8/4/07 Day 6: The Ring of Kerry

After breakfast, we returned to my room to decide what we were going to do. Dad lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. After a while, Seth came in.
“After you guys left I went to the hotel bar and I met this guy,” Seth said. “He bummed a cigarette off me and asked where I was from, so I told him we were all here from Boston. He told me all about places we should go on the Ring of Kerry and here in Killarney.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah. He said we should definitely check out Muckross House and Gardens. He says it’s beautiful landscaping. I’d like to go there.”
“Sure, we can do that” Dad said.
“You talked to this guy for a while, huh?” I asked.
“So what?”
“So it sounds like he wanted to give you a tour.”
“Whatever.”
“A tour of his pants.”
Seth glared at me. I thought Dad was going to die laughing. “I really don’t give a shit if you go or not. I’ve got the car keys, asshole.”
We took a quick look at the map and decided to proceed counterclockwise around the Ring, starting in Killorglin and circling the Kerry peninsula. We figured it would take all day, and it did. Along the way we hit about fifteen towns, so I’ll just relay the highlights here.

Straight out of Killarney, we had a spectacular view of Lough Leane, Kerry’s largest lake. The first big town we hit was Killorglin, where we saw signs advertising the annual Puck festival, which either just happened or was just about to. Either way, we wouldn’t be around for it, which is too bad, because I since looked it up and it sounds kind of cool. Seems the Puck fair is presided over by a goat, and includes lots of dancing, drinking and general merrymaking over the course of a few days. I’m always down for some drinking and merrymaking, and Seth sure loves goats, so it really is too bad we missed it.

We drove the N70 through Glenbeigh and the surrounding small towns, pausing now and again to pull off the road and take pictures. Let me just get this out of the way: The Ring of Kerry was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been in my life. For every picture you see here, there were dozens of other pictures you’re not seeing because of bandwidth, or that could not be taken because there was no place to pull off the road. I dearly wished for a wide-angle lens, because even the best picture you see here is only about one-fifth of the view we were seeing when it was taken. It was, for all three of us, our favorite part of the entire trip. (Since we’ve returned, Dad has made it clear that upon his death, he wants to be cremated and scattered somewhere around the Ring. “I don’t think they’ll just let us into the country with human remains, no matter romantic the notion,” I said; to which Dad replied, “Well, that won’t really be my problem, now will it?”)

Driving along the N70, we saw lots of houses that were in various stages of completion. In fact, most were little more than foundations and/or a few skeletal beams put together far off the main road with no visible means of access. We were reminded of our Dublin bus driver, who told us that the average house in Ireland was around €490,000, or roughly $720,000 at the time of our trip (more like €700,000, or $1,036,000 in Dublin), and that many people owned their own homes “in close association with the bank of Ireland”. The reason for so many unfinished houses was simple: the owners didn’t have the money to complete them—yet. It’s a common practice in Ireland to build a home over the course of several years, piece by piece. When you have enough money to start the next step, you proceed; until then your partially-finished home sits there. It’s not like it’s going anywhere.

Somewhere between Lough Leane and Glenbeigh we pulled off the road at this scenic overlook above, and met this guy. Of course he was pandering to the tourists who stop there to take pictures, but that doesn’t make him any less cool.

Of course, Dad and I never let slip an opportunity to harass Seth about his driving, which, in all fairness, was spectacular. There are points on the Ring where the road is so narrow it was tough to keep our Ford Focus from driving onto the embankment (or off a cliff). When you consider the Ring of Kerry is second only to the Cliffs of Moher for scenic Irish tourist attractions, my brother’s driving was praiseworthy indeed. I know I wouldn’t want to try negotiating some of those narrow hairpin turns when an enormous tour bus coming the other way decided to play chicken, but that’s exactly what Seth did —too many times to count—all while driving on the left side of the road and the right side of the car.
Still, this was a typical exchange between the three of us after being awestruck by some amazingly beautiful scenery that Seth couldn’t pay attention to because he was trying not to get us all killed.
“Jesus, Dad, look at that,” I said.
“Wow,” Dad replied. “Holy shit. This is amazing. Look, Seth.”
“I can’t!”
“Oh, well, it’s too late now.”
“Yeah, but that was beautiful, wasn’t it?” I said.
“Sure was.”
“Would have been nice to take some pictures of that, I bet.”
“I didn’t have any place to pull off!” Seth yelled. “You see any place to pull off around here? Because if you see any place to pull off, let me know!”
“That’s OK, son. I’m sure well see some other beautiful scenery. Don’t worry, you’re doing fine.”
“Yeah, good job, bro," I said.
“Still, would have been nice…”
“Yeah…”

"Shut up!!!!" Seth yelled.
We had really good weather for our entire Ireland trip, but our Ring of Kerry day was one of the days it rained. Thankfully, the sun showed up every now and again, mainly when we were taking pictures, so it all worked out in the end.
What had been sporadic showers turned into a massive downpour somewhere near Cahersiveen. We passed a guy standing under an umbrella by a sign that read “Bikes 4 Rent.” “Look at that guy,” I said to Seth. “Who’s he going to rent a bike to in this weather, Aquaman?”
Seth said nothing.
“Actually, come to think of it, that’s kind of silly. Aquaman doesn’t ride a bike.”
Seth clenched his jaw, but remained silent.
“I mean, why would he need to? He swims everywhere. Besides, it’s not like riding a bike underwater is going to get you anywhere in a hurry. And—“
“Shut the fuck up!” Seth exploded.
Waterville was the next town southward on the N70. As you might infer from its name, Waterville is a beach town. There wasn’t a whole lot to see there aside from the rocky beach and a few shops and cafés. (There was, however, a disturbing and significant amount of dried blood on a wall outside one of the beachfront hotels, something that was quite the conversation piece for the next leg of the trip, although we were at a loss to explain it. By “significant amount”, think “arterial spray.”) We stayed in Waterville just long enough to take some pictures and find a bathroom, which we all three sorely needed, and then it was off southward again towards Derrynane, the small beach town that the shopgirl in Macroom had told us was a must-see.
One thing Ireland doesn’t lack is its share of revolutionary heroes, and Daniel O’Connell is high on that list. He was a staunch Catholic and an unwavering opponent of the Union. Dublin’s O’Connell St.—and the bridge upon it—bears his name, as well as his likeness: a huge statue right near the River Liffey, close to the bridge. O’Connell lived in Caherdaniel at Derrynane House, which is now open to the public and contains a museum and gardens.

