Last Legs

Monday, 04-23-18 (continued)
Boarded our brand-new-looking Ryanair 737 and soared east and south, taking particular notice of the English Channel, visible from the air off Sussex. Got to Gatwick in a jiffy and reclaimed our baggage. After some confusion, we made our way via driverless inter-terminal shuttle, reminiscent of the horizontal elevator transport at Getty Museum, to the north side of the facility. Called several recommended taxi companies until hiring United, which soon collected us in a black Ford Galaxy and, after more confusion from hard-to-see signs, dropped us for £7.50 at Oldland Farm, Tinsley Green, Crawley.

Rubber tires mean a quieter ride.

Davana, a beaming middle-aged Brit, welcomed us with house rules and showed us to our room. The building began as a horse barn, we surmise, and now contained perhaps three guest rooms. Because of our early departure, we paid for no breakfast.
Thin exposed dark beams poked through the ceiling. Furnishings showed much wear, and the bed felt spring-y, but the place was clean and adequate overall. An odd niche held a low upholstered chair, where I sat facing a side table, the drawer of which I inverted to form a surface for my writing station. After setting up and settling in, we crossed the busy lane to the closest eatery.

Making do.

The Greyhound Tavern looked newish, but held all the trappings of typical English pub culture: bar, cozy dining rooms, fireplace, and for-hire hall. The twist here was its offering Indian cuisine.

The Greyhound, Crawley

I picked bangers and mash with a Carling ale, Lina fruit/yogurt and a cider. All was more than satisfying. I withheld one of the three little links for the morrow.

English peas, mashed potatoes, sausages.

Fruity yogurt.

Intended to journal or blog into the night, but ended up “reclining,” shower/shampooing, and going to sleep.

Tuesday, 04-24-18
In Oldland Farm, Tinsley Green, Crawley, near Gatwick. 52 deg, 87%, SW 6, m-cldy, dp 48 deg, 29.97”, 10 mi viz. Funky place, fo sho. Active at 6:31—little time to write.

United once again transported us to the airport, this time for £10. Feasted on a big breakfast at Wondertree in Gatwick. On the plane at 10:31 a.m., I set up my contraption on the seat tray, mouse and all. Cramped, of course, but effective.

Your reporter at work.

Next to me on the left, my dear Lina gazed out the window. To the right sat Bob from Sussex who, with his partner Sally, was making his first trip to ATX. We began to soar above the clouds: 36k feet, 512 mph, bearing NW, crossing the North Atlantic and over Happy Valley – Goose Bay in Newfoundland.

Canada begins to thaw.

Stewards brought us lunch a 11:00, London time. Wasn’t hungry, but et it anyway. Lina took the rice, while I scarfed mashed potatoes, chicken, and a bit of beef. Couldn’t take the latter. We also got salad with a teeny bottle of vinaigrette plus cheesecake, red wine, and tea. Royal treatment!

Happy to be heading home.

Flight data.

Following the plane.

Long day’s journey into day: Watched Interstellar, which dragged on way too long, but the plane’s rumbling around me matched the movie’s space ship vibrations. Arrived in our beloved home town at 1:50 p.m. local time after having left London at 10:35 a.m. their time. That was an extended four hours.

All was in order at Fig Cottage, thanks to the extra-special care that son George lavished in our absence. Doggies let us know they were glad to see us, and the feeling was mutual. Home the weary travelers!

As part of my recovery Wednesday, I was fortunate to showcase the magnificent Texas Capitol Building to our flight companions, Sally and Bob, who also purchased a copy of Party Weird.

Next: Wrapping up.

 

Dublin and Newgrange

Sat, 04-21-18 (continued)

Breezed out of Dungarvan with many blessings from host Brian. He’ll be retiring in a year and seeks someone to run the place. Examined maps and planned a route to the capital’s outskirts, hoping to figure the rest later. Smooth sailing most of the way, ‘cept for one near-scrape with a truck around a bend on a bridge in Fearns, a fort town. Stopped for petrol there, paying €30 cash. Ireland’s freeways a dream to cruise. Glimpsed the eastern ocean once by Arklow and grazed the rocky Wicklow Mountains.

On Dublin’s edge, went west for a bit before plunging towards the city centre with Google speaking. Going was slow, snarled, with no obvious street signs, no discernible pattern layout—frustration, anxiety. Espied the Budget car hire office, staggered in and got directions to the nearest gas station. Fellow said to take the first right, which I didn’t, but found the place nonetheless. Filled Black Irish to the brim, paid cash again because neither card would work. Parked off an alley, settled up. Mimi (a.k.a. Michele Hallahan) screeched into the bus lane and swept us away in a jiffy.

Wended this way and that, our fate in our hostess’s capable hands. Pulled up to her green door in a row of connected homes about 100 years old that had housed Guinness or other factory workers back in the day. Her near-northside flat contains two bedrooms and a living room. Added on more recently are the kitchen and bathroom, which look out onto a tiny back garden in a space connected to three other dwellings.

Mimi offered tea and cookies as we planned our visit: pubs and dinner that night, Newgrange on the morrow. Stepped out and walked down many streets, which all led towards the old downtown. Enjoyed pea soup with back bacon at Mulligan’s, then heard string band music at Cobblestone. Stopped into three or four more pubs until I couldn’t bear another stout. Rode the double-decker bus home. Wild time.

Appalachia plays in Dublin.

Brazen Head – oldest in Dublin.

Brazen Head’s many rooms.

Stag’s Head is where we went for quiet.

Great writers took their pints in the Palace Bar.

Exuding literacy.

