THE DINGLE PENINSULA

DI NGLE
February 6,7,8

We left for Dingle on February 6th. We missed our connection in Cork which caused us to miss our connection on Tralee which resulted in a 2 hour layover in Tralee. A situation which, on first glance, we were not happy about. However, for the brief time we spent there, we both felt that Tralee was charming. The bus company, over come by guilt, stored our luggage while we strolled through town on a cloudy, dry afternoon.

We visited a beautiful church, St. John’s, old and ornate with the highest spire in Ireland. In the center of the town there is a large park filled with over 1000 rose bushes of different varieties.


















In August, there is the Rose of Tralee beauty pageant. Participants have to be of Irish decent and, in the past, an American has won. The locals say they try to stay clear of A marble holy water fonttown for those 3 days due to women .…women…



This winner is from Boston, both parents from Ireland and her grandmother a store owner on the Aran Islands


We had lunch at the Imperial Hotel (recommended by the Tourist Office) and Ann said it was the best roast lamb plate she’s ever had (she’s repeated that statement but in other restaurants). The dinner menus all come with the same sides: Puréed turnip & carrots, mashed and roasted potatoes and cabbage. Turnips are growing on us.

The road to Dingle is spectacular with mountains on both sides of Dingle Bay. The sun has come out as we arrive in town and our hotel. Gerard gets a break as the bellman some how manages to get our luggage up to the 4th floor and repeatedly refuses a tip – turns out he is the assistant manager.


We hook up with Denis Ryan, our guide for the peninsula: 55 years old, blue eyes, dishelved long hair with an easily understandable brogue. He’s a musician with love for Sean-Nos – traditional Irish songs sung a cappella. He’s jammed with Macy Grey’s band in Dublin and decided to do tours and share his knowledge of this untouched area for work and save his music for enjoyment.



Ann can' t believe she took this road

The other picture is how it looked from our vantage point

Two movies were filmed on the Dingle Peninsula: Ryan’s Daughter and Far and Away. Ryan’s Daughter, around the 60s, was a boon for the local residents. It took 3 years to film. The cast and crew fit in well with the locals as there were no hotels and they stayed in local homes – the beginning of the B & B movement we were told. If you owned a home here at that time, you would be “wealthy” now. On the other hand, the locals do not have fond memories for the cast (Tom Cruise & Kidman) and crew of “Far and Away” Dennis says, “….the further the better”. Apparently, Cruise was especially inflicted with jerkitis, throwing a party where he and his guests trashed the rented house and subsequently were evicted….Dennis added that this info was suppressed. The cast and crew were in and out of the area in a couple weeks with no monetary benefit to the locals…the new Hollywood.

Around 7 PM we went across the street to a pub with an Irish (Gallic) name. We met a young (25) bartendress who recently got married to another bartender there. She was from Olympia, Washington. – her husband was Irish. They’re having a destination wedding in an old abbey church in Dingle and her family and friends are coming from the States. In October she’s moving back to Washington because they cannot afford to live in Dingle “A comparable 500K Euro home ($650K American) would cost $350,000 in Washington”. It leads me to believe that we may have cheap land in California. Dublin, and all of the rest of Ireland, London, Paris – all very expensive land. I’m no economist though and the doom sayers say otherwise.

We met Bill at 8:30 PM and took a cab to hear Denis’ event. We arrived before showtime and went next door. Ann had lamb stew before showtime and once and for all proclaimed this “the best lamb stew in Ireland”. We shared the one bowl and it was great....accompanied by Guinness and brown bread. I was surprised at how soupy it was but Ann assured me that this was the real thing.

We returned to the bar next door. We met Pat Lawless, an 80 year old, neatly dressed man with a trimmed beard, ready smile and engaging personality. He now lives in Limerick but came to Ballyferriter for a funeral. He was with his sons. He reminded Ann of Uncle Art. In 1963 or so, he taught himself how to sail. A year or so after, he told his wife he was going on a trip and then solo sailed to Newport , Rhode Island in 58 days in a 25.9 foot fiberglass boat. He was now divorced – he gave his wife everything but stated, “I have everything I need” Here are excerpts from articles on him:

