Whatcha Gonna Do? Making the Best of It …

Day 10 / Thursday, 20 September 2012

I woke up around midnight with extreme congestion and problems breathing; I spent the rest of the night dozing, sitting up, as lying flat made it too difficult to breathe. I was awake every couple hours and knew I would have to see a doctor as soon as possible.

You see, this time last year, when I returned from a trip to California with a cold that became pneumonia, I noticed a pattern: every time I’d been on a plane since 2006 (about a dozen flights), I’d gotten a severe respiratory illness. It started with bronchitis, and these bouts got continually worse. I’d been diagnosed with pneumonia twice already.

The next morning I asked the innkeeper about a walk-in clinic; as it turns out, Kilkenny doesn’t have one. But there was a doctor’s office just a block away; an easy walk, he said. “I’ll call for you.” And while we sat in his cheerful dining room and ate his wonderful breakfast, he called and made me an appointment.

The Fanad House has a very cheerful dining room.

Jill and Alli headed off into town while Margaret and I lingered over a pot of tea until it was time to walk to the doctor’s office. Thank goodness it was downhill; I was in terrible shape. Thank goodness, too, it was just another block to Kilkenny Castle, which sits right across from the city center. I encouraged Margaret to go on down to the castle and take the tour without me (I’d been in 2003), since the doctor’s waiting room was packed (and with sick people! ha!) and I figured I’d be there for awhile. I told her I’d meet her at the Kilkenny Design Centre afterwards.

I have a wonderful guidebook I bought at Kilkenny Castle the first time I visited. It has three drawings that show how the medieval castle evolved from the time it was built in 1195 (the previous castle, a tower house built by Strongbow, was a wooden structure), through the seventeenth century as a Restoration chateau, to the Victorian country house it became in the nineteenth century. This is the aspect preserved in the castle now. Fascinating stuff, really.

The first stone castle was square with towers at each corner; three of these survive today. In 1391 ownership of the castle was transferred to James Butler, third Earl of Ormonde, and the Butlers continued to occupy the castle until 1935. Like the home we saw in Celbridge, Kilkenny Castle has a magnificent long gallery that should not be missed. (A long gallery—in which all the family portraits were hung—is roughly equivalent to our hallway hung with family photos. Only a lot fancier!) Admission to the castle is by tour only, and if you get the chance, I highly recommend it. If you’re the sort of person who is charmed by such things, it is very castle-y. 🙂

As it turns out, Jill and Alli did get a chance to see the castle grounds, so you can see this spectacular building even though I didn’t this time.

Gorgeous, isn't it? In the days when it truly was a castle, there was a fourth wall, although it's long gone now.

Gorgeous, isn’t it? In the days when it truly was a castle, there was a fourth wall, although it’s long gone now. (Jill’s photo.)

It took a lot of dough to update this puppy. Look at all those windows! That's Alli in the lower right.

It took a lot of dough to update this puppy. Look at all those windows! That’s Alli in the lower right.  (Jill’s photo.)

She’s admiring this garden.

She’s admiring this garden.. (Jill’s photo.)

A grey old castle on a grey old day! That’s Jill and this is her photo.

A grey old castle on a grey old day! That’s Jill and this is her photo.

In the meantime, I was at the clinic. The doctor listened to my respiratory history and to my lungs; the right lung, he said, was almost full: “You have pneumonia.” This explained so much: my lack of energy and my shortness of breath. It wasn’t good news, exactly, but at least I now had access to drugs. 🙂 I was prescribed antibiotics and low-dose steroids.

I figured Margaret was still on the tour (as it turns out, she wasn’t, and we missed each other) so I walked past the castle into town (High Street) to the chemist (every step was like I was dragging a boat anchor) to fill the prescription. Then I needed to take the pills with food, so I made my way back toward the castle, where I’d seen a little farmers’ market arrayed along the outer wall.

The chemist’s is about half a block behind me here on High Street; the castle is straight ahead, and the colorful tents are a little farmers’ market.

This gentleman’s vegetables were as fresh and as beautiful as anything I’ve seen.

I found a stall that was serving sandwiches, and sat down on a bench to catch my breath, eat, and phone Gerry, while I kept my eyes peeled for Margaret. I didn’t see her, but Jill and Alli walked by, with groceries, to have a picnic on the castle grounds.