Sunday, 4-22-18

In Phibsborough, Dublin. 46 deg, 93%, SSW 7, m-cldy, dp 45 deg, 29.71”, 10 mi viz. In the kitchen of Mimi’s row-house before anyone else be up. 7:20. Rain might be around, says the prognosticator.

Remind me to never buy an all-in-one washer-dryer. Did our clothes, then held back just my khakis to wear that morning. Our hostess figured they’d be dry in maybe half an hour. Came 11:30 and the front-loading, condenser-type machine still churned and stopped and churned and gurgled. Tried to pull the garment out, but the door refused to unlock. Feck this. Pulled on Lina’s maroon stretchy pants (which fit surprisingly well) and added suspenders. They were welcome, despite shallow front pockets and buttonless rear ones. Out.

Cruised north with myself navigating on M’s phone. Stopped for fuel. Turned just before Slane and could see the prehistoric Neolithic Newgrange across the River Boyne as we approached the visitor centre. It was almost raining at first, then cleared, windy.

Paid, delighted in soup and sandwiches for lunch, stepped across the river on a way-cool suspension bridge to the shuttle buses—just like at Stonehenge. Rolled round to the site itself, noting a smaller mound to our left. At the entrance booth, guide Carmel met and led us up to the passage tomb’s entrance. After some interpretive remarks, she divided the group into two segments according to badge color. While the first 17 went inside, we walked all the way around the largest structure of its kind in Europe. Conspicuous is the variety of rocks that line and contain the big mound: white quartz from the river, dark granite cobbles, huge kerbstones from farther away. Snapped landscapes and portraits.

Beeg.

This way, please.

Time to enter. No photography allowed. Compelled to duck beneath the low doorway and squeeze through a couple narrow places in the gently ascending tunnel. Arrived at the inner chamber with its three niches, basin stones, and high corbeled ceiling. We stood in the world’s oldest known room, built 5,000 years ago and still waterproof. Guide told the story, then turned out the lights and let shine one bulb from the aperture or roof-box which simulated sunshine entering at dawn on the Winter Solstice. Wow, oh wow. “We” don’t know what was in the minds of those ancient crafty folk, but the place must have been extremely significant to go through all that trouble and care.

How they might have moved the stones.

Skipped Tara Hill and ambled back to Dublin, seeing a herd of deer and the American ambassador’s entry gate in Phoenix Park. Bought stout and wine at M’s local liquor store on a Sunday! Everything else is closed. Priorities.

Home to dry pants and marvelous hand-cooked sesame-crusted chicken with spinach-cheese and short-grain brown rice. Emptied the Bushmill’s bottle with joyous ceremony. Held lots of meaningful conversations about pools of light, family challenges, contemporary myths, and home improvement. Time to rest.

M’s cozy living room.

Our hostess treated us royally.

Lina learns space-saving techniques.

Everything at hand.

Monday, 04-23-18

48 deg, 70%, WSW 16, m-cldy, dp 39 deg, 29.88”, 10 mi viz. Looks plain gray from Mimi’s kitchen window this last morning in Eire. Beat the alarm at 5:50, but retreated for a few to cuddle a bit, then revive. Yoga, socks, coffee, a light behind me to write. Dreamed we were trying to get to the airport but kept losing our way: bus, taxi, walking, splitting up, rain. Worried about ponderous luggage. Where’s my dowsing book?

Packed and walked to Mimi’s regular bus stop. A reelin’, rollin’, rockin’ ride took us to the city centre by Trinity College, where she works. Dropped our bags in her office and trotted off to the library where lives the Book of Kells.

She got us at the head of the line and in for free! Off to her job, we bee-lined it past interpretive panels to the vault, where the precious 9th century volumes display, along with a smaller, even older book. Wow—written in Latin but with Irish script, it’s difficult to read, but the illustrations veritably shine from the vellum pages. One panel remarked that Christianity brought (among other things) writing to Ireland. That sounded worth verifying, but goes along with “People of the Book.”

Upstairs is the stunning Long Room, a total cathedral of books. In it displays the oldest or original Celtic harp we see on all things Irish. It’s but a couple or so feet tall.

Long Room

Brian Boru’s harp

Exited through the gift shop with post cards and an Oscar Wilde coaster. Met Mimi again after eavesdropping on a campus tour in progress. She led us out and kissed us goodbye. We crossed the busy streets to the Visitor Centre for a last-minute map and brochures. Crossed again and reentered the Palace pub for our final half-pints of Guinness. Not long after came our express bus to the airport, €6 each with wifi on board. Dublin Airport was a bit disorienting until we found our place and waited, waited.

Next: Last Legs

Dungarvan and the Copper Coast

Wednesday, 04-18-18

In Cairbre House, Abbeyside, Co. Waterford, Ireland. 51 deg, 78%, SSE 23 g32, all cldy, dew point 45 deg, pressure 29.97”, 3 mile visibility. We were just across the River Colligan from Dungarvan, which we could see outside our second-story window. The sea’s fluctuations here are nearly 12 feet.

Tide in.

Tide out.

Breakfast was fab and filling in the company of a quartet of friends whose names we’d yet to hear. Sun came out at last and the rain ended, but the wind kept on. We set out around 1:00, crossed the bridge, and made straight for Hallahan’s Pharmacy. There we met Audrey, Jamie, and a couple other of Mimi’s cousins. They were warm, friendly, and outgoing as we related our journey and connection. Mimi’s dad and uncle were both born in the building.

Proves we were there.