"The Limerick sailor Pat Lawless, who was attempting to circumnavigate the world single-handled, spoke briefly about his experience during which he had to abandon his trip. He suffered rudder damage to his boat (i.e. almost impossible to steer the boat) during the storm which the Whitbread race encountered on the first few days of the event. He signaled a passing Nigerian owned boat for help and is now safe in Cape town. He hopes to return to Ireland shortly.
What is unique about Pat is that less than five years ago he couldn't sail, yet had the ambition to sail the Atlantic alone. He learned to navigate, bought a boat, sailed it up and down the Shannon a few times, and then off to America. He duly arrived safe and sound, much to the relief of his family, and the city in general (who thought he was certifiable). As far as I can remember, upon his arrival he found that he couldn't get the boat transported home and he couldn't sell it there, so he turned the boat around to complete the return leg."

And at an environmental meeting in Ireland:

"Pat Lawless, the Limerick man [349] who sailed from Limerick to the United States, recalled at an environmental conference in Clare over the weekend, the sea of plastic on which he was floating as he fought his lone battle across the major trade routes of the Atlantic. "

He also commented to Ann that “the worse storm was the tail end of a hurricane.” Ann thought about some of her crossings to Catalina and was in awe. We told him we would forward this on to his son so he could read about himself….hi Pat!

The show started in another room. The lights were turned off, candles dimly illuminating the room. An “emcee” of sorts started talking in Irish (Gallic) and then a 75 year old man with a red baseball cap began singing. It was beautiful and haunting. Others followed. The style is called Sean Nos. Everyone was silent except the singer – many with their heads bowed…occasionally someone would join in on the last few lines of the song. It was like being on the plains in the early 1800s with Guinness replacing peace pipe fodder. Ann said listening to the music reminded her of American Indian chanting. A student, Katie, who was studying with the group from Sacred Heart College, then chimed in with an old Irish song in English. Her voice was soulful and the expressions on her face sucked you in deeper. It was a mystical experience, out on a unspoiled peninsula nearest to America.

Denis sang 2 songs…both comedic. “Dublin songs with suspense, intrigue and murder.” Very entertaining.

I took a break and went to the bar. I met David, a 55ish gray bearded, overweight local reading a book while devouring pints of Guinness. He asked about our trip, I mentioned Yeats…he disparaged him. We exchange some barbs. I order 2 glasses of Harp and as I’m leaving, he says, “is the beer for your daughters.” Well, I should have said….

I returned to the tepee and its mystical aura until the show ended. We hugged Denis. Denis later told me that “Bill” went to the Irish funeral in town…”it’s tough arranging those events.”

Seaweed bath...idea for all that kelp in Cardiff?

A little grotto outside a basilica in Dingle....

a beautiful "wool" store in Dingle where Ann dropped some euros.

Our Last Stop in Ireland...Galway

GALWAY
February 11,12,13,14,15,16,17

This is our last major town in our 5 ½ week tour of Ireland. We are a little sad, but, of course, looking forward to our next adventure: Mainland Europe.

We were scheduled in to a time share for a week. Turns out the Galway Bay Cottages, located in Barna Beach, just outside of town, are a step above camping…I may be a little harsh but I have been spoiled by our hotels. The check in was a whirlwind tour of switches in our cottage: Turn this one on for tub water, that one for sink water, this one for this heater, 3 euros for laundry...culminating in being informed that we were paying for electricity. What we did get was a beautiful view of Galway Bay and the Burren from all rooms in our 3 bedroom home away from home, our first peat fireplace, stunning sunrises AND we got to do our own cooking…we settled in nicely. Since we still chose not to have a car we are elated that we need only to walk down to the street and raise an arm for a passing bus that will take us into Galway town. I might even ride a bus if I could do this at home.

The people in Ireland and England must eat more chips (French fries to us) than all other countries combined. In Galway we were told to head for McDonough’s for the best fish and chips- so we knew we had to make one trip…what we did find was the one place in the world that charges for catsup and tartar sauce. The fish was just ok.

This town has what I love most, pedestrian streets. You turn a corner and people are teeming about: In and out of pubs, stopping in at the bakery, checking out the butcher’s offerings, picking out something special for tea at the elegant dessert store, going to the post office, sitting next to street sculptures of famous sons and daughters, listening to street musicians. The river through this town is a mass of powerful, churning, bubbling water. Apparently there is a lock up stream and it is most often opened. Lots of young people, some coming in from outlying villages to attend high school (college), most attending the university here. This is where my goddaughter , Tara, attended Galway University and met Phelim, her Irish lad. We scheduled day trips to Connemara and the Aran Islands and it feels good to fully unpack.













