8/3/07 Day Five Part One: Cork to Killarney

Over breakfast the next day (the worst breakfast of the trip; the hotel in Cork really sucked), we told Dad all about the Hi-B. He told us he would have liked to have been with us, but that he was unconscious very soon after retiring to his room. Our drive ahead was nowhere near as long as the one yesterday, so that morning we decided to see what we could of Cork before we left for Killarney. After all, although Cork hardly impressed us, it was unlikely we would get back there anytime soon. Not taking the time to at least look around a bit would be really dumb, kind of like not packing enough socks for the trip.

“I need socks,” Dad said. “I only brought three pairs.” He caught the look Seth and I gave each other. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Despite our quest for socks, there still wasn’t a whole lot to see in Cork, at least not first thing in the morning. One cool thing we did find, though, was an indoor market, full of butcher stalls, fresh produce and cheeses. We watched as men butchered the carcasses of sheep and pigs and sides of beef, arranging their cuts in display cases for the patrons. This was fresh stuff. As a guy who loves to cook, I wished I had access to such a wide variety of fresh ingredients on a regular basis rather than making do with the grocery store. I wanted very much to buy some of the cheeses I saw, but I knew we were going to be on the road soon, and I didn’t really have any place to store it. I guessed that a ripe cheese would rapidly lose its charm in a Ford Focus.

Something had been nagging me since that first breakfast buffet. I approached a young butcher. “Hi there,” I said. He nodded in greeting. “I was wondering if you could tell me what black pudding is made of?”

“Pig’s blood,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” I said. I suspected as much. Blood pudding isn’t anything new to me. It’s quite popular in the Portuguese community where I live. I don’t like it. On my first day in Dublin, I tried the Irish buffet variety and it had the look and texture of a small veggie burger. I don’t remember what it tasted like, but it was pretty bland. I figured it for a mass-produced frozen variety. “What about white pudding?” I asked.

“Pig’s blood,” he answered, “but with fat as well.” I resolved not to eat any more pudding on my trip.

We wandered around the shopping area, where we were still unable to locate a silver bangle for Mom, or at least not one that didn’t look like you could buy it at any cheap accessory store in the mall. Dad bought his socks. The antique stores I came across were either closed or didn’t have what I was looking for, namely straight razors and old books. (In fact, it seems that in Ireland, “antique store” is merely another name for “old shitty silverware store.”) Soon enough, we checked out and hit the road, bound northeast on the N22 towards Killarney. But first, we had a stop to make.

Just a few miles up the road directly north of Cork City is the small town of Blarney—home to the flagship location of the Blarney Woolen Mills. This is a huge place filled with both machine-woven and handmade Aran Sweaters, as well as a wide variety of apparel and other merchandise ranging from cheap musical instruments, bookmarks, Guinness stuff, postcards and, of course, all manner of knickknacks and souvenir crap. Aside from the outstanding woolen and tweed clothing, there wasn’t much there that I wanted, and Aran Sweaters aren’t cheap, even in Ireland. I took a while to walk around and browse, but Dad and Seth lost interest quickly. When I caught up to them outside, Dad was eating an ice-cream cone and looking pissed.

“Want an ice-cream?” he asked. I said no. “I’ll buy it,” he offered. Again I said no, thanks. “Try it,” he said, thrusting the cone in my face. “It’s good!”

Until that moment I did not know how deep my father’s passion for ice-cream ran, but I realized that if I didn’t at least pretend to consider getting some, he would physically assault me with the cone until I gave in. I wandered over to the ice-cream counter and went through the motions of deciding on a cone. Dad told me why he was annoyed. It seems while I was inside looking at sweaters, Dad was behind an American couple in the ice-cream line—a very loud, obnoxious American couple who arrived on a tour bus. The wife proceeded to berate the ice-cream counter girl because the counter didn’t offer Reese’s pieces as an ice-cream topping. “You’ve never heard of Reese’s?” she reportedly asked, as if the counter girl had the intelligence of a corn-fed mule. When she was told no, she walked away in a huff, along with her husband. “And we wonder why people think Americans are assholes,” Dad said.