Visited many shops and sites: visitor centre for map and brochures, The Local pub for soup and Guinness, art store, art centre, charity shop for a toast rack, Beach House for Irish art, EuroGiant for gripper, mall for Vodaphone help, and regular grocery for dinner items and more elixir. Learned in the history museum that Tyrone Power’s great-grandfather wore the same name and was also an actor.

Powerful people.

Stopped at Minnie’s pub to inquire about live trad there. None was yet on the schedule, so we just enjoyed two more pints. At another grocery, I found potato crisps.

Our evening meal, served on a low bench positioned between our beds, consisted of salad, crackers, cheese, and a Guinness West Indies porter. Eased out the evening sipping Bushmill’s, then wrote until 11-ish.

Thursday, 04-19-18
Posted the Wedding blog at last and got ourselves off around 11-something. Driving west, we got to one headland, Helvik, but mistook it for another. Found a working harbour where a couple seamen saw to to their duties as we absorbed the scene. Got lost on local roads until I turned on my phone’s roaming and asked a friendly female pedestrian for directions. This is a Gaeltacht, or region where Irish is the primary language.

Safe anchorage.

Don’t do this.

Sun broke through as we rolled into Ardmore. It’s pleasant with its beach and sailor carved from a tree. Found almost nothing open near the strand, but Quinn’s Grocery sold us tea. We ate cheese and crackers sitting on a diminutive gray stone bench aside our little rental car, which we called Black Irish. Hiked up the hill to the country’s oldest round tower and a 5th or 9th century oratory, the supposed final resting place of St Dunstan, who (not Patrick) brought Christianity to Ireland and the village’s patron saint. Climbed a wall stile to enter the holy grounds and see the church ruin and its everywhere graves.

Wooden you?

Lunch beside our Mii.

Eire’s oldest round tower.

These walls do speak.

Spoke to a pleasant older gentleman about floods and blizzards. Found a fast, more direct route back to Dungarvan.

Stopped at the mall for a car power converter, facilities, map, doughnut, frozen yogurt, and reorientation. Headed northeast, then north, following the Mahon River to find its falls. Skies were clear where we began, but got densely foggy as we gained elevation. Drove on one-lane roads to park at the trailhead, then bundled up against the cool and set out. In only a few meters did we discover that the trail was in fact a rivulet. With no water bars or drain dips such as in a well-built path, a stream poured down the path’s groove, rendering it impassable without rubber boots. We turned back in defeat.

Lost in a cloud.

Took another local road which, according to our official Ordnance Survey map, promised standing stones and fortified houses. These we missed, but discovered a St Bridget’s Well a few steps around a wide pedestrian avenue between high limestone fences. The well held no water, but graves and a ruined chapel surrounded the haunting spot.

The stuff of legends.

Womb-like.

Returned to our lodging and got ready for a night on the town. Ate a big burger, mushroom soup, and salad on a puffy pastry bed with beer at the Interlude.

True brew.

Revisited The Local, our favoured bar, where a lively trad music session was just beginning. We sat on high stools with our pints directly opposite whistle, guitar, and button accordion players. Much audience participation ensued, with several town folk offering songs. The crowd even let me contribute a couple sea shanties—my first time to perform in a genuine Irish pub.

Good time for a Guinness.

Gettin’ after it.

Name.

Home to crash.

Friday, 04-20-18

40 deg, 96%, S 2 g 3, clear! dp 39 deg, 30.27”,15 mi viz. 8:08. Was foggy and bright earlier, then brilliant.

Headed towards the Copper Coast on first wide then narrow lanes. Found Ballydowane Cove and Bay, where we parked and walked to the shore. Here our eyes were rewarded with cliffs, waves, huge offshore rocks, seagulls, and an equestrian. Our nostrils flared to salt air, and our ears delighted in the pulsing roar of endless ocean.

Wide tide.

Rock out.

On to Bunmahon with its visitor center in a former church, exhibits about area copper mining, and a barefoot stroll on the sandy strand. Saw surfers and evidence of an ancient wall guarding one of the cliffs. Still couldn’t perceive any of the several promontory forts or standing stones listed on the ordinance maps. Fog streamed in of a sudden.

Cliffs, note.

Tramore is beyond the official Copper Coast route and appears touristy-resorty. We ate our snacks overlooking a green and lagoon while watching folks’ dogs run free. An amusement park called Splashworld wasn’t open, but lots of pipple strolled the elevated walkway overlooking Ireland’s longest beach.

Tired of roller-coaster curves, we headed back to our town via N25, reconnoitered at Cairbre House, and stepped into the village to check out the purported food festival just beginning. Found none of that. Checked in with Rosie Hallahan at the pharmacy, thanking her again for the welcoming friendship. Wandered around seeking charity shops, but they were already closed. Found fried cod with mashed potatoes and a veggie burger at Shamrock Restaurant, a tame place compared to pubs. Ambled into St Mary’s church and graveyard, where we spotted the whistle player from the trad session the night before. Seamus pointed to where he lives across the bay near two giant wind generators. Found a remnant of the original town wall from centuries ago and zillions of daisies amongst the headstones. Sat to watch a lone sailboat in the placid bay, then photographed a bit of the still-closed-for-the-season King John’s Castle. Home for another rest.

Here have all the flowers gone.

Not open.

Double-timed it back to the Local, were three musicians readied electric amplification for their performance. A handsome young feller with a beard was none other than John Clancy, son of one of the famous brothers. They got going, and we couldn’t sit still. Thus completed our Irish mid-coast pub experience.

Plugged in.

Hen party in progress.