For Elizabeth : A beautiful wedding cake from the most elegant bakery in Galway: Goyas

For Bo: An outfit next door for the wedding day.








Gerard checking out the book and in out of the mist to check out his sodoku.



Market day....tasting those fresh Galway Bay oysters...

These two guys are in bars and on streets..
















Connemara – The Wild West

Our tour of Connemara was impromptu as the connecting bus for the boat to the Aran Islands forgot to pick us up. We were assured by the captain of the boat that he would pick us up, personally, the next day. We switched gears and hooked onto the Connemara tour. The sun is shinning and it is another “mild” day…. “mild” being the favorite adjective for a nice day here in Ireland.

Our driver, Brian: Short, single (hadn’t found his mate yet), heavy set with a
heavy brogue and affable manner changes us into a larger bus and we are off. He repeats everything a minimum of three times: “Today we’re going to Connemara, yes, Connemara, yes, that’s where we’re going today…beautiful Connemara.”



Besides beautiful, unspoiled countryside with no cranes and construction, the highlight was Kylemore Abbey. The castle like structure is now a Benedictine Convent and school for girls….looking a lot like The Academy of Our Lady of Peace where I did some time! It is breathtaking beautiful, set on its own personal lake. This is a neogothic structure, with, why not, their own personal adjoining church.


















It was originally built in the late 19th century by a wealthy man for his wife. We are again reminded that in the high season there are a minimum of 40 bus loads of people here at a time as opposed to our one bus of 13 people…we count our blessings.

The tour continues to Clifden, where we, unfortunately ,were unable to spend an extended period of time This town comes highly recommended by seasoned Ireland travelers, hi Matt.

Brian is encouraging singers to come forward with the promise of a bottle of Jameson as the lure….I bite…it is Valentines Day and this would go well with my Valentine cookie I purchased at the bakery yesterday. I dedicate my medley of Irish tunes (taught to me by the nuns) to Gerard… my Valentine…. We continue through the countryside as I sing, “Jaunting Down to Kerry”, “Toora Loora Loora” and “That’s How You Spell Ireland”….home to Barna. Joke’s on me…Brian says there is no Jameson, “No, no Jameson….. there’s no Jameson today….no, no Jameson for the singer.”

Aran Islands

Tom Farhety, our captain, shows up on time and we drive down to the port at Rossaveal where we embark for the islands on another clear and crisp day. From this port it is only 9 miles to our destination and the ride is smooth on Tom’s year old French 100 ft ferry boat. Enroute we stop at a “plot” (15 acres on the bay with view of all) of land his family is developing with a hotel in the process of being built….Tom tells us about his offices in town with two more at the port, he also lets us know that his bus will return us home that evening. Turns out Tom has many fires going….all this and while we will be touring the island, he will be farming his land on the island where he also has a B & B. Busy Tom, and such a nice, unassuming guy.

Upon our arrival on Inishmor (1 of 3 Aran Islands) we meet our eventual tour director, Peter McDonough. He was standing next to his mini bus slightly waving a pamphlet to attract people to his tour…four of us sign up. He says that in the high season 2500 people a day make this trip and the narrow Irish roads are filled with tour buses. Turns out Peter is more like a driver than a tour conductor. When he does speak his brogue is so thick and fast it is incomprehensible. Often times he forgets to put the microphone on…but the van is small and we all listen up.



We drop a boogie boarder, Brian from Clare, off at “Seven Churches” and continue on to the highlight of the day, Dun Aengus.



(the last protestant church , went to ruin 200 years ago)

We get side tracked from our climb to Dun Aengus by the couple of hand made sweater shops. Here is a place where people still knit…they even have particular patterns which depict events in your life. An often recounted story is one where a woman identified her brother as being one of the lost fishermen by the socks she had knitted him…she had dropped a stitch and made three slash marks in a knitting stitch to signify that this was only the third pair of socks she had made. It has inspired me to be more creative in my knitting and I examine a hat and make note of the pattern.

