8/2/07 Day Four: From Dublin to Cork

We got up early, ate our last breakfast in Dublin and hit the road. We were heading south to Cork City, a trip along the east coast of Ireland that would take most of the day. We retrieved the rental car from the underground garage and took up the positions we would keep for the rest of the trip: I rode shotgun (on the left), and Dad was in the back seat, probably because he thought it would be harder for us to toss him out of the moving car if he was back there. Seth drove.

How this decision was reached is a story worth repeating. Seth met Maria, my travel agent, the day we decided to book this trip as a Father’s Day present for the old man. While discussing what we wanted to do on our trip, Seth and I interacted like we usually do. Maria would later confide in me that she thought we really hated each other, and that one of us would not be returning from the trip. She seriously considered asking us to find another travel agent. At one point, Maria asked us about our rental car preferences.

“Automatic or standard transmission?” she asked. All three of us drive stick, so Seth and I agreed on standard, figuring we could take turns driving. “One driver is less expensive than three,” she said. Turns out much less expensive; one driver would save us about thirty bucks a day. We considered it for a moment. Then Seth, with all his customary decorum says to me, in the presence of this woman he has just met: “Well, fuck you. I’m driving, then.” (You see, even though I’m three years and eight days older than Seth, and even though I’ve been driving three years longer than Seth, and even though I have driven a standard for eighteen-plus years, Seth thinks I’m a complete noob who doesn’t know how to drive.) And you wonder why she thought we hated each other?

Driving on the wrong side of the road, on the wrong side of the car, with the shift on the wrong side of your body probably takes some getting used to, but Seth had matters well sorted by the time we reached the southern limits of Dublin. Once out of the city, we took the N11 south along the coast, through the Wicklow Mountains. Although considered a major highway in Ireland, the N11 would be scoffed at by anyone who drives the major highways in the U.S. I drive through Boston almost every day, so the “traffic” on the N11 was a complete joke. It was, however, a much more scenic and easy ride.

One of the coolest things about driving in Ireland is the lack of highway exits. Rather than major roadways being built around towns and cities, roads often lead right through the center of every town, big or small, along the way. One such place was Fern. We rounded a bend in the road and found ourselves in the middle of a small town, which looked to be no more than a gas station; a convenience store that sold, among other things, bundles of peat; a post office; a couple of pubs and a church. It was the church that caught our eyes: old, stone, and home to a few ruined buildings and an old graveyard. It was probably the oldest buing we saw on the entire trip, havin been built in the eighth century! We parked next to a lady selling fresh fish out of the back of a truck and got out to take some pictures.

After a quick stop at the convenience store, we continued on our trip south. We drove through County Wicklow and County Waterford, through towns like Enniscorthy and New Ross (where the N11 turns into the N30), and a few hours later we stopped for lunch in Waterford City, home of the famous Waterford Crystal Factory. None of us gave a shit about crystal, so we didn’t bother stopping at the factory. Instead we went straight to the waterfront shopping district and parked the car next to a very weird guy who was deep in conversation with himself. An hour and a half later we had pretty much seen all Waterford had to offer, which was not much, as you may infer from my lack of Waterford pictures. We ate sandwiches from a local deli, looked at all the closed and empty shops, and left.

As Seth was now quite used to driving—and doing a bang-up job of it, I might add—I figured it was time to have some fun. I’d been quiet long enough.

“Hey, Seth,” I said. “You know who I could never understand?”

“Who?” he said, not really interested at all.

“The Hamburglar. You know, from McDonald’s.” My brother remained silent. “You know, ‘Robble, robble’. That guy.” Seth said nothing. “I mean, what the fuck does ‘robble, robble’ mean, anyway? It’s not even a word! It’s fucking nonsense!”

Seth stared straight ahead, only the slightest involuntary twitch of his cheek indicating he heard me at all. I continued. “A lot of kids were afraid of the Hamburglar when I was a kid; that’s why McDonald’s redesigned his look about twenty years ago. It wouldn’t do to have your Happy Meal spokesman scaring the shit out of the little kids, know what I mean?”

If Seth knew what I meant, he was keeping quiet about it.

“Although I guess you can’t really be called a ‘spokesman’ if all that comes out of your mouth is crap no one can understand, right? Come to think of it, I was never scared of the Hamburglar, I was scared of Grimace. Still am, as a matter of fact. That guy’s a freak. I mean, what the hell’s he supposed to be? He’s a big purple thing, for Christ’s sake—“

“Shut the fuck up!” Seth exploded.

It was our plan to push on to Cork, possibly stopping in Youghal (pronounced ‘Yawl’, not ‘Yoogle’ as Seth would say), a famous seaport town celebrated in many an Irish tune. That was the plan, anyway. But before we could reach Youghal, we went through the small seaside town of Dungarvan. And there we stopped.

We arrived during low tide, which takes on a whole new meaning in Dungarvan. On nearby pylons, we could see the dark line that indicated the water level when it as high tide. It was about fifteen feet off the ground, currently where most of the boats rested. We strolled along the harbor, taking photos of the grounded boats, frankly wondering why anyone would moor their vessels in a place that turned into (semi-)solid ground twice a day. “That can’t possibly be good for the boats,” Dad said, indicating a small craft perched on its keel, sinking slowly into the mud. Next to it were a few boats on their sides.