Saturday, 04-21-18

Last morning in Abbeyside. 42 deg, 100%, SE3 g4, ptly cldy, dp 42 deg. 30.12”, 10 mi viz. We dressed and were mostly packed. Good coffee. Relished our 9:00 breakfast: smoked salmon and cream cheese on bagel.

Breezed out of Dungarvan with many blessings from Brian. He’ll be retiring in a year and seeks someone to run the place. Examined maps and planned a route to the capital’s outskirts, hoping to figure the rest later. Smooth sailing most of the way, ‘cept for one near-scrape with a truck around a bend on a bridge in Fearns, a fort town. Stopped for petrol there, paying € 30 cash. Freeways a dream to cruise. Glimpsed the eastern ocean once by Arklow and grazed the rocky Wicklow Mountains.

Next: Dublin and Newgrange

Ireland’s West Edge

Gone to ruin.

Saturday, 04-14-18 (continued)
Here’s what Brits eat for their first meal of the day:

Traditional English Breakfast

Yours truly rode shotgun in Janet’s rented Hyundai and navigated with a sporadic network signal and a photo I took of an atlas. Sunny, beautiful warm day through the English countryside, through Hook Norton to Oxford. Made a couple surprise turns, but got to Hertz to return the hire.

Stepped lively, crossing the Thames to the train station. Downed an ale, then walked out to the platform and soon caught a Great Western Railway car—three seats and two, facing both directions. Pretty views of hills, wood, farms, and little towns. Arrived at Reading to wait an hour for our next leg. Bought a fruit smoothie and shared two juices. Boarded our next train and continued.

Felt relaxed and droopy. With little time to charge en route, phone battery ran low. Lina and Janet sat in front of me; young woman to my left read from a Kindle and wrote by hand in a notebook. Other passengers made various uses of their electronics. An open window let in racket and fresh air. Nostalgia for Merrie Olde England washed over me.

At Gatwick, we climbed up an exterior staircase to the Ryanair 737, three and three seats across. With no one in the window seat, I claimed it. Sun went behind the horizon despite our westerly direction. Flight lasted about 75 minutes.

Stumbled down stairs again and fought brisk gusts to walk to the Shannon Airport terminal. Check-in man welcomed me to my first visit, saying I’ll love it enough to return. Alan of Rosie, Janet’s niece, met and carried us in his Kia along an expressway and some impossibly narrow and winding roads.

Janet’s two-storey homey house stands in a rural area near but three or four neighbors. She and her late husband, musician Paul, built the place in the early 90s. On the first level sit the kitchen, music room, conservatory, wide hall-library, laundry, and Jan’s bedroom and bath. Our quarters were upstairs in one of three bedrooms with our own bath. Sound sleep overtook us in no time.

Sunday, 04-15-18

In Kinvara. 49 deg, 72%, SE 17 g 23, dp 40 deg, ptly cldy, 29.44”, 10 mi viz. Looks cold with this wind, but sun shines through on a green landscape of budding trees, stone fences, scattered houses, and distant hills.

Performed my yoga salutations on the bare wooden floor of the music room, then prepared coffee and took it back to a wee IKEA desk that sat beneath a sloped window in the slanting roof. The situation offered excellent natural illumination and a red lamp if necessary.

Putting it all into words.

Went down to a breakfast of Janet’s poached eggs and bagels. We looked at maps, guidebooks, and brochures. Dressed in all available layers, including my Scots tartan scarf, and sallied forth into the cold intermittent rain.

South and west into the Burren steered Jan. Road got amazingly narrow in places between tall hazelwood trees. Geology consists of gray limestone there, with many stark outcrops and hills, such as the hat-shaped Mullaghmore at 591 feet. Stone fences snake across the slopes, demarcating separate properties. Saw cattle for the first time in Ireland.

Janet shows off her outback.

Almost lunar.

Stopped for a walk, where we met a couple from New York, of all places. Stepped through several walls with stiles to find an ancient ruined church with rock tented graves and a holy well. A standing stone on a cone of earth allowed pilgrims to walk in circles while chanting. Small bits of cloth were tied to branches above the water, and a cup hung ready for anyone wanting a taste.

12th century Temple Cronan

Sacred waters.

One area without fencing was a commons. Beyond that lay a neolithic tomb: slabs of rock formed a little house that was likely originally buried beneath a mound. Candle wax inside spoke of devotion and ceremony.

Grave situation.

Looking out across millennia.

Next came Killiboy and a weathered Sheela la Gig over the entry to another roofless old church, but with recent burials. I smelled incense.

The Crone

Always room for another.

Around another several bends came Kilmacduagh Abbey complex and its iconic round tower. Again, fresh graves were evident here, some with the name of Quinn. Markers indicated that several family members often share the same plot: They dig down to the last coffin and place the new one on top. Jan said one subtle way to ask a girl to marry you is “Would you like to be burried with my people?”

Founded 7th century.

Aglow with divine energy.

In Gort, we found a favorite cafe called Gallery: busy and lively, with a glass-covered well full of goldfish. We shared a platter of cheeses and meats, breads and crackers, veggies and jams. I washed all down with a Rustbucket rye ale.

Gallery streetscape.

Good fish, well fish.

from Donegal

C’mon in.

Lidl is a supermarket much like ALDI, with strange items for sale from bins between shelves of staples. Lina spied a chainsaw and overalls, for instance. We picked up ales and dairy items and some malted wheat cereal. For the first time ever in my life, I purchased a bo’le of Bushmill’s on a Sunday from a grocery store.