It was about a one mile hike up to this fort which is believed to have been built before Christ. What can we say…this place blows our minds. Pictures tell the story. …note how near the edge Gerard and I are…the drop is 250 feet and there are no guard rails. Have I overcome my fear of heights? The last person to fall off was about 7 years ago.








We hustle down the rocky path and hook back up with our tour guide and are deposited at the American Pub where we enjoy our chat with a couple of locals discussing Peter the Great, the advent of electricity on the island in 1975 and, of course, JFK who visited Galway a couple months before his death. Since the ferry is due to leave the islands at 5:00 PM we hurriedly finished our pub drinks and said goodbye to our island buddies, Padraig and Thomas.


The sun is setting as we head back to the mainland on the ferry. Another perfect day.

CASHEL OF THE KINGS

CASHEL
County Tipperary
January 30, 31


“The wind that blows these words to you
Bangs nightly off the black-and-blue

Atlantic…..”

We hesitantly leave The Land of Yeats with those poetic words. They are from his poem, Beyond Howth Head, written about the mass migration of Irish immigrants to the United States.

We are off to Cashel…..

About 7 years ago Ann came to Europe with Peter and their cousin, Jerry. They flew first class to and from Rome, stayed in first class hotels, got first class accommodations on ferries and trains and dined in 4 to 5 star restaurants.

We left Sligo on January 30th for our 6 hour bus ride to Cashel.

The only thing first class about this trip was Ann’s company and the countryside scenery: Ponds, lakes, rivers, streams, dare I say brooks, rolling green hills, et. al. Ann particularly liked our brief stop in Birr, a classic Irish village. Upon our arrival in Cashel, two women directed us to our B & B. I asked them if they knew any Dermodys and they told us that Willie Dermody (now deceased) once owned and operated a pub down the street eponymously (Gerard has always wanted to use that word) named. It’s now called Nessie’s but out of business.

The B & B is directly under the Rock of Cashel, a huge castle- like structure in the Romanesque style. It is actually an ancient Cathedral perched on a dramatic outcrop of rock that can be seen for miles throughout this beautiful valley.

Rumor has it that St. Patrick converted the local King, Aenghus, here in 432 AD. There was a baptismal ceremony during which St. Patrick raised his scepter and inadvertently brought it down and through the foot of King Aegneus, who, naïve that he was, said nothing because he thought it was part of the ritual. Picture Gene Hackman and Peter Boyle(‘fire good”), or if you like Moe and Curly

We’re greeted by Joan Joy, proprietor of the B & B who takes no time in giving us the rules, first and foremost, payment in advance in cash. Joan is short, stocky, 60ish, with what I believe is a blond wig. She’s pleasant but business-like. When she speaks, whether business or anecdotally, you feel like she’s said it 10 million times before. The room she shows us is nice but Ann prefers the room with the view of the Rock so we upgrade. We drop our bags and cruise to town. Beautiful, little town, not many people out…stores and pubs look dead.

We stop in at the Moor Lane Bar. It’s clean, well-lit, strictly a bar. I met and have an extended conversation with Mick Dundee, former disc jockey and horse trainer.

(this is prime horse territory) Back in the day, he used to drink at “Dermodys” and he knew Willie Dermody. He said Willie was tall, very bright, brown hair, blue eyes, extremely handsome, athletic and women used to fight to be in his favor. Honest. Mick loved American country music. He had interviewed Johnny, Waylon, Loretta, Tammy, et. al. when he was a DJ in Dublin. Mick said that Roy Orbison wore sunglasses on stage as a gimmick. Cynical me thinks, au contraire – Roy, I believe, had an eye ailment.

After bouncing around to a couple of other establishments, all manned by workers from Poland, Lithuania or Latvia, we eat at Bailey’s, a cozy pub. Ann has a lamb shank, which she enjoys. It is actually the first piece of meat she has had, other than in a stew. Ireland, by the way, is a mecca for foreign workers from other European Union countries. From workers behind counters, instead of the Irish brogue, most often we hear foreign languages. It is staggering, the number of immigrants. Seems like there are more foreign people here than in the U.S.

The next day I have my pre-ordered (must pre-order) not so hearty Irish breakfast – one egg, small portion of bacon, one sausage. Ann generously donates her breakfast to me, she’s a muesli girl. Joan mentions that Joy is a tough surname to live up to and other parts of her shtick. I told her that I noticed a sign on the bed stand that said checkout time was at 10:00 AM. I told her that we would be vacating by noon tomorrow and she said, in a firm joyless way, that “you will be out of the room at ten but can leave your luggage under the stairs until noon.”