We made the circuit of the harbor, where were pleasantly surprised to discover that Dungarvan was a castle town that offered a nice view of the surrounding landscape. We took a few pictures in front of Dungarvan Castle before we looked at our watches and realized that if we wanted to get to Cork before dinner, we’d best get a move on. We’d have to skip Youghal.

“I don’t suppose anyone knows where the hotel is?” Seth asked.

I looked at the reservation. “Says ‘Anderson’s Quay, Cork.’”

“Where the hell is that?”

“Well, let’s see,” I said, “the last time I was in Cork City, which was never, I’m pretty sure Anderson’s Quay was near the river. Quays, by their nature, usually are.”

Despite Seth’s predictable reaction to my sarcasm, it turns out I was right. Anderson’s Quay, along the River Lee, is smack in the center of Cork City. Our hotel was on the corner of St. Patrick’s bridge. That ship in the picture was moored right outside my hotel room window. Without getting too much into the particulars, let’s just say our accommodations in Cork were the worst we would have on the entire trip. After parking in an underground lot two blocks away, lugging our stuff to the lobby and checking in, it was early evening and everything in the city was closing. Seth asked the guy at the front desk what there was to do in town. Although we didn’t know it, we were actually close to the city center. Front-desk guy provided Seth with a small map of our side of the river, with shops and bars highlighted. He also told Seth, in no uncertain terms, that there was nothing for him on the other side of the river, and that he “didn’t want to go there.”

For all its claims to being “Ireland’s Second City”, none of us were very impressed with Cork. The locals, while not unfriendly, certainly weren’t very welcoming, and it made us think Cork was a tough town. We walked around the shopping district for a while and got some dinner at an upscale restaurant that seemed to cater to the after-work crowd. I tried to get a martini for the first time and was pretty much told there was no cocktail service. I settled for a pint of Guinness instead. The food was expensive and not particularly memorable (I had to ask Seth where we ate for this post). Soon after dinner, we went back to the hotel. Dad told us he was tired and was going to bed. Seth and I tried to find something cool about Cork before tomorrow, when we were due to leave town.

And find it we did.

The Hi-B (short for Hibernian Bar) is a hole-in-the-wall on Oliver Plunkett Street on the second floor of a hairdressing academy. (Just ignore those two clowns in the picture above, they wouldn’t get out of the way.) We walked into a shabby place about the size of my living room. On one end, a bar surrounded by a dozen or so stools; the rest of the place was taken up by tables and couches. There was no place to sit. The place was packed. We took one look around and left, disgusted.

I made it into the hallway before I realized my brother hadn’t left with me. He was talking to the bartender, a cute brunette of about thirty, who had come out from behind the bar to chase us. Seth beckoned me over.

“You’re not leaving because there’s no place to sit, are you?” the bartender asked. We nodded. “Wait a minute,” she said. She walked over to a group of six or so college-age kids, clustered around a group of small tables. “You’re not ordering anything else, are you? Then take off. We need the table.” The group shuffled out, looking sullen. “These kids come in every night, order one round between the six of them and then order water for the rest of the night. Then they take up space for a few hours. Go, sit down. What can I get you?”

We ordered a couple of rounds and sat down. The exhaustion of the day set in, and by our second drink, we were both pretty tired, and more than a little let down by Cork. Seth started to scold me. “Dude, you’re letting all the little shit get to you. So this place sucks. We’re leaving tomorrow, anyway. Just relax.”

I was about to reply, but all of a sudden this guy at the bar started singing. And I don’t mean singing softly. He began really belting it out, without accompaniment of any kind.

T'was on one bright March morning I bid New Orleans adieu

And I took the rode to Jackson town, me fortune to renew

I cursed all foreign money, no credit could I gain

Which filled me heart with longin' for the Lakes of Pontchartrain.

The rest of the pub quieted down while he sang. He was unquestionably drunk, but had a powerful, gravelly voice. He loved to sing, and the pub loved to hear him. My eyes started to well up. “Christy Moore,” I said to no one in particular. “Lakes of Pontchartrain.”

He finished his song and everyone in the Hi-B, including us, applauded. He was a regular, and soon the other locals began calling on him to sing another song. He obliged, and halfway through the next song Seth turned and looked at me. “Dad should be here,” he said.

We really considered running back to the hotel and waking Dad up, but we both figured by the time we returned, our seats would be gone, and so, possibly, might be the guy singing. We stayed for a while, had a few more pints and listened to him sing a bit more until it was time to leave. We each had a parting glass for the walk home, and I gave the bartender enough for one more. “Whatever that guy wants, it’s on me” I said.

“It’ll be Guinness,” she said, turning toward the tap.

“Then make it a Guinness. And, hey..." She looked at me. "Thanks for coming after us.” She smiled at us both, and we left the Hi-B. “I think this just made Cork worthwhile” Seth said.