Coole Park was the estate of Lady Gregory, who helped revive local culture and Irish folk tales. The mansion went up in flames long ago, but the grounds offer walks in woods by a disappearing lake, or turlough. Notable grows the Autograph Tree, with initials of famous persons—such as Bernard Shaw and W B Yeats—carved in the bark. Rain came and went, but no one minded.

True cedars.

In not a long drive, we were back at Janet’s. I kipped for a bit and even dreamed. Long about 6:00, Jan prepared some pasta and sauce for later, then took us to Kinvara to Sexton’s Pub. In its back room played half a dozen local musicians on fiddle, banjo, button accordion, guitar, and whistle. What a jam! Reminded me of Kerrville Folk Fest campfires, but this is original. At one point, two young boys joined the band, one on wooden flute and the other banging a bodran. We stood and swayed to the tunes, feeling joyous.

It’s called trad for traditional.

The place to be in Kinvara.

Home again for supper and more sips of whisky. Listened to Dolores Keene singing Gaelic on Jan’s portable Bluetooth speaker. I did dishes while the ladies hired a car from Shannon Airport for Tue. Crash!

Monday, 04-16-18

45 deg, 71%, SSE 13 g 17, ptly cldy, dp 36 deg, 29.56”, 11 mi viz.

Got out to cruise past nearby Dunguaire Castle, then on to Galway. Cold and rainy on and off, with plenty wind. Parked in an open lot, where a kind stranger gave Jan her unexpired parking ticket, so we saved 5 Euros. Walked along nonparallel, unperpendicular streets into the old village core, along a canal next to a rushing, white-capped River Corrib to what remains of the medieval city wall with its 1584 Spanish Arch. Gusts off the ocean almost blew us over and nearly did me in. Sheltered in a great used bookstore, where I browsed an atlas of the Famine, but found no appetite.

Canal and locks.

You may pass through.

In St Patric’s Church, we saw statues defaced by Cromwell’s thugs.

Down with idolatry!

Returned home to eat Janet’s preparation of Irish stew.

Tuesday, 04-17-18

50 deg, 87%, S 20, g 27, dp 46 deg, ptly cldy, 29.42”, 10 mi viz. Not raining, but the wind doesn’t relent. Previewed our route, making notes of roads, towns, junctions, poring over maps. Bade goodbye to the homey house and let Jan cart us past walled fields, her local ruin, and substantial Irish dwellings. Zoomed onto M18 to Shannon Airport, getting to see the place we arrived during the day. She let us out at the door, and we hugged her for the wondrous hospitality.

Stepped up to the Budget desk and negotiated our vehicle. Predictably, sales agent Jack attempted to upgrade us to a larger size, add extended coverage and GPS, and load several other extra charges. Here’s where my credit card dearth hit hardest: to use Lina’s Visa, she had to be registered as an additional driver—at yet another fee. In the end, all totaled about 200 Euros.

Shuttled to the lot and installed ourselves in an ultra-cute black Seat (pronounced see at) model Mii, made in Barcelona. It’s manual transmission was smooth to operate and its engine zippy.

Five doors.

Exited the facility and resumed the motorway south through a toll tunnel to the edge of Limerick, where we made our first wrong turn of the day. Stopped at a service-station-grocery to ask directions of two thickly accented Gaelic gents who gave conflicting accounts. Returned to the big road the way we came and found N24, which got us the short way to Tipperary. Less-improved N74 led to Cashel, where we sought a mid-day repast.

T J Ryan’s pub held but two patrons, who soon took their leave. The owner, T J himself, saw to our needs with soup, corned beef and cheese sandwich, crisps, tea, and a Coke. Paid cash. He told us how to get to the Rock, which Jan had recommended to us.

What’ll ya have?

Food and drink.

Parked again and strode uphill to the cathedral cum fortress. Begun in the 13th century and considerably altered in the 15th, this citadel contains a ruined sanctuary, small chapel, round tower, and bishop’s residence. My purchase of a patchwork riding cap in the heritage centre covered our admission fee as well as me head. We joined an in-progress tour and drank in amazing stories of clerics, kings, and crypts. One’s sense of long history just has to shift.

Quite a climb.

Tapestry speaks.

No vault of my own.

Over yonder.

Cashel from the Rock.

Soar to the heavens.

Towering.

Back on the road, we wended our way south on M8, then east on N72 at Fermoy. Saw lots of water on the right side of the route, which looked like a flood to me. Passed through Lismore, famed for its enduring lived-in castle, and attained Dungarvan around 5:15. With no detailed map or mobile internet, we went around and around the town’s narrow streets until finding the bridge over the River Colligan and our lodgings.

Cairbre House was built in 1819 as a cholera hospital and also sheltered famine victims in 1849-55. It ceased to be a sick place by 1876, then was purchased in 1911 to become a “private hotel,“ which it’s been ever since. Brian Wickham and his late wife Geraldine began operating the business in 1994.

The cheery and effervescent Mr Wickham escorted us inside to show the guest lounge, breakfast room, and horizontal grand piano that holds pertinent brochures, guidebooks, and menus. He even provides a pair of binoculars for birdwatching. Upstairs, the rooms are named for area attractions; ours was the Lismore with photographs and sketches of that castle. We got two big single beds, bathroom with shower, window seat, and a great cabinet with drawers, shelves, and hanging clothes space. Brian showed us the walkway across the river to the string of fine eateries that line the quay. We settled into these picture-perfect accommodations.

Gardens and conservatories.

Looking out onto the river.

Relax!