After a while, I crossed the street to the Design Centre, which is absolutely one of my favorite places to shop. (It occupies the buildings that were once the stables of Kilkenny Castle.) I spent two hours there, working my way through the various shops … very slowly. Every ten minutes or so I went out and sat in the courtyard to rest.

The courtyard at the Kilkenny Design Centre.

Eventually I concluded I must have missed Margaret, and began to walk back up the hill toward our B&B. It took awhile. You no doubt would have walked it in five minutes without any problem; it’s not that steep and not that far. But it took me about twenty minutes. One interesting sight I passed along the way was St. James’s Asylum.

Kind of a scary thought—an asylum! But then it’s not what you think.

But it wasn’t for the insane, this asylum. No, it was an almshouse—for the poor. The building was constructed in 1805, endowed by James Switsir. It’s been refurbished and converted to what looked like condos.

See? Condos! Much cheerier! St. James’s Asylum, Kilkenny.

Finally I made it all the way back and found Margaret. While she read, I took a nice nap to recover from my (ahem) big day. At 6:30 we went out for dinner—I called a cab to take us the short distance because I didn’t have the energy to walk it; “Don’t laugh,” I said to the dispatcher—to the café at the Design Centre. Actually, after hours the café becomes the “Evening Restaurant,” and it’s a posh/modern oasis in this very old building. We caught their early bird special too.

The food was spectacular. Everything is cooked on site and sourced from local suppliers. I had vegetable soup, beef and Guinness stew (and, as the menu states, “each table will be served a bowl of seasonal vegetables”), and apple tart.

Beef and Guinness stew at the Kilkenny Design Centre Evening Restaurant.

Ooops! Forgot to take a picture first! At least I had an appetite. Apple tart in the French style.

The same taxi returned to get us and carry us “home” and to bed. Whew. It wasn’t the best day I’ve ever had in Ireland, but what can you do? Keep putting one foot in front of the other, that’s what. Slowly.

Today’s Impression

Irish table service is extremely slow. I don’t want my meal to be rushed but I don’t necessarily want to take three hours to eat a three-course meal and I really don’t want to wait thirty minutes for a check, which happened here and several other places on our trip. Margaret and I finally concluded that as Yanks we must not be giving the right signals to the server. Perhaps we have to specifically ask for the check? In the States, the server will bring the check and just leave it. No one interprets this as a subtle suggestion to move on, but I wonder if that’s what’s at play here. We never asked for the tab; we expected it to arrive.

It All Started as a Little Cough …

Day 9 / Wednesday, 19 September 2012 (part 2)

Now … where were we? Oh yes—at Castletown House in Celbridge, just outside Dublin. Our destination was Kilkenny, where we would spend two nights. This would be my third visit, although in previous years I’d approached the town from Dublin via Glendalough (GLEN-da-lock)—a completely different route. It was fun to see some different countryside—and to get on the N7, a good-sized highway.

This is what the countryside looked like. (Margaret took this from the car.)

As we were tootling though Sallins, my passengers noticed a photo op, so we stopped and jumped out to take photos. As it turns out, this was a branch of Dublin’s Grand Canal, which connects the City of Dublin in the east with the River Shannon in the west. The first leg of the canal originated in Sallins; work started here in 1757. Cargo traffic on the canal ceased in 1960, and it fell into disuse until 1986, when control of the canal passed to the Office of Public Works. It’s been cleaned up now, and pleasure boat traffic has increased—certainly the case in Sallins.

The Grand Canal at Sallins: small boats and houseboats!

Here’s a zoom look. Lots of boats!

This was right on the N7, so we had to park and walk back. The most immediately available parking was a lot at Odlums, which, as you will see, produces McCann’s Steel Cut Irish Oatmeal. (This brand isn’t sold in Ireland—and isn’t featured on the Odlums website—so when Gerry saw it in my pantry long ago, he doubted it was truly Irish.)

See, honey? McCann’s Steel Cut Irish Oatmeal is, well, Irish. 🙂

Margaret had been suffering with her United Airlines-provided head cold for some days. Now I started to cough too. Oh boy! I don’t like to suffer with cold symptoms, though, so at the next opportunity—and that was Abbeyleix (Abbey-LEESH)—we stopped so I could run into a chemist’s (that is, a pharmacy) to buy some paracetamol (that is, acetaminophen). At one point, we had to turn around (a not uncommon occurrence), and discovered this:

Abbeyleix Church of Ireland. It’s lovely.