We tour the Rock on a cloudy, misty day. Since it is high on a hill, there are great views of the country-side, including Hore Abbey, which is about 600 yards away. There are ancient grave sites throughout the grounds. I notice a “Maher” family and a few sites over, a “Luby” family. On our street in Port Washington, Long Island, The Mahers lived right next door to the Lubys. They actually shared the same lot. I wish I knew their family history.

There was an elderly man from the reception office who assisted us. When he spoke, his eyes would close…..Ann thinks of Ricky Nelson singing in the 60s. He mentioned that people are still being buried at the Rock. There was a registry established in the 30s and if your family name is on the registry, you have the right to be buried here. He also said that in Ireland, a form of marriage proposal is “would you like to be buried with my family?”

That afternoon, Essie, an old friend of Ann’s who was a Sister at Nazareth and is now a Sister of Mercy, comes out to meet us and takes us on a tour of the beautiful Holycross Abbey. This monastery dates back to the early 12th century with stunning window mural paintings and heavenly music playing in the church. There is also a grotto to St. Padre Pio and his followers from all over Europe meet here. In the high season there could be 40 bus loads of people. We chit chat with the current pastor, who loves America, and is making improvements anticipating the crowds. They are doing a little digging for footings for an extended choir slab outside and we ask if they do that gingerly, seeing as how any time you put a pick into the soil around here you dig up an artifact…”oh, yes, yes, yes… sure I’m here supervising” he says…

We end our day going out to lunch at the elegant Cashel Palace Hotel, cozy up by the fire….Ann has stayed at her last b & b! Lamb stew again, it gets a “B”, the restaurant and hotel an “A”.

Two little Irish twins, Molly and Annie

Tupac lives ...on the wall next to a centuries old friary

YEATS COUNTRY

SLIGO
January 25, 26, 27,28,29

We flew back to Dublin from Scotland, took a bus to our hotel (we’re getting to know the system now) , gathered our stored belongings, painfully integrated what we had with what we left, called a cab and went to the train station for our 3 ½ hour trip across country to Sligo. The train was crowded. Two 10 year old Irish kids were playing train conductor. They mentioned to the real conductor that the bathroom smelled (it did) and was dirty. He said, “We only clean it on Fridays.”

We decided to get off at Carrick-on-Shannon, about 30 miles from Sligo. We were told the train station was in town but it was actually on the outskirts of town. A couple ladies had a cab coming and offered to share with us – that didn’t work since there was already a lady, Gertie, slumped in the front seat that the cabbie had taken shopping and was now apparently along for the ride on his calls. Dominic, the cabbie, said he would be back for us after dropping the girls off.
He returned and made an effort to put our luggage in the “boot”. This didn’t work too well as Gertie’s groceries were there. So he left the 2 boxes of groceries at the station and off we went, Dominic, Gertie, Ann and I. He said he would just come back for the groceries....Ann was amazed.

Dominic took us to a few hotels around town and then to a b & b, Glancy’s, which we settled on. The town, like most of Ireland, is going through major construction…cranes, cranes, cranes…the price of prosperity. The town does have small, winding streets with colorful store fronts and, of course, a beautiful church. We take a walk and check out the Shannon River from a bridge and head to Cryans, a nice pub, where we enjoy our beverages of choice and chat with the locals. We settled on Chungs (yeah, that’s right) for dinner and it was decent.

I have a hearty breakfast in the morning (if I keep these breakfasts up, I’ll be in Dublin General) and we hire Michael Glancy, also a cab driver, to take us to Sligo. He acts as a semi-tour guide and takes the most direct route, a new highway of 2 lanes, commenting that the view is better this time of year with the trees being bare.

We arrive at the Sligo Park Hotel and Ann goes in to check it out. Michael checks his watch three times – “I thought this was a drop.” I explain that her approval of the room is crucial, which she eventually does. We pay grumbling Glancy and we settle in. (I left my watch in his cab and he sent it to me in Kinsale).

The hotel was great..reasonable...gym..and a pool…buffet breakfast…with great blood sausages (think of Redd Foxx) Ann turns her head as I eat them.

