covers of familiar American Pop and Country tunes like “Fishing in the Dark,” “Delta Dawn,” and “Eighteen Wheels and a Dozen Roses.” Featuring electric guitar, fiddle, and accordion, he gives these tunes a modern/Irish spin, but most of his music might better fit with 90s country music than that heard on American country radio today.
He also does a cover of “Wagon Wheel,” a tune originally recorded here by the folk band Old Crow Medicine Show (OCMS) and recently brought to widespread popularity by Darius Rucker’s version on country radio. It is equally popular in Ireland as we heard it played on Radio Kerry at least half a dozen times.
Most surprising, however, is when the traditional guitar/accordion/spoons trio in a small town pub transitioned from a rowdy pub song to “Wagon Wheel” late one evening. Even the 70-year-old man sitting next to me was grinning ear to ear and singing along to every word between sips from his pint. I found this Irish obsession with “Wagon Wheel” humorous for a few reasons. First, the entire song is about a hitchhiking journey from New England to Raleigh, North Carolina, with lesser-known American destinations in between. Secondly, the chorus makes little sense and that’s because Bob Dylan wrote it long ago. The guys from OCMS wrote the verses around it but the simple lyrics and catchy instrumentation was enough to perk up ears. Most impressively, this song grew to international fame out of complete obscurity, entirely by word of mouth from college students across America long before it first received radio airplay once Rucker cut it. Now even the pub bands and country singers in Ireland are getting significant mileage out of it.
While describing the driving experience, I didn’t say much about roundabouts. Because they are quickly becoming more common in the Midwest, and are likely to increase in prevalence, I briefly mention them now. To the amateur they seem silly and confusing—like how you end up taking the long way counter-clockwise around the circle only to make what would have been a simple left hand turn. But once you understand how they work and how to properly navigate them, it suddenly seems silly to waste time constructing traditional signal controlled intersections, not to mention the time motorists waste waiting at red lights thereafter.
Getting to the point to where you understand them, however, can take some practice. I was honked at three times by my count for improper signaling, lane changing, or other blunders I still don’t know I made. One can assume that for every honk drivers politely ignored two or three other incidences in which honking was merited. Regardless, by the end I no longer broke into a sweat upon seeing one approaching and suggest we would be wise to continue to take a tip from our European brethren on this one by incorporating them into more of our roads.
Fuel for our small diesel cars averaged about €1.50 at the pump. At first glance that seems like a bargain until you consider one Euro is currently equivalent to $1.33, and more importantly, that fuel is sold in liters rather than gallons. 3.79 liters in a gallon multiplied by €1.50 multiplied by $1.33 for the exchange rate equals approximately $7.56 per gallon of diesel.
Travelers must be careful, as sometimes fuel stations can be few and far between, or even closed. Driving the motorway back to Dublin I miscalculated the amount of fuel we would need and eventually realized we weren’t going to make it. We consulted the GPS for the nearest gas station and I took the next exit. As the directions continued to lead us down narrower and narrower roads, my skepticism we were going to find a station at trail’s end widened. Concern grew as I saw the digital readout continue to tick off the remaining kilometers of fuel left while we continued to pass cattle and sheep, but little else.
When we did come to our calculated “destination,” I turned the car around in the driveway of the small farm we were facing which probably didn’t even have a fuel barrel and, of course, showed no resemblance of ever serving as a fuel station. Luck has it that I did eventually find a small country store before we had to thumb a ride. In this instance, small means one pump, a display cooler that had for sale fewer items than found in my fridge on an average day, and an old lady attendant crocheting to pass the time between infrequent afternoon sales.
Finally, speaking of leftovers, what do you do when you clean out the rental car while packing your bags for the trip to the airport only to discover there are still three pints of Guinness and half a bottle of Baily’s Irish Cream left? You shove them in your already bulging suitcase and hope the FSA agent who randomly searches your bag doesn’t decide he or she need a drink after work—and with a job like that, they probably do.
Ireland Part X: Farewell to Ireland
A tourist in Ireland found himself seated beside an older man in a pub one evening as they were both enjoying a couple of pints. Not long into the conversation the tourist asked the old man if he was from around here? The old man responded, “No, I grew up about six miles down the road.”
