Where the Grass is Greener: Day 1

Arrival and Kilkenny

We arrived to a rain-whipped Dublin, sleepless but otherwise whole. From the timidity of our bite-size car, the highways were a left-sided streak of terror. A gray, heavy rain crashed against our windshield as I tried to stifle my panic while M took on stickshift driving with the eagerness of a Boy Scout. Within minutes of leaving the airport, we had our first sighting of a Guinness truck. The first puffs of white sticking out of green green grass made us shriek. Sheep! Woolly, grass-munching, butt-in-the-air sheep! M immediately made the solemn promise that he would pet one of those creatures or so God help him.

The Rock of Cashel opened up to postcard blue skies. The limestone castle looked as if it had been gnawed on by a giant with a penchant for rooftops.  One of the first things I noticed were the birds. Pigeons, sparrows and other small flying things dotted the spaces between wall and sky. Throughout the building were small holes left behind by the wood scaffolding used during its construction. Over time, the wood rotted away and left these perfect nesting places for feathered beings.

Legend has it the Devil took a bite out of the limestone mountain across the fields and spat it out to create the present tourist spot. Our tour guide wore polka dot and proved to have as much air in her head as the castle ruins. She stammered through many insightful tidbits like “and here they had various rooms where they did various things.” It wasn’t until we caught a few minutes of another guide’s explanations that we realized just how wrong her “facts” had been. Surrounding the church were tombstones dating from the 15^th century to two years ago. Even now there is a waiting list to be laid to rest at this historical center of tribal power and the Catholic church. Did lying beneath the Rock of Cashel mean a fast pass to heaven, I wondered. A few years ago, a powerful hurricane had wrenched away the head of a great Gaelic tombstone and the engraved pieces lay at the base, sinking into grass.

From the Rock of Cashel’s crowded graveyard, we caught a glimpse of another ruin nearby. This was Hoar Abbey, the subject of many giggles and dirty jokes. But Hoar was in reference to hoarfrost, which is the morning ice that clings to blades of grass. The monks at the abbey wore gray robes that reminded people of the little icicles. I followed a grassy path through the fields as M sauntered forward. The abbey is more modest than Cashel and guarded by a large tree with its arms spilling with white blossoms. Moss and vines freely roamed its stones. There is something about old cemeteries that really captivates the imagination. I guess it’s because they’re the only traces left of individual lives. We can find out their names, their familial roles, calculate their age and try to glean personality traits from the styles of their tombstones. One of my favorites was a small, gnawed one with a timid skull. I think it belonged to a child. As we left the abbey, M took a side trip to try and pet a cow. He ran away when their gargantuan size became evident as they began circling him ominously.

The tailwind of the first thrilling day was pushing us forward and soon we were at Cahir Castle. Inside, we joined a tour just as they were wrapping up. The guide did not have much charisma but he seemed sincere and knowledgeable. He told us that when water was unsafe to drink in the city due to mixing with sewers, beer was the primary thirst quencher. Even children drank beer. An older lady in the group scowled and he quickly added that alcohol content was probably only two or three percent. The castle wasn’t terribly impressive but it had rickety, twisting staircases and deliciously low ceilings.

Kilkenny was our final stop of the day. Most houses did not have numbers and only listed a street name or just the town as an address. Luckily, the town was so small that we only suffered minimum confusion before finding Melrose House. Our hostess was a blonde, friendly mother of at least two children. She ushered us into an upstairs room that, to my relief, was spotlessly clean. We collapsed on the bed for a few minutes and revved up our engines again. This time, our legs carried us into town and to Kilkenny Castle. It was evening already and the castle was closed. Yet the sun still dangled enthusiastically in the sky. We quickly learned that sunset wasn’t until ten o’clock most summer nights on this northern island. Behind the castle sprawled immaculate lawns and casual strollers. A large tree with a cut-off platform of an arm tempted us to climb.

Kyteler’s Inn felt like a lively stone cellar. They claim to be the oldest tavern in town and they have a poor soul dressed up as a green-faced witch to prove it. I never did ask why they had a witch rocking in an armchair in the corner. I imagined the mask must have been hot and sticky. Maybe it wasn’t even a woman underneath the black robe and some teenage boy who lives next door. Instead of the iconic Guinness, we chose the local Smythwicks for the night, which was light, amber and refreshing. My lamb stew was a thick, flavorful bowl of tender meat and potatoes. A two-man Irish band filled the place with fiddle rhythms. When one of the men sang with his eyes closed, a trembling voice and without the distraction of instruments, I melted at the sweet and heartfelt ballad. He had sad eyes underneath gray wisps of hair.

Perhaps the first day had multiplied our energy and magnified our excitement but we continued to wander through the narrow, cobblestone streets of Kilkenny after dinner. We stumbled upon yet another church and another cemetery full of hidden identities. Next to the church was a pub that seemed bustling with gray-haired locals. By the time we had sat down for our first Guinness of the trip, I soon realized that those “locals” was actually a large group of German tourists. There were a handful of true Irish, whose eyes were glued to the TV broadcasting a PGA game. I couldn’t fathom why golf of all sports was such a draw to them until M told me that a young Irish player had made it into the finals. His curly reddish hair and fair skin made him clear to spot among the players.

One of the most important discoveries of the night was the fact that Guinness tastes better in Ireland. I don’t know if it’s their masterful pouring technique, involving a first pour, several minutes of rest for the foam to gather at the top and a second pour to top it off, but it tasted rich and creamy and smooth. There was none of the burnt bitterness that overwhelms your mouth as in the Guinness I’ve had in the U.S.

I had been slipping into the oblivion of jetlag and lack of sleep all day but after this Guinness, I was ready to surrender. Just as we left the “old man bar,” as M called it, I realized that I didn’t have my blue and black stripe scarf. We went back inside but yielded nothing. We walked back to Kyteler’s Inn and interrogated the bartender but he could only find a flowery scarf. Giving up, we walked back to the bed & breakfast.  I vowed to buy a scarf in Ireland to substitute for the loss but as it turns out, I never did.