This would become a habit, this jumping out of the car to take a photo of something beautiful or interesting or beautiful and interesting, as was the case here. It’s the Abbeyleix Church of Ireland. Sources give two different dates for construction (1825, 1831), but both agree it was restored to its current state in 1865.

By this time it was mid-afternoon and we were anxious to get to Kilkenny, unload, and relax. Our B&B, we knew, was just a block or two away from Kilkenny Castle (on Castle Road, of course). We drove all through the town, a little lost … but it’s impossible to lose a castle, you know?

The main street in Kilkenny. (Margaret took this one.)

At last! Kilkenny Castle, sitting on the River Nore. Now … how to get to it? (Margaret took this one too.)

Our B&B, the Fanad House, was very nice, and I highly recommend it. If you’re not sick, it’s an easy five-minute walk into town. 🙂 But that wasn’t the case, so Margaret took a nap while Jill and Alli walked into town. I opened my computer and worked. Driving’s hard work! (It’s just as well we stayed in, because I was truly getting sick; I just didn’t know it yet. In hindsight, of course, I’d been getting sick for a couple days.)

The Fanad House, Kilkenny, Ireland. I’ll stay there again, please God.

Our host, Pat Wallace, had recommended a restaurant, Kyteler’s Inn (fortuitously near a parking lot), so we met up with Jill and Alli there later that evening. We were particularly excited that they offered traditional music that started at 6:30 in the evening. That should have been a tip-off to me: most pubs won’t get started with music—traditional or otherwise—until after nine o’clock. But I was tired, getting sick, and not on top of my game.

Kyteler’s Inn—good enough!

It turns out that Kyteler’s (pronounce this KITT-ler’s) was mostly populated by Yanks, and the music, while good enough, was clearly aimed at the tourist trade. We also had to listen to some patter about the ghostly history of the pub (it was established in 1324), which led to an epic poem (about same). But here’s the thing: the food was very good. I’d eat there again. And this was the last time we’d eat in an overtly touristy pub during the trip.

So we had a hearty meal, listened to some music, and found our way back to the Fanad House … and bed. By now I was really, really sick.

 Today’s Image

Ireland has a candy culture that has no equal in the United States. Go into any convenience or grocery store, and you’ll find a huge rack of every possible permutation of candy—most of it chocolate (um, hellooooo, Cadbury Crunchies). Resistance is futile.

I’m not kidding. 🙂 (Margaret’s photo.)

It’s Cold in February in Rural Ireland

I’d had big plans—on this second, post-Paris Irish adventure—to roam the countryside, looking for brown signs (brown signs denote sites of interest, whether historic or prehistoric), but the short days, coupled with my reduced energy after my bronchitis, had put a stop to that idea. We confined our sightseeing to city museums—and the sights we could see in the shops!

We were reduced to telling our landlord when we wanted to have the heat turned on, and paying one euro per hour for it, which meant it would go off at ten p.m. when we retired for the evening, and didn’t come on again until seven a.m.—which meant we got up into a very cold house. It’s not a system I liked, frankly—although some argue that the cold wakes you up, etc etc ad nauseam—but all it did for me was make me feel exhausted from shivering before I’d even started the day.

It couldn’t be helped though. Generally I’d enjoyed this “winter vacation”—my tolerance level for crowds is low, so coming to Europe in the winter was a plus for me—but I’ve also learned from it, particularly learned how to stay warm (important for this Southern gal)!

This day we planned to drive into the town of Kilkenny (as opposed to County Kilkenny). On my visit in 2003, Kilkenny was our first stop outside Dublin, and I remembered it as a friendly, inviting city, and wanted to see more; in the last decade or so the entire county has become somewhat of a haven for artists and craftspeople (in fact, Kilkenny hosts the Republic’s largest and most famous arts festival—Kilkenny Arts Festival—every August), and the area has that modern yet laid-back feel to it that this type of folks tend to bring with them. I’d been looking forward to doing some shopping for Irish goods, and Kilkenny was just the place to do it!

On the way (it was about a thirty-minute drive), we took a short detour through Bennettsbridge, about four miles outside Kilkenny. Established in the fourteenth century with the building of a bridge to span the River Nore (hence the name), Bennettsbridge is still just a tiny village; in fact, that bridge is its signature historic attraction. But it is also home to about five well-known artisans, including Chesneau Leather Works and Nicholas Mosse Pottery. I’d read about the latter when researching the trip last fall, and realized that, on my 2003 trip, I’d bought a piece of Nicholas Mosse pottery—a small mug. Many of you know I have quite a collection of souvenir mugs, and that lovely little mug had come to represent Ireland in my collection … so I was pleased to see that we’d be so close to the actual potter, and could visit his showroom.

