Cork to Connemara

I quite enjoyed the ferry. I had one bout of sea legs when I got up to use the toilets and realized I was swaying like I’d had a few too many if you know what I mean, but other than that there were no real problems. I got to Rosslare Port a little after 6 in the evening and had a stressful hour involving my lack of cash funds and their dire necessity in the purchasing of a bus ticket to Cork. Silly me, I figured a ferry port bringing tourists from across the sea would possess a cash point but that most definitely was not the case. After identifying that there was a bank in the small village (naturally at the peak of a nice little hill) and that the bus would pick me up near this place I power walked up the numerous stairs and bobbled through the streets until I located the bank and my cash salvation. The next leg was the four-hour plus bus ride from Rosslare to Cork with a 40-minute break in Waterford where you had to pay to use the toilets. Having only crisp bank notes I had to kindly ask a stranger for 20 cents in order to relieve my bladder. Finally arriving in Cork I hailed a cab and made my way to Anne’s house (which is called by a name and not possessing a clearly labeled house number) just before midnight.

I spent a little over a day in Cork so you can ask for my opinion of it but it really wouldn’t tell you much. About half my time there was spent in Anne’s house, I spent a couple hours walking around the University College Cork campus, which is lovely in my opinion, and a short stroll into the town centre where we had some bread and a smoothie from an English market (funny, eh?) After a lovely dinner cooked by Anne of a breaded chicken wrapped in ham (it has a name but I don’t remember it), cornbread and cinnamon carrots, we realized winging the trip was maybe not such a good idea. We then spent the rest of the evening booking hostels and re-arranging itineraries until we had something that looked like it would work. After much deliberation we decided our first stop would be Galway and a tour of the beautiful Connemara region of the west. Of course that also meant another four-hour bus ride…

It started raining the second we got off the bus in Galway and by the time we had consulted a variety of maps, walked in the right direction on the right street we became confused by the numbering system of the houses and ended up calling the B&B to get some help. It was about 2 minutes farther down on the street, of course, but we were greeted by that great Irish hospitality in the mother and daughter that run the B&B recommended by Rick Steves and booked at a rather late hour the night before. After recovering from the rain trudge we re-emerged into the overcast, but not raining, streets of Galway. We walked through the pedestrian, and touristy, city centre popping into one of the pubs that had live traditional music playing and staying the length of a pint before grabbing some Italian food at a nearby restaurant which was good but overpriced. And with that we called it a night on the town and headed back to our inviting beds.

In the morning we had a full Irish breakfast (which differs from an English breakfast in that instead of grilled mushrooms and a tomato you get little sliced potatoes) and were picked up by the Connemara tour bus in front of the B&B, thanks to our thoughtful and knowledgeable hostess. The day tour was awesome because we got to see so much stuff in a short amount of time and we had an entertaining tour guide who kept us engaged the whole time. Our first stop was at Ross Errily Friary; a ruined abbey that was more like a maze of stone with varying degrees of wholeness. The sun was out as well which cast glowing light through rows of archways leading to several different locations. After being given a run down of the history we were given a few minutes to wander around and take photos. I immediately went in the opposite direction of the crowd and found myself in what was thought to have been the Abbot’s rooms. Just standing there looking up at the roofless stone walls as the strong wind pushed white clouds across a brilliant blue sky was humbling. Far too soon we were herded back onto the bus, but not before Anne and I engaged in a mini photo shoot, and were off to the next destination. A reoccurring theme of the tour was the filming locations of the John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara film, The Quiet Man. Have you seen it? Well I haven’t but as soon as I have my netflix account back it will be up there on my queue! We stopped in the village of Cong which is known for two things: as the filming location for The Quiet Man and for it’s proximity to Ashford Castle, the grandest castle in Ireland that you can actually book a room at. We were given about an hour to do what we liked so Anne and I had a quick look at the ruined Cong Abbey (not as impressive as Ross Errily in it’s isolated grandness) and then went on the 10 minute walk up to see this “premiere castle” as I believe it is proclaimed in the brochure. Well, I’m here to tell you that it is THE premiere castle hotel for the world as far as I’m concerned. Don’t believe me? Check this out: http://www.ashford.ie/tour.html After that brief detour (we only had time to check out the front of the castle and walk over the fortified bridge) we made our way through the countryside to Lough Nafooey, through stunning valleys with sheep in abundance, and o’er roads that really just weren’t meant for a bus. We passed by the town of Leenane, the Killary Fjord, the only fjord and longest inlet in Ireland, and ended up at the climax of the tour: Kylemore Abbey.