Stepped out into the windy cold and took the stone 1816 Devonshire Bridge to the waterfront. On our good friend Mimi’s recommendation, the Moorings pub and restaurant brought to our table Guinness, a fish pie, green beans, mashed carrots, fries, and veggie pasta–all simply scrumptious.

Three kinds of fish.

Yum!

Ambled back for more Bushmill’s and a phone call to sister Rose in Munich. To bed!

Next: Dungarvan and the Copper Coast

Wedding

Friday the 13th came at last. Not finding granola, I prepared myself breakfast: a couple eggs with bread quarters. When others arose, I enjoyed cereal for dessert. Presented LH a signed copy of Party Weird and gave another to Janet, our-hostess-to-be in Ireland. Lots more coming and going included many other new (to us) faces, such as Jon’s son Joe, a grandson, and Mr Pugsley the dog. Lina and I packed for our departure. Moved Louisa’s computer back upstairs. Shot a video tour of Old Park Cottage as its occupants rushed to get ready.

My writing station by the coal fireplace.

Back Garden at Old Park Cottage.

Loaded LH’s car with our stuff and spun up to the Gate Inn, where the proprietess showed us to our room through an unmarked door up some (like the roads) narrow, winding stairs. It’s a small chamber reached past a luxury suite and a sitting room. Like the George Hotel in Amesbury, here floors slope, and ancient, hand-hewn oak beams show. I left Lina and parked the car at the Town Hall, then crossed the road to buy a bacon quiche and apricot croissant from the French bakery. These I relished on a picnic table in the playground/ballpark in full view of Brailes Hill with its topping copse. Sun peeked through a couple times.

Penny from London with Lina.

Our room at the Gate.

Returned to Gate, rested, dressed, carted Lina and Penny to the Hall, parked, and walked to the church. Took a vid of our approach as the great bells pealed from the steeple.

Traditional English

Sat and waited for the tardy bride listening to organ and trumpet. The place was well-attended by all sorts of folk; several ladies besides Lina wore fine hats. Perceived the original 13th century walls and their newer additions. Found a wooden door at the back from which emanated the bells’ sound up stone spiral steps. Spoke with the vicar, who introduced me to a ringer, who said it’d be OK to ascend those stairs after the service.

What intrigue awaits?

St George’s Church, Brailes.

At last she came, radiant and flower-coiffed, up the aisle with daughter Charlotte and the grandson as ring bearer. The service, traditional Church of England, included hymns, scripture readings, an address, vows, rings, a soloist’s song, and registering the marriage in some kind of ledger. It was just wonderful, and the vicar humorous. All filed out with immense joy.

Jonathan, groom.

Louisa, bride.

Lina and I snuck back in and traipsed up the spiral staircase, which seemed to go on forever. At last we arrived at a sliding door, beyond which we entered the ringing chamber. There six people each held a stout rope, widened at the bottom and extending to the ceiling nearly 15 feet overhead, one bell per rope. The operators were on break and related how they did their duties: There’s a certain rhythm and sequence as to who pulls when. I asked about “change ringing,“ a traditional English art of ringing a set of tower bells in an intricate series of changes, or mathematical permutations (different orderings in the ringing sequence), by pulling ropes attached to bell wheels (Britannica), and one fellow showed me the equivalent of sheet music for such. Time quickly approached for another round, so we were told to take a seat and to not be concerned about any movement we felt.

With a countdown, the clanging began anew. All six bells sounded loudly and clearly, but we didn’t expect the whole 13th century tower to sway like it did. At one point, the sole female team member was lifted in the air by her rope. The performance went on for maybe six minutes as we sat spellbound. At the end, we thanked effusively and returned to ground.

Walked back to Town Hall to sip champagne and get to know some of the crowd. It was quite an eclectic collection of potters, printers, poets, and straight people. I immediately fell in with a total character called Jim Keeling–spitting image of Jim O’Brien–who runs Whichford Pottery just downslope from Brailes. We talked about clay and culture and travel.

Jim the potter in a Basque beret.

Bouquets and banquet.

Also at hand was a cask of tasty homemade apple cider from neighbor Roger, a fellow geographer. The entire group sat down to much merry feasting, toasting, and speechifying. Two front tables came out and the band played swing music for dancers late into the evening.

Accompanied by other wedding guests, we walked back to the Gate and slept soundly. Enjoyed breakfast the next morning at the George pub and said our reluctant good-byes.

Yes, everything’s named George.

Next: West to Ireland

Ditch and Bank

April 9. Packed most everything, then strolled over to the Bell for eggs Benedict and smashed avocado on bagel. Stopped at Lloyd’s Bank to exchange three obsolete pound coins for the same number of new ones. Stepped to the Post Office to convert a few dollars into even fewer pounds. Returned to Room 16 to finish gathering our effects. Bade good-bye to the courteous staff (“Come to Texas!”), and set off.

Should-a gone north, but sat in a queue on A303 for a good half-hour just to behold Stonehenge one more time. Despite the wet, many people were encircling the monument. Northwest on A360 to Devises, northeast on A361 got us to Avebury, where we turned the vehicle off in the car park, bundled up against the cold rain, bought an interpretive book, and paid our admission fee.

Hiked round the Barn Museum to enjoy tea and scones, procured postcards, and met Mike, our tour guide. He led us into the circle, explaining ditch and bank and how odd it was that the high side sits on the outside, the reverse of the defensive arrangement at Old Sarum. Were the builders seeking to hold someone in instead of out? The stones, unwrought relative to those at Stonehenge, are native to this place and were set upright about the time of the pyramids. Other nearby earthworks are much older. We gazed agape at these 60-tonne sarsens and tried to grok their medieval felling and appreciated their more recent re-erecting. Donovan would have sung histories of ages past, much-enlightened shadows cast, but none appeared that dreary, damp day. I was never cold, but Lina had a tough time of it, losing sensation in her extremities.