Willaim Butler Yeats

This hotel is the primary venue of the Yeats Winter School, a three day symposium in which I hesitantly enroll. Ann has no doubts. We are both English majors, partially Irish, and remember a little bit about some of his poems..but a symposium? …what if they call on us?...the lecturer asks me, “What did the poet mean when he wrote “a terrible beauty”…the Yeats scholars turn to look at me, they’re peering…brows furrowed….

Well, it turned out to be nothing like that. We had orientation on Friday night followed by a concert of traditional Irish music and dance performed by pre-teens and young teens from Sligo, most of whom were part of the same family, the Kellys. Many played multiple instruments: Flute, harp, banjo, violin, mandolin, penny whistle, concertina, accordion..there were two primary dancers, a 10 year old girl and a 13 year old boy. They tapped, jumped and glided while maintaining stoic expressions. A 14 year old instrumentalist also sang. She had long brown hair, blue eyes (duh)…very pretty with a voice to match her young beauty. She sang a cappella, eyes closed and warmed the room. Martin, our extraordinary guide/mentor for the weekend (5’6”, white hair, trimmed beard) introduced a local “jazz singer”, Colleen, who sings an original song, a cappella. We later spoke with her and I asked her who she listens to.."Diane Krall?", I suggest…”Oh, I like her but , to be honest with ya, I listen to the birds”…"I love the Byrds. I think Roger McGuinn is still playing”…"Well, I like them as well but I mean the birds in the trees.” Her phone rings and she embarrassingly answers it. Ann suggests that she could put it on vibrate if she would like. The conversation eventually ended with her saying “I be havin’ vibrators all over me body.”

We ended the night at the hotel bar where a troubadour was playing Suspicious Minds, Sweet Caroline, Walk of Life, et. al. and students at the symposium ,from a university outside Altanta, sang and danced.

On Saturday, we heard a lecture at 9:30 at the hotel by Nick, a Trinity College professor and published Yeats scholar. We then took a bus to the Yeats Museum in Sligo where Gerald Dawe, Trinity College professor and poet, gives (reads) a lecture about Yeats and his stature vis a vis other Irish poets of his era…gist being that the other poets were stymied because of the literary superiority of Yeats. Whether true or not, I found the theory ridiculous. Can’t Puff Daddy (P. Diddy, Diddy, Puffy) and Snoop Dog coexist and thrive? What about Beyonce and Jessica Simpson??? During Dawe’s diatribe, he mentions that there are Yeats references in popular songs by Van Morrison, Judy Collins, the Waterboys. Afterward, I corner him and ask if he’s heard of Lou Reed’s The Raven CD with all of its Poe references. Gerald, the _____ that he is, blows me off. He’s on my list. He better not be reading any of his poetry later. Oh, it’s on the program for this evening?

At our lunch break, we stop by at the Yeats statue. I don’t like it…he looks foppish and it’s done in a contemporary style. His words are imprinted throughout his body…not my cup of tea. Ann liked it.

In the afternoon there is a tour in the hills/mountains above Sligo. It’s around Lough (lake, pronounced Lock) Gill and it was truly extraordinary. Martin narrated it, reciting and sometimes singing Yeats poems while traveling through beautiful countryside…streams, lakes, dark lanes. This is one he did....

Oftentimes other people would join in on the singing. There was a connection to a Yeats poem in every place we stopped. Tobernalt Holy Well is a huge grotto where the people from Sligo and surrounding countryside come for prayer and meditation. There’s a crucifix scene with accompanying figures of actual human proportion on one side of the altar and the Blessed Virgin Mary on the other. On Garlic Day, 500 people attend mass here. We light a candle.

We went to Dooney Rock, Innisfree and Glancar Falls. After the latter, Martin and Stella (secretary of the Yeats Society…a beautiful cherubic like woman who spoke with such clarity) put out some Bailey’s and Irish Mist and we sampled both as a mist was falling. The tour was ending, something neither one of us wanted.

The evening Gerald Dawe read his poetry. As might be predicted, we didn’t care for it. Afterwards, Nick critiqued it by saying, “…it was extraordinary in its ordinariness.” I say it was ordinary in its ordinariness…Ann seconds this.