Kylemore Abbey and I have a long history with each other. Years ago I bought an Ireland poster online showing a mysterious castle across a loch with a small boat tied to the bank framed by the lush green that you imagine Ireland to have. The picture, as you have no doubt figured out, is of Kylemore Abbey. So when the bus pulled into the car park, I disembarked with an innate curiosity and also a sense of reluctance. When we came into view of the house, it looked exactly like the poster, there was even a small wooden boat rocking gently in the lake. It wasn’t as green in real life but I was very impressed with the first glimpse. It was built romantically by a man for his great love, fell into disrepair after their generation had gone and then fell into the hands of a Benedictine Order of Nuns. We had access to a few of the rooms on the ground floor which radiated an early 20th century grandeur that made you wonder what the rest of the place, restricted to tourists, looks like. We spent loads of time taking pictures of each other with the castle and lake as backdrops while we wandered from the castle to the church (built as a final act of devotion for a dead wife by the original owner) and on to the walled Victorian gardens, which I wasn’t entirely impressed with. We also had lunch at the café, a nice French onion soup and salad. After Kylemore, we drove through more of the picturesque Irish valleys filled with lakes, sheep and derelict cottages left over from the famine over 150 years ago. Our last stop was at “the quiet man” bridge. Apparently it features in the film as the place where John Wayne pulls over for a cigarette, not a bad place to pull over and admire the scenery, I think.

We returned to Galway in time for Anne to go to Saturday evening mass. Not being Catholic and not fancying church on a Saturday, I went back to the B&B for some downtime before dinner. I had Irish strew which was very good at a touristy little place where they didn’t even have a license to serve a pint of cider. We decided to check out a pub on the way back that advertised live music and ended up staying for more than one pint. The music was brilliant and the place felt less touristy than the other pubs we had seen in the city centre. We met a girl from Seattle who was student teaching near Dublin for a month and had come to Galway for the weekend. It was fun chatting to her, drinking Guinness from the source and listening to the chill music. Later in the evening a two man cover act came on playing a lot of classic oldies and some newer stuff as well but the highlight was definitely when the great tune “Galway Girl” came up. It was perfect. Then we left at nearly midnight, realized it was daylights savings meaning it was actually almost one in the morning and quickly got into bed for we were off again in the morn, making our way north to Donegal.

Shakespeare and Wales

I arrived at the station in Stratford-Upon-Avon only slightly muffed from my stressful connection in Birmingham. I had a good 10 minutes to walk from New to Moor street station and now that I know the route could do it easily but as I was staggering under an overstuffed backpack and looking nervously around at signs while walking determinedly through the crowded streets it was much more of an ordeal than any connection ought to be. I also had no idea that trains ran from Moor Street to Stratford about every half hour. So when I reached Moor Street, panting and mopping the sweat from my brow three minutes after the departure of my train I looked to see that another train would leave in 25 minutes. If only I had known, I would have grabbed a latte at one of the four Starbucks I saw on my flustered sightseeing tour through Birmingham’s city centre! Oh well, I think I’ve successfully instilled in you my loathing for the multiple city rail station system.

I found my B&B easily enough and chatted amiably with the proprietors who had been to Santa Barbara in the past and thought it was lovely all the while pressing numerous brochures and maps upon me showing the various routes following in Shakespeare’s footsteps. In case you didn’t know, Stratford is the town in which the infamous William Shakespeare was born, lived and died with a brief interlude in London where we wrote a few plays and sonnets that you may or may not have heard about. Essentially, Stratford is a town who has been cashing in on the Shakespeare fame since the man’s death and probably even before that. Everything has a name claiming its fame and relation to the playwright whether or not it’s genuine. Despite its rather blatant tourist focus, the town has a certain charm to it. I bought a ticket to visit the five “Shakespeare Houses,” three of which are in the town centre and two of which are a short distance out of town. I only made it to three but the ticket is valid for 12 months so you never know I might get my money’s worth later on. I only had time to visit Shakespeare’s birthplace on the day of my arrival. I walked around the small city centre and had dinner at what claimed to be the oldest pub in Stratford, Garrick’s Inn. I spent the rest of the evening dancing around my gigantic room that contained not one, not two but three beds. It was rather exciting having so many options but naturally I went for the biggest one and tired from the days travels, promptly fell asleep.