Big stone at north entrance

Interior circle stones

We soldiered on till the tour’s conclusion, then ducked into the adjacent Red Lion to see the village well, the final resting place of “at least one unfortunate townsperson.”

The Red Lion, Avebury

Main ley line

Our area of exploration up close

Back in the motorcar, we steered east to park at the trailhead to West Kennet Long Barrow, where I would have hiked solo but for the extreme wet, which overwhelmed my high-top Clarks. Gave it up, returned to the vehicle, changed to dry shoes and socks, and pressed on.

And on and on. All the roads here began to look the same: narrow, winding, busy, ill-marked with many names. Another village ahead, another roundabout or two. Occasional traffic signal. Small cars, big lorries. Stay left.

Turned right onto B4035, which led through Shipston and to our beloved Brailes. Pulled up to Old Park Cottage, where a beaming Louisa hugged us home.

Unloaded, then let our hostess drive us to the Gate for a pint and a smooth swig of local Cotswold whisky. There also was Jonathan and the one called Roger. Spoke to the proprietors and their young son, who was reading J B Priestley, but enjoyed doing math better. He and I traded formulas, laws, and sequences. Again at the house, we sat down to stuffed baked herring (not red) with new potatoes, green beans, and more ale. Everyone else went to bed, but I pushed buttons for a couple hours more, inspired by Jon’s book about New York City’s underworld to recall Guys and Dolls, Damon Runyon, and Stubby Kaye.

Next: Wedding

Tor and Tour

Sunday, April 8. Packed up a snack basket, some maps, and appropriate apparel, then zoomed west along A303, past the iconic stone monument once again. The day was cloudy with intermittent drizzle, so we used windshield wipers front and back. Lina was my navigator, using her prepared route list and online maps, such as they were. Signage still maddening: they say route and town, often including places we care not for. Arrived at Glastonbury in one piece nevertheless.

Parked along the main way in, donned our rainwear, and missed the main trail somewhat. Stepped across a field where young lambs–mostly in pairs–cozied with their ewes or frolicked about. Climb up was a bit strenuous, ‘specially for Lina, who wasn’t as used to stairs as I. Gained the Tor’s summit and marveled at the views and ancient tower. Between the spattering raindrops and steady breeze, we snapped obligatory portraits and landscapes.

How green was my hillock.

Pillar of prominence

See through

Hollow inside

Glastonbury from the Tor

Back down, we paid to enter the Chalice Gardens, a wondrous place of quiet reflection and meditation. Drank from the Lion’s Head fount, the reddish, iron-rich waters not unlike that from RRR’s well. Spent wordless minutes under sheltered seats and by the Chalice Well itself, where pilgrims burnt incense and candles. Ammonites lay embedded in pavements, reminding me of the cover of Daniel Quinn’s Story of B.

Viseca Pool with seven bowls

Red (Lion) with iron

Sacred to many

Drove into the City Centre, parking next to the visitor building and Abbey. Strolled High Street, marveling at all the woo-woo shops and people. Stepped into the Goddess and Green Man boutique. Took tea cheesecake, and veggie burger at the Blue Note.

Feeling right at home

Entered the Abbey grounds, bought tickets, looked at museum items, awaited our guide. Brother David appeared in a hooded black robe and gave us the skinny on Henry the VIII’s Dissolution of the Catholic monasteries in this country and the subsequent ruin of Glastonbury Abbey. Yikes: The good king’s actions were less about divorce and more for wealth and power.

Stories carved in stone

Stories behind the stories

It must have been grand.

The abbott’s kitchen is the best-preserved building. Its four corners in turn held soup cauldrons, meat roasters, a baking oven, and the scullery.

What time’s supper?

Thanked Brother David and shared with him my own guiding experience. Hit the road again, retracing our route in reverse. Our last evening in Amesbury, we dined on squash soup, salad, and beef burger at the Bell–our favourite place.

Next: Bank and Ditch.

Stones

One is advised to book your trip to Stonehenge in advance, reserving a time. We did that the night before, online. Enjoyed another full English breakfast, this time in the George, then rolled north past Woodhenge and west through Larkhill. Looked in vain at the latter place for the exploded detention camp depicted in V for Vendetta, seeing only intact buildings of a school.

Pulled into the car park at the world heritage site, stepped to the ticket booth for validation, and queued for one of the every-five-minutes shuttle buses. The brief ride took us through a narrow wood, and over the crest of a hill we beheld the uncanny prehistoric monument, the result of tenacity and fortitude. A guidebook and many signs helped interpret what we were seeing, providing context for the region, time, and people involved. We crept clockwise around the circular walkway, gaining every possible viewing angle of the stones and the surrounding ditches, barrows, and countryside. A modern road, the A303, passes close by to the south and experiences constant slowdowns from drivers getting a glimpse.

Outstanding on the Salisbury Plain

Sentinels of Sarsen

More remarkable than the centuries it took to build this site is that the stones are held together with mortice and tenon, like gigantic Legos. The builders used no draft animals besides themselves. Many generations required a forward-looking plan and clever engineering skill to make this structure work and endure. A lovely couple from Chicago recorded our presence, proving we had arrived.

Notice the dimple atop the stone near the center. It would have fit into a notch in the horizontal member.