The Web site tells us that, after training in England and Japan, Nicholas Mosse established his pottery in 1976, with the aim of producing goods in the Irish Spongeware style, a humble way of decorating objects produced for everyday use that was popular in the eighteenth century. You can google spongeware and see all sorts of antiques … but the Nicholas Mosse stuff is much, much prettier! (His own web site really doesn’t do it justice either.)

Anyway, it’s become very popular, and even in the dead of winter, NM Pottery was pretty busy, particularly with two or three groups of English women who’d driven over for the day, apparently specifically to shop there (Bennettsbridge is only about an hour and a half drive from Rosslare Harbor, which is one of two ferry crossing points on the east coast of the Republic, the other being Dublin—a nice day trip for these English ladies). We purchased items in both the showroom and the adjacent seconds warehouse; I even bought wedding gifts and Christmas gifts (more forward planning!) and had them shipped home to Murfreesboro.

From Bennettsbridge we drove on into Kilkenny and found a centrally located car park, then got out and walked. It was bitter cold!

Kilkenny has a very long history: in the second century it was the capital city of the Gaelic kingdom of Ossory, though by the sixth century a Christian church—St. Canice’s—had been established. It’s from this church, in fact, that the town draws its name: Kilkenny is cill cannig in Irish (and “cill”—pronounced with a hard C—means church).

It was after the twelfth-century Anglo-Norman invasion, though, that the town really came into its own as a thriving medieval city, run by this English-French cabal. The narrow streets and alleyways are signs of what the town must have looked like in its heyday in the Middle Ages. Of course, this heyday wasn’t kind to the locals: Kilkenny was the site of many “Irish” parliaments during the 1300s, most notably the one in 1366 that declared marriage between a Norman and an Irishwoman an act of high treason. Additionally, Irishmen were forbidden to reside within a walled town—thus leaving them and their families and meager possessions vulnerable to marauders—and, to add insult to injury, penalties were exacted against any Anglo-Norman who took up Irish language, customs, or dress!

Kilkenny was dominated by one family—the Butlers, of Anglo-Norman heritage—for over 500 years from the time they came to power—and to possession of the Norman fortress that sits on the River Nore—in the 1390s. That fortress is now known as Kilkenny Castle (Gerry and I toured it in 2003); the Butlers actually lived in the building until 1935!

So, as I’ve said, the Irish were discriminated against during Kilkenny’s medieval history. Forbidden to live within the city walls, they decamped to the area around their church, then—St. Canice’s cathedral. To this day, this area of town is known as Irishtown, from that time of cruel segregation. And that’s where we went.

St. Canice’s Cathedral, 2006. It has an intact round tower. Look how irregular the stones are.

The other side of those windows. 🙂

“St. Canice,” the guidebook told us, “was a great friend of St. Columba,” who you’ll remember from my earlier travelogue as Colmcille, the saint of the stolen book. “The story is told that once Colmcille was caught in a storm at sea. His fellow monks cried out for him to pray for them, but Colmcille calmly replied that he would leave the praying to Canice in distant Aghaboe [the original location, not far from Kilkenny, of this church]. His friend meanwhile leapt up so suddenly from his meal that his shoe came off as he rushed to the church to pray for his imperiled friend. The storm immediately passed, and Colmcille told his green-faced companions ‘the Lord has listened to Canice’s prayer and his race to the church with one shoe has saved us’.” A lovely story!

The altar at St. Canice’s Cathedral, 2006.

The staff at the cathedral kindly let us in when they heard us talking outside, even though they were officially at lunch. I’ve noted that the church was established in this spot in the sixth century; the building we visited on this chilly day, however, wasn’t actually built until the 1200s. If you’ve been noticing a trend in all this history, most of the magnificent old stone church buildings that survive in Ireland date from the 1100 to 1300 period; they generally replaced wooden structures that had been there much longer. Many of them “died,” of course, when England’s Henry VIII got rid of all the Catholic churches during the mid-1500s (he also got rid of a wife as a result of getting rid of Catholicism, which was why he did it, naturally), although some of them found new life in the “new” denomination, the Church of England (known as Church of Ireland here, of course).

St. Canice’s Cathedral, as seen from southwest, by Andreas F. Borchert, as seen on Wikipedia.