Before the poetry reading we ate dinner with Frances and James who lived outside Dublin. They were both about 70+ and very sweet. Frances was talking with Ann and James and I were trying to converse. He was soft spoken. I can hardly understand him and I was really trying. He’d say something to me and then stop and stare. I’m thinking, oh, it’s a question. I’ve asked him to repeat it once already. What’ll I do:

James: What do you think of Bush’s handling of the war in Iraq?
Gerard: I like mine medium rare
James: Do you like Irish sports?
Gerard: Only al dente

On Sunday Nick gave a talk on “ ‘This’ and ‘That’ and ‘Here’ and ‘There” in Yeats’ work. It was actually pretty entertaining. That afternoon we toured Lissadell, the home of the Gore-Booth family and a place that Yeats often visited when he was a young man. The Gore-Booth sisters (Eva and Constance) metaphorically are referenced in one of Yeats’ poems, In Memory of Eva Gore-Booth and Con Markievicz…

The light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle…..

Wikipedia has a thumb nail sketch of their fascinating lives, check it out. Constance is beloved in this country for her stand in the 1916 Easter uprising. She married a Polish Count and is referred to by all as Countess Markievicz, The Countess of Irish Freedom.

Ann really enjoyed the tour of Lissadell which was once a 26,000 acre estate, now 400 acres. I was opened to us only because we were with the Yeats Society. Throughout the house there were paintings by Constance Gore-Booth and Jack Yeats, brother of Willie, and relatively well-known in his own right. Willie, by the way, is what W.B. Yeats was called by his family.(this we have been informed of by the Yeats Society people) They also told us Michael, son of Willie, would have been at the symposium had his time not run out…he passed away in January.

On our tour we saw first hand the meaning of “Upstairs,Downstairs” .We all had tea, wine and scones in the kitchen around the open kitchen fireplace - downstairs. Also downstairs was a room where the crystal and china were stacked on shelving. When Ann turned over one of the dishes in the china set to see who made it, it was marked, “William Adams and Sons” – she thought of her Uncle Bill and all his sons and sends her love to him.

The tour ended with a stop at Yeats’ grave on this his death day.

Ann, Gerard and Willie






Gerard with the president of the Yeats Society, who also happens to be the Jameson heir












Stella drove us back to the hotel, we hugged, kissed and sadly said goodbye.

Saying goodbye at the grave site.

On Monday we took a cab to town and our driver was Jim Carty. I asked him about Martin Brennan, a bartender at the Ould Sod in San Diego, who used to live in Sligo. “Small world…I knew Martin Brennan 25 years ago…heavy set fellow (not any longer)…I used to drink with his father.” He must have called Ann “darling” six times during our 10 minute cab ride..she loves that darling thing. Jim took us to the post office ….a serious trip…not to get stamps for my post cards but to send clothes back home and on to Croatia. Ann admits to over packing and the price was the total due…she wouldn’t tell me how much it came to but her bags sure are lighter.

Ann then went to Nazareth House where she visited with the sisters and viewed their new nursing home. The grounds were beautiful and so was the spirit of the sisters she said.

Nazareth House, Sligo, Ireland

New nursing home, Nazareth House, Sligo

This house is currently the convent for the sisters. Before the sisters purchased it Yeats' maternal grandparents lived here...sister said he would come to play here as a child.





On the way back to meet me, Ann stopped in at a department store and admired all the white shoes for little girls...probably for their first communion she said

Audrey, would you like these best?

I, on the other hand, went to Hennigans, a pub established in 1787. I sat down and the bartender suggested that I sit somewhere else since the empty stool to my right was occupied by a drunken Irishman. I stand me ground as I see the Irishman stumbling over from the jukebox. He’s mumbling, “Billy Jo-El…Billy Jo-El”. “River of Dreams” comes on: “In the middle of the night..while I’m walking in my sleep”…Mickey is saying every fifth word about three seconds late. He turns to me and asks, “Do you like…do you like…Billy JO-EL?” ..."Yes, very much so...he married well“..."I don’t give a ____ who he married…it don't do me any good.” He’s right. I tell him, “Good point” He puts his head down on his arms on the bar and takes a 10 minute nap. There was a sign in the bar, “If there’s no beer in heaven, I don’t want to be there” Another said: “Alcohol, the source and solution to the world’s problems.

A t-shirt I knew you would like, Denis

I meet up with Ann and we prepare for our trip down south to Cashel tomorrow.