In many ways the Irish perspective is entirely different than our own. But travel six miles in any direction in Houston County and you will find yourself in the next township over and probably saying the same thing to a stranger. “I’m not from around here, I’m from . . .” (Mayville Township, Jefferson Ridge, Swede Bottom, Cork Hollow, and so on).
In Houston County our culture is influenced by our geography. The hardwood forests covering the bluffs provide us a small lumber industry and ample room for hunting whitetail, turkeys, and morel mushrooms. The valleys and bluff tops leave room for pasture and tillable acres that give us a unique farming heritage distinct from the style of agriculture found elsewhere in the Midwest. The river inspires a lifestyle of its own, one of recreation, while the lasting winters nurture a population of hearty souls.
The Irish culture cannot help but be shaped by similar factors. The rocky ground, the rugged coastline, the rainy weather, all combine to form a country of wistful poets, resourceful farmers, imaginative writers, colorful pub owners, and Guinness-drinking musicians.
Traveling the country, it is easy to understand why the small island has produced so many world-famous writers and musicians, probably more per capita than most other places on Earth. The landscape inspires. One cannot visit the Cliffs of Moher on Ireland’s west coast without peering over the gusty edge with utter astonishment that such a landscape can exist. It is almost as if the island itself had been pushed heavenward straight out of the ocean floor, creating perfectly vertical cliffs rising seven hundred feet above the white-foam waves violently crashing below. There is no transition from land to sea. You are either in or you are out.
When you grow up with those sorts of forces at work outside your window reminding you daily of the power of nature, accented by 600-year-old castles reminding you of the storied history of the land, I imagine your perspective on life takes on a more reflective tone. And when you have the gift of gab or natural musical talents, as most Irish do, putting it all on paper or turning it into a heartrending fiddle melody comes second nature.
Yes, the landscape is different. The roads are different, the accent is different, and so aren’t their sports, choices in beer, farming methods, weather, some of their music, and at times their politics. But beyond these differences there still exists a common kinship that was felt every time someone paused in the day long enough to engage in a little small talk, every time I was served a plate of food that looked just like something from grandma’s kitchen, every time we saw a farmer doing what they could with what they have, every time an Irish fiddle had my foot instinctively beating time on the worn pub floor, or every time when driving down the road I would see the oncoming driver toss me the one finger wave of which we are all so familiar. I confidently conclude the passing of six generations since our ancestors left Ireland isn’t enough time to unwind the traditions, legacies, habits, and culture that took centuries to cultivate.
Scottish and other Celtic musicians frequently perform a song titled “Caledonia.” This ballad speaks of a young man homesick for his homeland, the part of the United Kingdom the Romans called Caledonia, in what is present-day Scotland. The protagonist goes from reminiscing about Caledonia to deciding that tomorrow he is going to return, as “Caledonia has been everything he has ever had.”
Though perhaps more than a little ironic I would conclude a column all about Ireland by referencing a Scottish ballad, it does seem fitting considering that we were returning home to Caledonia ourselves. While once our Celtic ancestors would have thought wistfully of Ireland as they departed with uncertainty set out before them—probably having never been more than a few miles from home—six generations later we turn with gratification in the same direction, west. Thanks to their bold decision to make this journey 150 years prior, as we depart Ireland this time it is Caledonia, MN we already call home.
“Will you go back?,” is the question I encounter most often. It is a long plane ride and an expensive ticket. Perhaps, too, I dare not push my luck driving on the left side of the road any further. But finding another traditional jam session in a small village pub in rural Ireland—this time with my own fiddle in hand—will make it worth it all over again.
I offer a sincere thanks to everyone for reading these past few weeks. If you are interested in hearing more of these types of adventures, write the Caledonia Argus and request they sponsor me to go on assignment and I’ll even travel to a country of your choosing. Perhaps an even better idea, do what you can to save enough money to embark on an adventure abroad of your own. I am living proof that even a novice traveler like myself can get there and back with little more than a sense of humor, patience, a halfway decent GPS, and a broken umbrella.
Happy Trails.