The style of the building is Early English Gothic; it is the second longest cathedral in Ireland. Built out of the distinctive local black limestone (many buildings in Kilkenny are) known as “Kilkenny marble,” the interior, with an array of arches, is simple but has a quiet grandeur. The cathedral also boasts some of the finest sixteenth-century tombs in Ireland, including some splendid effigies of the Butler family (and, in one case, a Butler family dog), but in fact the memorials cross the social spectrum from these Earls of Ormonde (the Butler family title) to the humble shoemaker and carpenter.

The tombs of Piers Butler, the Eighth Earl of Ormonde (d. 1539), and his wife. Note the dog at his feet.

Other memorials; the one in the middle dates from 1623 and looks to be in Latin.

Another Butler tomb with fantastic symbology; this one died 1571.

Outside there is a round tower dating from 847. (Remember, round towers were built by the early Christian monks, and seem to be unique to Ireland. They functioned as storage for crops, as a lookout tower—the Vikings considered Ireland their personal treasure trove—and as a place to escape to when the Norsemen showed up; you accessed the tower via a door well off the ground level, and pulled the ladder up after yourself.) I declined the pleasure of climbing this tower, although I’m told the view is very nice, especially since the cathedral sits on a hill.

After that we walked down the high street, stopping at various shopping centers and stores, eventually ending up at the Kilkenny Design Centre, a place where I’d done a little bit of shopping in 2003, and at which I intended to shop again. Known all over the country, the Design Centre is housed in what used to be the stables belonging to Kilkenny Castle, which is across the street. It serves as the working studio for many artisans, and has a really lovely shop out front. Later we walked back to the car to dump our shopping bags, and had a late lunch at the pub I mentioned in the last episode—the Pump House. A little more shopping (a bookstore/card shop and a grocery store) and we headed for home, where the heat had been on for about an hour and thus was warming up.

Old Glendalough

Saturday, 13 September 2003
Dublin, Co. Dublin – Kilkenny, Co. Kilkenny

Today the big adventure starts—and no, I don’t mean the actual trip. Anyone who’s driven with me knows I can get turned around (read: lost) easier than just about anyone on the face of the planet, so the question facing us today is this: can one fresh-off-the-plane tourist and one nondriver find their way to anywhere once they leave Dublin?

The answer, dear readers, is a resounding “usually.” I got better at sign reading as I went along, and I got really good at making U-turns in tight places. Gerry learned to feed me enough information to keep me headed in the right direction; too much and I’d forget some of it, too little and I’d miss the next turn. And I made my peace with those roundabouts.

But all that came later.

This morning we were headed south out of Dublin, to Glendalough (pronounced: GLENda-lock), through the Wicklow Mountains. A Colorado native might scoff at the notion of calling the Wicklow range mountains, but the term is correct. These are much older mountains than the Rockies, softer, more rounded. When I drove Gerry across the Cumberland Plateau to Cookeville last summer, he said that Tennessee looks a lot like Ireland, and he was right: on the drive in County Wicklow that morning, I saw green fields neatly but irregularly bisected by trees, hedgerows or stone fences … I traveled roads that dipped down into shady glens and then emerged a moment later atop a ridge, leaving me blinking in the sunlight.

Nothing can prepare one for the tiny-ness of the roads, though. I quickly mastered shifting with my left hand (for most of the trip my hand just rested there, on the stick, as I was constantly downshifting—indeed, I rarely got above third gear—to deal with the tight curves), and became accustomed to driving on the left, but to be passed on a road just nominally wide enough for two when I was doing 50mph was downright unnerving!

Nevertheless, we made good time, and only got lost once, Gerry’s navigating being instinctive but generally unerring. You’ve no doubt seen photos of Irish road signs: those picturesque poles of perhaps a dozen small signs of various colors (and in both English and Gaelic), stacked atop one another and pointing in all directions—the sign literally points in the direction one needs to go in order to arrive at the destination inscribed on it. This sometimes means one would need to look at the group of signs from several angles before one could see them all, and even then the route might still be open to interpretation, necessitating a discussion with one’s traveling companion. It was not uncommon to arrive at a crossroads to find some fellow traveler idling there, studying the signs with all the intensity of a teenager reading the menu at McDonald’s.