Sunday started with a filling English breakfast, the kind you can only get at an English B&B, and headed on the footpath out of town to Anne Hathaway’s cottage. Now don’t go thinking I’m a celebrity stalker, I’m not referring to Anne Hathaway of Princess Diaries fame but to Shakespeare’s wife. I think I’m just much more suited and at peace in the country because the moment the people faded away and were replaced by chirping birds and the white tales of rabbits hiding upon my approach I was engulfed in a sense of calm. I was one of the first visitors of the day and enjoyed the period dressed guides who imparted heaps of information about the Hathaway family and the living conditions of the time for their class. I wandered through the woodland walk where I was taken into the confidences of two young boys who pointed out various wildlife to me. I even took a go at the hedge maze that was straightforward but frustratingly time consuming and lost its novelty very quickly. I visited Nash’s House and New Place, the home of Shakespeare’s daughter and doctor husband and the place where Shakespeare’s adult home once stood. In a historically tragic event, one of the succeeding owners of New Place became tiresome of the Shakespeare seeking visitors gawking at his home that he tore the thing down and now all that’s left is the courtyard well and some archways that once adorned the cellar. I spent the rest of the afternoon on a guided walking tour through the town that took me by a lot of things I’d already seen but also introduced about 27 new things about Shakespeare that I didn’t already know. We did make it to Holy Trinity Church where Shakespeare and some of his family members are buried. It’s rather odd standing there and thinking that this English genius is down there…so I snapped a photo and shuffled out of the way so the next person could do the same thing. After the tour I stopped in at the Shakespeare Hotel for a tea and some reading. I spent the remaining daylight hours walking along the river until I got hungry. Had the most disappointing and quickest dinner I’ve ever experienced at a pub/inn I don’t even recall the name of, something with a swan in it. The carvery was nearly finished and there was only one miniscule Yorkshire pudding sitting humbly amongst the roast potatoes. With a mind to snatch it up, I was distracted by the chatty chef who was attempting to befriend me and moved on to the sauces while three middle aged women who I guessed to be of Dutch or Scandinavian origin came to the table. There they made clear that the purpose in eating a carvery was in order to have Yorkshire pudding and snatched up the last one as I silently cursed myself and sat down, defeated, at my small table. Ten minutes later I paid the bill and walked back to the B&B for my last night in Shakespeare-land.

Wales greeted me with a train full of leprechauns on their way back to Ireland. Actually it was a bunch of Ireland football or rugby supporters but they sure looked like a bunch of leprechauns in all their green glory. I took the train to Fishguard harbor, where I would be taking the ferry in two days time, when I realized the harbor is about a mile and a half from the town where I was staying. About 40 minutes later, after several confused looks, crossing the same road seven different times, climbing a far too steep hill and winding my way down a street that seemed to have no end, I arrived at the Manor Town House. Gail, the woman who runs the B&B was very friendly and welcoming but had a way of speaking that left you wondering if there was more coming even when she was finished saying what she had to say, this led to some rather awkward silences or overlapping speech when we would talk as I had no idea whether she was going to continue talking or wait for me to reply. She invited me to join her dog and her on a walk in Newport an hour later and having no other ideas of how to occupy my time, accepted the offer. She showed me two Neolithic Cairns that dotted the countryside on the way to Newport, a few miles north along the coast. By the time we returned to Fishguard it was nearly dark so I walked through the town to get my bearings before heading back to the Royal Oak pub around the corner from where I was staying. I spent the evening reading my book, (The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society—excellent book that I highly recommend if you haven’t already read it) and writing letters while enjoying dinner and a pint of the local ale, The Reverend James.

Tuesday morning I met the only other patron of the B&B at breakfast, an Australian man called Tony who after chatting for a while offered me a lift to St. David’s where I was planning on doing some walking. He was a lovely chap, visiting his son in London and seeing a bit more of the country, he also has a daughter called Kara and how many of those are there, really? He dropped me off at the tourist info centre in St. David’s where I was given a map and directions from the very Welsh woman at reception. I had two options, a two-hour circle that would bring me back in time to catch the 12:50 bus to Fishguard or a longer circle that would take me around the peninsula with views to Ramsay Island. I’d originally planned to do the shorter walk and then explore the small cathedral town of St David’s but the weather wouldn’t allow me to cut in from the coast after so short of time. I had stripped down to my t-shirt and relished the warmth from the sun for which I had been so long deprived. There were people walking the path but few enough to feel like I owned the very cliffs, sheep, birds and breathtaking views. I had short conversations with the sheep telling them how lucky they were to inhabit such prime pasture real estate, I don’t think they got it, and I even found myself singing loudly like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music, how could one not express oneself? After four hours I was starting to feel pretty knackered and the wind picked up so I no longer felt the sun’s warmth and my conversations with the sheep turned more seeking as I tried to follow the footpath back to St. David’s. I finally made it back after back tracking on myself through a farm and being herded with a large herd of sheep and lambs to a new field by some very rambunctious farmers. I took a look at the famous cathedral for which the town is known and the ruined bishops palace that stands by it. As a reward for my successful day of walking I treated myself to a warming cream tea before the bus journey back to Fishguard. That night I returned to the Royal Oak for “Folk @ the Oak,” cute little slogan they’ve got going there. Ran into my Aussie friend at dinner and chatted with him while listening to the good music from a wide variety of instruments. The music was good but there were long gaps in between songs, which was rather annoying, but I still enjoyed myself.

