Day 12 / Saturday, 22 September 2012
I had been trying to stay on top of work; I’d had to bring one edit with me on the trip. But, you know, I was on vacation! I really wanted to not work. After everyone went bed last night, I sat up past eleven o’clock, trying to work a little; I’d found it was best to work late at night or in the early morning when the others were sleeping—quieter, easier to focus.
Then I got in bed … and tried to get comfortable. I wished! This was my third night in a hard, narrow twin bed—I do realize I’ve become very spoiled to my thick, king-sized bed back home, and I am always prepared to be out of my comfort zone—but these thin mattresses and lack of box springs were a whole new brand of uncomfortable. And even though I was up late, I was also up early—because my body clock just goes off.
Out the door of our room, down four steps, and halfway up a different set of stairs, there was a window on the opposite side of the building, and a view—sort of—of the church where the car was parked. It’s completely surrounded on all sides by buildings, except for that small alley. Sundays must be interesting. 🙂
We met Jill and Alli in the dining room at nine o’clock; that seemed to be a time that worked for all of us. I had my usual: muesli mixed with yogurt as an appetizer before the fry-up. I loved tasting the different variations of black and white pudding—my favorite part of the full Irish. The black pudding Olive served Auburn House was delish. Then Jill and Alli set off and Margaret and I did, too; we agreed to meet back at the little food garden that evening for a street food supper.
We’d been told about a little flea market right around the corner, but when we passed at 10:15, we saw it wouldn’t open until 11:00. But a fortuitous meeting: the proprietor (a young man, mid-twenties, and what I would call a hippie, though perhaps his generation has another term) had just been let out of a van to unlock the building. He was rough-looking (rough as if he were poor) and quite a talker. He let us in early, and then it turns out the place filled up right away. Most seemed to be vendors, but I could have sworn the street had been empty, so where did these folks come from? All were “hippies”—fond memories for me—I love that free-spirited look, that attitude, and loved that they just materialized seemingly out of nowhere.
We browsed around—you never know what you’re going to find in these places—but the hippies were much more entertaining than the merchandise. (As we went on through our day in Cork, we noticed lots and lots of young folks with that funky street-people look.) In the end, we didn’t buy anything at the flea market, but the young man had a self-made “magazine” that I bought to be supportive. I am sure I overpaid, but perhaps he had a pint on me later. 🙂
Our intention was to go down a couple blocks and to the hop-on-hop-off bus stop Olive had marked on the map for us … to tour Cork (like tourists! Ha!). But we were just standing there by the river getting chilly and realized we could be waiting awhile.
So we starting walking further—crossing St. Patrick’s Bridge—to make our way to the tourist office and the main terminal for the hop-on-hop-off … and we stumbled into Oliver Plunkett Street.
Oh, hello, really delightful shopping district! Oliver Plunkett Street is closed to all but pedestrian traffic, and was filled with little shops interspersed with designer boutiques, and so on. If you can’t find it on Oliver Plunkett Street, you don’t need it. 🙂
We kept working our way toward our destination, but shopped all along the route. We stopped in a music instrument shop (I bought CDs), then a cooking shop (I bought a tea cozy), a little touristy Irish trinket shop, a chemist’s to buy Kleenex … and then we found Mr. Simms Olde Sweet Shop (punctuation is Mr. Simms’s, not mine).
This was a high-end candy shop where I bought Simpkins Travel Sweets—hard candies in orange, lemon, and grapefruit, probably my fave flavors. I was using them to keep myself from coughing so much.
And then we happened on the English Market. There’s been a market on this site since 1788. And oh my goodness. If I lived in Cork, I would only shop for groceries there. Fresh everything—fish right off the boat, chicken, aged beef, deli meats, breads, sweets. It was incredible. Too bad we’d recently had breakfast!
When we left the English Market we were just a block away from the HOHO terminus, but when we arrived—slow walkers, we—we still had a thirty-minute wait for the next bus. We whiled a little time away enjoying the way the light was striking this memorial on the Grand Parade, just across from the Tourist Information Office. Unveiled on St. Patrick’s Day in 1906, this Irish Gothic–style monument commemorates Irish patriots and the rebellions of 1798, 1803, 1848, and 1867. It’s called the National Monument of Cork.
So … a conference: what do we want to see, really? Answer: St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral. And that was in walking distance. Why wait for the bus?
And we just started walking and made our way slowly there. I have a lung problem and Margaret has fragile feet. We are a matched set in terms of getting around. 🙂
As is always the case, the journey is just a little further than you think. 🙂 I remember looking at the Eiffel Tower from atop the Arc de Triomphe and thinking it wasn’t all that far. Uh-huh. Still, the walk itself was interesting.
And then … there it was.
St. Fin Barre—Fionnbarra in Irish—founded a monastery on this site in the seventh century. And as it was consecrated land, a succession of churches rose and fell here. During medieval times there was a Catholic cathedral (from which a carved doorway survives) but during the Protestant Reformation (around 1536), that cathedral became part of the Established Church (what we know now as the Church of Ireland).
There would be one more cathedral built here before the present structure, which began in 1864 and was consecrated in 1870. This building is a Victorian interpretation of a thirteenth-century French Gothic cathedral … and is still unfinished.
We were greeted by a grey-haired docent and encouraged to enjoy the cathedral. “Don’t forget to light a candle,” she said, and handed one to each of us. After my prayer, I sat down near the front on the center aisle and just … looked. As I say, it’s a lot to take in, outside and inside. (Also, of course, I needed to catch my breath.)