All this became easier, of course, as we went along. I got better at reading signs on the fly, and knowing what I was looking for (signs for towns are black-writing-on-white background, although they are in the middle of changing those to white-on-green; signs for historic sites and other roadside attractions are white-on-brown). All distances are given in kilometers, so this trip was a chance to improve my math skills too.

Jamie’s Fourth Travel Tip: buy a really good road atlas, and get it locally. Gerry had purchased a book containing the entire country’s road maps, reduced to 60 or so quadrants. It had the national roads, the regional roads, and even the unnamed roads—and we could literally tell what curve of what road we were on at any given time. It proved invaluable.

Glendalough—in English, the Valley of the Two Lakes—is a place of incredible beauty and tranquility. (It could also be called the Valley of the Two Hundred Tour Buses, but that’s another story.) Founded by St. Kevin—born in 498, Kevin was a descendant of the royal house of Leinster, the province in which Glendalough is located; he rejected his life of privilege, however, choosing instead to live as a hermit in a cave here, and later founded a monastery on the site—in the sixth century, the settlement was sacked repeatedly by the Vikings, yet it flourished for over six hundred years. The age of the buildings still extant is uncertain, but most date from the eighth to twelfth centuries.

The grounds at Glendalough are a riot of headstones.

The grounds at Glendalough are a riot of headstones.

Jamie’s Fifth Travel Tip: The Heritage Service of Ireland operates most (though not all) of the major tourist attractions in the country, and almost all of them require admissions fees. They’re not expensive (the ones we visited ranged from 2.50 euro to 7.50 euro per person, with the majority falling in between), but if you visit several, the fees can add up. However, at any Tourist Centre you can purchase a family pass for €50, which allows two adults and “a reasonable number of children” access to over eighty sites for twelve months. In Dublin alone you could recoup the cost of your investment.

Speaking of Vikings, the round tower at Glendalough is one of the finest of its kind in the country. Landmarks for approaching visitors, round towers were, of course, bell-towers, but were also places of refuge during an attack: the door was always on the second storey, entered by a rope ladder which could be pulled up after the last monk was safely inside. The round tower at Glendalough—unlike others we would see around the country—is still all in one piece (the conical roof was rebuilt in 1876 using the original stones) at 110 feet high!

The round tower at Glendalough, 2003.

The round tower at Glendalough, 2003.

I found the Gateway at Glendalough to be enormously moving (it’s now the only one of its kind in Ireland). You’ll recall from your history lessons that fugitives could claim sanctuary in holy places—and just inside the first of two fine granite arches, in the west wall, is a simple, cross-inscribed stone. This denoted that the rule of sanctuary began here, the boundary of the area of refuge. Very little remains of the enclosure wall, but this gateway stands firm: peace to all who enter here. (This is a lovely image of it.)

There’s an absolute riot of gravestones, high crosses, and old stone churches at Glendalough; to take it all in one would need to spend hours. There are some lovely hiking trails along the river up to the lakes, and it was here I received my first introduction to what’s called a kissing gate. (I just report these things, folks.) Essentially a hinged gate with the swinging edge enclosed by a curved fence that it cannot be free of, it only allows one person at a time to pass through … so there was quite a line on both sides!

(The gate is gone now. The place has been all cleaned up, cleared … a little too much concrete for me, honestly. But things change, I understand that. Here are a couple photos taken in 1973—thirty years before I arrived—and you may notice some differences.)

St. Kevin’s Kitchen, 1973. That rock wall is gone, for one thing.

St. Kevin’s Kitchen, 1973. That rock wall is gone, for one thing.

The cathedral at Glendalough, 1973. I have to tell you I don’t believe in standing on gravestones.

The cathedral at Glendalough, 1973. I have to tell you I don’t believe in standing on gravestones.

It wasn’t until later that I realized the value of such a gate: with so many historic sites sitting in the middle of private farmland, a farmer wants to allow tourists access to the land without having his gates open and shut (or not shut, allowing his livestock roaming privileges) by strangers. Thus the kissing gate, which is, in theory, too complicated for most livestock (tho’ there is one sheep in County Donegal that might well have learned to negotiate one … a story I’ll tell later).

Rather than take the hike, we drove up the valley to see the lakes, and this is where I really began to feel the spirit of Glendalough. In fact, this is where St. Kevin spent most of his time, and I can see why. There was a slight breeze rustling the trees, mist at the top of the hills, and utter quiet. It was magic.

Approaching the upper lake at Glendalough, 2003.

Approaching the upper lake at Glendalough, 2003.