Before I left for the ferry on Wednesday I managed to go on a short walk to Fishguard Fort on the other side of the harbor and subsequently down one large hill and back up another. The wind made it interesting, especially when I set my camera up on self timer and watched it fall from a ruined wall to the, luckily, soft grass below. Needless to say I deleted that photo! Instead of walking back to the harbor I took the bus that is timed rather conveniently to get you to the port in a timely matter. I’d never been on a proper ferry before unless you count that boat you take to get from SF to Alcatraz, which I don’t. There were only about a dozen-foot passengers and I followed the others through the check in process and deposited my larger backpack in the luggage room. This thing was big, like some tiny cruise liner, we were led onto deck 7 and not knowing where I was supposed to spend the three and a half cruise to Rosslare followed the others into the “food world” area where there were tons of tables and some comfy seats, one of which I claimed for myself, with a view out the rear window so I could watch Wales and the United Kingdom recede into the distance as I made my way to Ireland.

And it Begins

I realize it’s been nearly a month since I’ve posted an update, but you must forgive me because I have been far too busy having gorgeous experiences in York and engaging in a circular tour of Britain and Ireland. Anyway, these things need time to mull over in one’s mind like a fine whiskey and I had some much needed sleep to catch up with. Unfortunately my head isn’t as sturdy as those Irish oak casks and therefore I must divulge the information I have before it begins to leak, like so many other things, from my noggin. Since I have so much to impart and I don’t want to skimp on any of the really good parts I’m going to tell my tale over various posts. It’s also an organizational thing, you see, It means I’ll have a better chance of telling you what happened in some semblance of order. Just now we’ll transport ourselves back three weeks into the past amid the scramble of the end of term with papers, quizzes, lecture notes, and the really important stuff like spending time with my amazing friends.

York is a city of festivals. It seems every time I turn around there’s something going on whether it involves vikings, holidays, music, culture, or romans. A few weeks ago literature took it’s turn as the York Writer’s Group put together a fortnight of great workshops, readings, open mics etc. Of course I didn’t realize this was going on until half way through when I picked up a leaflet in Waterstone’s (like Barnes & Noble) and had a flip through the events. I’m pretty sure I let out an audible gasp when I saw that coming Wednesday would see Diane Setterfield, author of the novel The Thirteenth Tale, speaking at the Golden Fleece pub. My mother and I read the book a couple of years ago when it first came out and I thought it was brilliant, a modern gothic novel with lots of twists and turns. So I got my friend Jenny, an avid reader, to come with me to the talk that I thought would be packed. Well we got there quite early, had a drink in the pub and then went up to the room where the talk was taking place and found just over a dozen people spread out among the mismatched chairs. I was astounded because in my mind this was the event of them all, but I suppose we all think a bit differently and I was rather glad there were fewer people because it had an intimate feel. The room was great, this is afterall reputedly the most haunted pub in York, the floors slant, a fireplace held centuries of late night gatherings and it looked like the chairs set up in crooked rows had been taken from a variety of homes and times. Mrs. Setterfield read a few passages from the novel and then talked to us about her experience in writing the book. It was really interesting the way she described her thought process, how over a period of years she stumbled upon three separate events that ended up tying the whole story together even though she had no idea they would connect when she came up with them individually. There was a Q&A session at the end during which I asked a question about the relationship between writing and drawing upon personal experience. I also bought a copy of the book, even though I have a perfectly good copy in Chico, because she was signing copies and I really just couldn’t let that slip by. It was really inspiring listening to her and I have come to the realization that writing a novel takes a hell of a lot of time, effort and imagination not to mention the ability to tell a story in a way that captures an audience. Sounds like fun though, don’t you think?

The next 10 days went by in a sort of blur in which my main priorities were finishing my two essays for week 10 so that I could spend time doing other fun things. I managed to get a decent mark on my social policy paper and have high hopes for my history assessed essay. Ellen’s twin sister, Beth came to visit for the weekend and decided York was so fun that she extended her stay until Friday. During that time we saw The Young Victoria, which I really liked and would tell you all to go see but unfortunately I don’t know if there is currently a release date for the US, made pizza’s from scratch for dinner, visited various pubs, celebrated St. Patrick’s day very modestly with a couple pints of Guinness, and had a celebratory end of term night out in town. I also had a visit from Michael, the program director of EAP for the northern part of the UK, which consisted of a meeting with him on Thursday morning to make sure everything was going swimmingly and then a dinner with the other UC students at Pizza Express that was delicious and free so you really can’t beat that. It was all a lot of fun but as you can imagine the week’s activities did not advocate the best sleep patterns so it was with heavy lids and a mind set on adventure that I left York on Saturday morning. Parting ways with Ellen at the station as she headed to Malton to help with lambing at a farm and I headed south to Shakespeare country for the beginning of my Spring adventure.