Fin Barre’s was beautiful. We sat in the sanctuary for a long time. The lovely lady in the gift shop came forward to chat with us as we sat there—folks hear the accent, I guess—and we asked her about a place to eat; it was past lunchtime. After some discussion—the places that were close were just so-so, but we didn’t want to have to go too far—she directed us to a vegetarian restaurant, Café Paradiso. She even drew us a map. And off we went. (Well, after pausing outside: the bells began ringing, joyously. Check the link: you can hear them too. What a finale to our visit!)
It was an interesting walk, along an area of town that was once the site of a Dominican friary, which had been named St. Mary’s of the Isle (the original Cork City sits on a series of islands large and small in the River Lee); you can read that story here. Of course, the Dissolution of the Monasteries did them in, and the monastery is long gone, although the name remains. Now the Sisters of Mercy have a convent on the site.
We were headed to the Café Paradiso and arrived at three o’clock in the afternoon; the place was packed. “Do you have a reservation?” we were asked. Ummm, no. (Check the online review sites: Reservations essential they say. I imagine this is absolutely true for the evening hours.) Fortunately a spot was found for us and we would soon understand why it was so busy: the food is astonishingly good (even for a committed meat-eater like myself). I mean, it was so good, I wanted to lick the plates.
We truly had no idea that it’s famous, for heaven’s sake, but it is. Like, celebrity-famous. It’s a chef-owned restaurant, has garnered many awards, and thus has spawned four best-selling cookbooks. I am kicking myself, now, for not purchasing one; they were all available there in the restaurant.
Café Paradiso opened in 1993 and it’s still in business, which says a lot about the food, I think. And for a place that’s been open this long, it has a young, hip vibe; the ambience is fantastic. Tables were set very close together (it’s a small room) and, as we’d discovered elsewhere, service was leisurely (read: long and drawn out, which was fine when we were eating but when we were ready to go I finally approached the desk and asked if we could pay). We spent more than two hours there.
There was one thing we both really loved though: we’d entered the restaurant right behind a tall slim man, early forties, whose girlfriend was waiting for him. She leapt up, smiling hugely, they embraced. As it turned out, they were at the table tightly next to us, and they were really, really into each other (like something out of a movie). The rest of us might as well have not been there. It was lovely to see, and, of course, I imagined a million different stories for them. I tried to take a surreptitious photo, but it doesn’t do either of them justice.
We were tired and I still had an edit to work on, so we’d promised ourselves a cab ride back to the B&B. Frankly, neither of us was going to be able to walk back uphill. Still, we thought we’d have to walk closer to the city centre to catch a cab but we stumbled on an old gentleman taxi driver very close to the restaurant. His accent was incredible—oh, you could just swim in it!—and he was quite a conversationalist. The Cork accent is very musical, lilting (Gerry says they don’t talk, they sing).
When we got back to the room, we’d just had time to relax when we heard Jill and Alli come in. They’d also had a late lunch, so none of us wanted to go out for street food. We ended up standing in the little hall talking, comparing their day with ours—and all agreed that Cork had been delightful. I would’ve liked to’ve seen more, but my energy/air level precluded that. Ah, well—I’ll be back!
I’d added Cork City to the itinerary because I had never been there, and since this was my third trip to Ireland, I wanted to see some new things, in addition to revisiting places I’d really loved. But—“What do you want to do in Cork?” Gerry had asked early on.
This question—and the tone of it—later made a little more sense. During our first week—spent entirely in Dublin, with Dubliners (ah, except Maureen; I simply must consult with her about this!)—everyone asked, “What are you going to do during the rest of your stay? Where are you going?” The Irish are lovely that way; they’re interested.
“Two nights in Kilkenny,” I’d say.
“Ah! Luvly.” Big smiles. Kilkenny is relatively close to Dublin. And it’s undeniably cool.
“Two nights in Cork—”
“Oh, Cork”—eyes rolling—“the capital of Ireland.” (Alternately: “Oh yes, the republic of Cork,” again with the rolling of eyes and shaking of the head.)
It’s a thing, apparently. 🙂
And I think I get it. Cork is so very different from Dublin, just a completely different vibe. I felt very comfortable there with the hippies and the street people—because in my head I am still a twenty-five-year-old California girl, you know, even if my current look screams “chubby middle-aged woman”—but Dublin is the capital, full stop. It has everything a capital city should have. It’s more formal, more buttoned-up, and I find it pretty sexy. I’ll go back to Cork, but my heart belongs to Dublin. 🙂
UPDATE: I’ve just been reading something that sheds some light on this: David Monagan’s Ireland Unhinged: Encounters with a wildly changing country. An American who moved his family to Cork (first for a year, then to stay), Monagan has this to say about his adopted city: it’s a “mad, party-loving town—the Irish equivalent of New Orleans.” I see. I’ve been to NOLA. I’ve lived very near it, one miserable winter long ago (long story).
Cork is a New Orleans in more ways than one, a party town awash in festivals for just about everything under the moon. … Now [Cork] was being instructed to make a statement of itself [the European Capital of Culture 2005] in an evening grand finale by the river. The crime was that you needed tickets.
The one thing that Corkonians—like Irish people in general—most despise is being told what to do. At important sporting events they wave American Confederate flags—not from any love of slavery, since numeroud Irish were once sold themselves as slaves by the Vikings—but as icons of the self-styled Rebel County’s defiance against outside forces, including Dublin. In the middle of any avenue they saunter into traffic, sometimes with a baby in a pram. There they pause to take a call on their mobile phones. Payment for almost any building, cleaning, or maintenance job is demanded in cash to that no central authority can track it. The People’s Republic of Cork, they call it.
Oooooh. I get it now.