The Blarney Woolen Mills are right next door to Blarney Castle, at the top of which is the world-famous Blarney Stone. You may have heard of it before. But you may not know that the Blarney Stone isn’t actually much of a stone at all. It’s more like a wall. You’re supposed to kiss it, as the stone is rumored to bestow the gift of eloquent speech upon any who do so. I’m not concerned about acquiring eloquent speech, because I know lots of big words already. I was more concerned about kissing a stone that millions of people have kissed with their herpes-spotted lips. Without question, Blarney Castle was the touristiest (yes, that’s really a word) place we visited on the entire trip. However, it’s not like you’d travel all the way to Ireland and then all the way to Blarney Castle, pay your admission fee and then not kiss the stone. Who the hell would do that?

“Jesus Christ—look at that line,” Dad said. “Screw this, I’m not waiting.”

After Seth and I informed Dad that yes, he was going to wait and yes, he was absolutely going to kiss the fucking stone, we wandered around the grounds of Blarney Castle and took in the beautiful landscaping and natural rock formations half-hidden in the surrounding woods.

Seth was amazed at the age of some of the trees, while Dad, for some reason known only to him, was fascinated by the swampy pools that periodically dotted the castle grounds. Finally we made our way to the castle, and began our ascent to the top.

Although we were all keen to kiss the stone, I have to tell you that climbing to the top of Blarney Castle was not an easy thing for me to do. I tend to not do well with tight spaces. The trip up is through one of the original circular towers, on a spiral stair with uneven, hand-cut stone steps and nothing but a rope as thick as my arm for support. There is no room to move, and you’re packed in this space with dozens of people ahead and behind. Every once in a while a corridor will branch off the staircase into a chamber, which means the line stops for a while as people take pictures. I was stuck on the staircase for about five minutes, but it felt like hours. Despite my usually cool exterior, both Seth and Dad could tell I wasn’t having an easy time, and when we finally exited the tower into the fresh air on top, it wasn’t a moment too soon.

The view from the top is, as you can see, quite something. The line to reach the stone stretched along the ramparts, so we had a lot of time to take it in as we waited our turn. Off in the distance, a large structure which I’m sure was a part of the castle grounds could be seen through the trees.

“Dude,” I said to Seth, “look— it’s Dracula’s house!” Seth rolled his eyes.

I considered dazzling my brother with my literary knowledge and telling him that Bram Stoker, the author of Dracula, was, in fact, Irish; but instead I opted for another subject of discourse. “Hey Seth, you remember Count Chocula?”

“What about him?” Seth asked, obviously regretting it instantly.

“I bet if Count Chocula was real, he would live in a house like that. But it would be made of chocolate, of course, because that’s what he eats; not blood. Count Chocula is another one like the Hamburglar. You remember abut ten years ago some genius decided the animated Count Chocula had to go, and they put some fucking dude in Count Chocula make-up instead?”

“No, I don’t remember that,” Seth said. He looked at me, then glanced pointedly over the side of the castle wall, measuring the distance to the ground.

“Well, they did. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. I think he was in one commercial. He was way too creepy, and his big, prosthetic chin looked like a pair of elongated, hairless balls.”

Seth was about to reply (or throw me off the roof—I never did find out which) but at that moment we arrived at the Blarney Stone. Kissing the stone is a bit of a procedure. You must lie on your back and hang backwards, kissing the wall upside-down. You’re supported by one of the castle staff, who is there to make sure you don’t fall off the castle, I suppose, but also to help you line up your lips with the wall. They’re very fast and efficient and keep things moving very quickly. They do, however, take their time helping women with big boobs, but hey, who can blame them? I would, too.

I wish I could show pictures of the fateful kiss, but I can’t. You see, although they allow you to take as many pictures as you want, you don’t really have time to take any. Hardly is one person done with his smooch than another is laying down to slide into his spot. In addition, the best angle for taking a photo (i.e. directly above the subject) is already covered by the Castle’s own camera, which takes two pictures of each person kissing the stone. The operator gives you a ticket, and you’re allowed to purchase these pictures for the low, low price of €10.00 each (about $14.00). We all forked over the dough, of course.

The trip down the castle was much faster, down an obviously newer stairway than the one we ascended. This was a relief as I would have taken a fire-pole rather than go down the same way I went up. After a final walk around the grounds, we left Blarney; once again taking the N22 towards Killarney—where hopefully, at long last, I’d find some pipers.

Or maybe not.