We had the place to ourselves, just us and the breeze and the ducks. It was beautiful.

We had the place to ourselves, just us and the breeze and the ducks. It was beautiful.

The lower lake—closer to the monastic settlement—is smaller.

The lower lake—closer to the monastic settlement—is smaller.

From Glendalough, then, we made for Kilkenny, which was to be our stop for the night. Sitting in my living room at home, I’d looked at the map and calculated distances for weeks, marvelling at how close everything was (it’s perhaps fifty miles from Glendalough to Kilkenny)—but this simply doesn’t take into account the fact that these are country roads, with hills and hairpin curves and the odd tractor or two. It was quite an adjustment for me, but I did slow down and enjoy the countryside as we passed through it.

Somewhere between Glendalough and Kilkenny, 2003. I could look at these scenes all day.

Somewhere between Glendalough and Kilkenny, 2003. I could look at these scenes all day.

Kilkenny is (as they say there) a grand little town (it’s actually a city, I think). It rose to prominence in the thirteenth century, when the Irish Parliament often met at Kilkenny Castle (more about which in a moment). The Anglo-Norman Butler family came to power in the 1390s and held sway over the city for five hundred years (they had ties to British royalty); their legacy is still visible in the city’s historic buildings. On this day, everywhere one looked there were black and yellow flags fluttering, black and yellow shirts and scarves, Kilkenny’s colors, because the county team was one of the two finalists in the All-Ireland Hurling Championships, to be played the very next day, Sunday. County teams are formed using members of local clubs, and these all-star county teams compete against each other to play in the Championships. The sense of anticipation and excitement was just like Nashville when the Titans have a home game—they even attach those silly flags to their cars, just like Nashvillians!

See also those black and yellow signs? Yeah.

See also those black and yellow flags? Yeah.

We drove around a bit looking for our B&B—O’Malley’s Ormonde Court Guest House—which was situated right in the center of town. (Gerry likes to just “see if we can find it”; I like directions. Ha.) We arrived in the early afternoon, so we struck out for a walk and ended up at Kilkenny Castle, originally built in 1172 by the Norman conqueror known as Strongbow. The official guidebook says that the castle “has been standing for over 800 years … It was originally built as the symbol and reality of Norman control in this area, and has continued throughout many different periods of Irish history to symbolize the fortunes of one of the most powerful Irish families, the Butlers of Ormonde.”

Note that the book refers to them as Irish, although they were actually, as previously mentioned, an Anglo-Norman family who came to Ireland in the first wave of the Norman invasion in 1171. Over the next two hundred years, though, the Normans intermarried and integrated with the native Irish, becoming “more Irish than the Irish themselves,” although the Butlers, politically astute, remained loyal to the British crown first and Ireland second. Having read quite a bit of history, and having come to the conclusion that the Brits have generally behaved very badly in their relations with the Irish, I’d pretty much eliminated anything having to do with them from my must-see list … but upon reflection, I’ve realized that history is what it is. The Brits—and the Butlers—played their part in Ireland.

So in we went.

A guided tour will never be my first choice of ways to visit a historic site … but sometimes it’s the only choice, and that is the case at Kilkenny Castle. The Butlers lived in it right up until 1935, but due to its exorbitant upkeep they eventually donated it to the nation in 1967. Now it’s been restored to its Victorian splendor (when it was extensively renovated prior to a visit from Queen Victoria), and I must say it is beautiful. My favorite spot was the Long Gallery, which was rebuilt in the 1820s to house the Butler art collection. It has an elaborately painted ceiling, filled with motifs inspired by the Book of Kells, but which also pays homage to another part of Irish history, as it is constructed to look like a Viking ship (turned upside down). It really was quite amazing; have a look at it here, which is what it looked like when we visited. (The official website, which touts the Long Gallery as a place to hold events, shows that the walls have been repainted, but it has several photos of the art on the ceiling beams here.)

The grounds are beautiful too. Kilkenny Castle, 2003.

The grounds are beautiful too. Kilkenny Castle, 2003.

After the castle, we mooched around town shopping (the Kilkenny Design Centre was quite nice) and ate dinner in the bar of the Metropole Hotel, right on High Street (Kilkenny’s main thoroughfare). On a Saturday night, there was plenty going on in town, and the streets were crowded with merrymakers. Later that night (it being unseasonably warm, windows were open in every place we stayed) I heard more than one tipsy conversation float up from the street. 🙂

Goodnight!