The museum provided more details for the whole situation. Fell in with a small group listening to a uniformed staffer called Carol, who expounded on the site’s growth over various stages and its calendrical alignment. An axis runs through the middle, tying winter solstice sunset with summer solstice sunrise. Carol added another, more mystical viewpoint: ley lines and terrestrial energy vortexes swirl around the circle. Producing a jade pendulum from her pocket, she demonstrated precisely where an earth meridian sliced though the building. Back in the 80s, I had studied dowsing as an element of geomancy, the “spiritual” side of geography. True or not, when I held Carol’s pendulum above a specific point, it spun in a clockwise direction, but not as vigorously as it did for her. Also on display are reconstructions of typical Neolithic houses and touchable stones from the site.

We returned to Amesbury, rested, then steered to Salisbury. In a charity shop, I found a handsome used wool jacket and Lina a wedding-worthy hat. The cathedral there contains Britain’s tallest spire, and we peered at one of only a few original copies of Magna Carta.

Completed in 1365

The Cloisters date from 1270.

A wrong turn on our way back took us past ultra-charming Middle and Upper Woodford on the (other) River Avon.

It was a good night to swallow a pint and finish our leftovers. Brits take their football (soccer) seriously, and their cheers and cries of anguish echoed throughout the George until late. We didn’t mind.

Next: Glastonbury

The Hotel George, Amesbury

The Hotel George

Friday, April 6 (my seven-month birthday), was a great day to relax and get to know our accommodations. The George rises to three stories. Two wings, running west and north, stretch over the first level. Our room sits up two flights of stairs and down an uneven hall past nonstandard doorways of varying heights. Floors slant in odd directions, and massive, hand-hewn, dowel-fitted beams join walls to ceiling. The bathroom is up three steps; a trio of windows look out to the property’s west side, which includes a patio with tables directly below us. It’s all quite endearing.

Step up, step down

Sign says ‘Mind Your Head’.

Slept too late to catch breakfast in the downstairs dining room, so for our first meal of the day, concierge recommended the Bell, just around the corner. It’s also a pub, where one orders at the bar. We both chose a traditional English breakfast of eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, grilled tomatoes, hash browns, toast, and coffee, with Lina’s tweaked to vegetarian, and we sat with a view to the street.

Browsed the nearby specialty shops and grocery stores, needing assistance when paying with pounds and pence coins. Visited the local History Centre, where two delightful elder ladies filled us in on the millennia-long human occupation of the area: Amesbury claims to be one of the oldest towns in England. Rested, then guzzled tea and coffee.

Ready for action, we spontaneously decided to drive south 20 minutes to the Old Sarum, a 12th century castle site that began around 500 BC as an Iron-Age hill fort. Inner and outer circular ditches look like moats, but never held water. Instead, the earthworks discouraged attack. Norman-era kings occupied the walled residence only occasionally, but a great cathedral between the rings attracted clergy and commoners.

Defensive ditch in foreground, cathedral footprint in distance

Inner courtyard and castle ruins

Views to the south offered Salisbury, or New Sarum, the town that replaced this settlement. We purchased a bottle of celtic mead on our way out for later consumption, then returned to Amesbury.

Big dine-out on our Friday date was Indian cuisine at Tandoori Nights, just across the lane. L got a vegetable masala while I consumed some kind of lamb. The place was obnoxiously noisy, but we took out enough leftovers for another meal later. The George was jumping with thumping music and great guffawing until nearly midnight–such is the charm of staying above a 13th century coaching inn.

Next: the stones speak.

Once Found, Now Lost

Up and at ’em. After helping myself a bowl of muesli and cow milk, Jonathan prepared a fulfilling breakfast of eggs, bacon, and toast. I wrote some, then Linda and I took a walk in the sunny, cool morning along the bike path and through a sheep field to the ancient church, St. George’s. There we tested J’s ceramic flower vases on the pews for the wedding. The building dates from the late 1200s and, like most such vintage sanctuaries in England, was originally Catholic. You can feel the grandeur and weight of deep time here.

Strolled back via the main roads, taking in numerous sights and sounds remembered from our trip here in 2010. After a cheese and bread lunch that couldn’t be beat, we packed and prepared to bug out. Louisa is kind enough to lend us her car for our getaway to megalithic and sacred sights to the southwest. I hadn’t driven in the UK since my outing on the Summer Solstice in Scotland during the aforementioned journey eight years ago. With Louisa in the passenger seat, I got a quick tutorial on the peculiarities of staying on the wrong side and shifting with the left hand while taking her to nearby Shipston for an errand. I passed muster, so took her back to Brailes and said farewell.

It’s a little unnerving to flip your brain mirror-image and deal with cars in the other lane coming right at you. That, and England’s secondary roads are much narrower than those in Texas and mostly lack shoulders. Turning is tricky, as is negotiating the ubiquitous roundabouts. In the British tradition, I kept calm and carried on.

Stopped in Lechlade for coffee, then made a wrong turn in Swindon, a place our hostess admonished us to avoid, and went the wrong way in Marlborough. Just as we were maybe a mile from destination Amesbury, another slip-up sent us westward on a motorway with few exits. A kind local told us how to quickly get back on track, but my low blood sugar, full bladder, and nonfunctioning Google maps conspired against us to waste an whole other hour. We discovered suburban Amesbury with its street after street of row after row of utilitarian but joyless residences.

You can imagine our exhausted joy when we finally pulled up to the George Hotel in the heart of old Amesbury. Checked in, moved our belongings to Room 16, then plopped ourselves down in the pub for a couple pints, battered cod, chips, tomato omelette, and excellent service. More about this 13th century gem in our next chapter.

That, my friends, was quite a day.