We did not go there, but we did stop at The Blind Piper —a place with a name close to my heart and thus far the only "piper" I’d seen in Ireland—to stretch our legs and ask directions to Derrynane Beach.
We considered eating there, but decided against it when Seth reported a man in a passing car tried to sell crack to my Dad. We were a few miles down the road when I got the full story.
“So I’m having a cigarette, watching Dad here,” said Seth, “and this guy pulls up in a car and starts talking to him, and Dad all of a sudden jerks back and says, ‘Hell, no,’, and I’m like, what the hell is going on over there? And then the guy drives off. And I go ask Dad what’s wrong and he tells me the guy tried to sell him crack.”
Now, I am 100% certain that Ireland has its share of crack dealers, but the rural and scenic back roads of the Ring of Kerry hardly seem like a profitable place to set up shop if you’re looking to deal drugs. Dad was strangely silent.
“Are you sure that’s what he said?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Dad said. “I just heard crack and was like, No, thanks.”
“You sure he didn’t mean craic? It’s Gaelic. Means a good time, a party. You know, like when we’re at a pub like O’Neill’s, they’ll say the craic’s high. Or the craic’s about ninety.”
“Well, I guess that makes more sense. He asked me where I was from, I told him Boston and he said, good craic there, eh?”
Seth started laughing and did his best Dad impression. “Hell no! No wonder the guy drove off looking all puzzled and shit. He must have thought you were a jerk.”
“Sorry, I don’t speak Gaelic.”

We laughed all the way to Derrynane beach, where it started to rain again. I considered buying some crepes from a vendor in the parking lot, but she told me she wasn’t going to open for another half-hour or so, and we didn’t want to wait. Although the beach was lovely and offered a nice view of some ruins across the water, in the end it was a beach, and there were much more impressive things to see around the Ring.

Like Sneem.

Sneem is a small coast village of brightly painted houses like something out of a fairytale. I love the name: Sneem. My brother, on the other hand, would be happy if he never heard the name “Sneem” again, so often did I find any excuse to say it aloud. “Here we are in Sneem,” I would say, or “Wow, Sneem is really cool.” Or “Don’t you wish there were more towns like Sneem in America?” Or the simple, yet often-repeated “I love Sneem!”
Sneem is a funny-sounding place.
While in Sneem we had a late lunch in a small restaurant, where I discovered the Sneem interpretation on New England Clam Chowder is, in fact, nothing like the New England version at all. Behind the restaurant was a small overlook of the Kenmare River, a cool place to rest up for a while.

My big nose led me into a quaint bakery across the street with the intent of buying bread, but I was charmed by the different kinds of hams, sausages and cheese in the deli counter. (That large fellow in the blue, being charmed, is me.) In the end, I had the lady behind the counter slice me about 2 inches worth of pepper-cured salami. It was delicious, and I figured the three of us could snack on it as we continued our drive around the Ring of Kerry. Dad and Seth were less than enthusiastic about it, however, and in the end I ate it all myself. I guess it didn’t help that I referred to it as my “Sneem salami”; it certainly didn’t endear itself to Seth with a name like that.
When we got back to Killarney I suggested we go out to a very nice restaurant instead of finding another pub. Our first stop was Gaby’s, a local seafood restaurant renowned for its lobster, but we didn’t have a reservation and they weren’t able to seat us. Our backup plan, once again suggested by me, was a place known as The Cooperage, which was listed as a recommended gourmet eatery in our guide book. Here is a direct quote: “A relaxing haven away from all the tourist bustle of Killarney…this is a charming restaurant where [the chef] produces delights such as…wild pheasant cooked in Irish cream liqueur.” Sounds adventurous, and I love fine dining, so why not? It would be a nice change from pub food (not that any of us was sick of pub food).
Turns out the restaurant was a block away from our hotel, down a small side street. It would have been a short walk if we were at the hotel, but of course we were at Gaby’s, across town. When we left it began raining pretty hard, so by the time we arrived at The Cooperage, we were all three of us soaked. Inside, The Cooperage was all subdued lighting and murmured conversation, despite the fact that there was a table of at least a dozen thirtysomething women wearing pink cowboy hats right inside the door. The waitress gave us a look like we had just pissed all over the carpet and acted like seating us was going to be physically painful.
I didn’t see what happened next, but Seth was all too happy to tell me about it once we were seated in the farthest corner of the restaurant. For Christmas last year, I got my father a genuine Donegal Tweed driving cap. He scarcely took it off the entire time we were in Ireland. As stated previously, it was raining and we were quite wet. One inside, Dad removed the cap and proceeded to vigorously shake it out, snapping it in much the same way as you would open a garbage bag, heedlessly soaking the pink cowboy-hat crowd in the process. After Dad made his apologies, the waitress seated us as far away from the remaining customers as possible and hastily cleared the extra place-sitting away from our four-top—a move that convinced my father that she was afraid he was going to steal the silverware. While Seth and I thought Dad was overreacting a tad, we certainly didn’t feel very welcome.
The prices were pretty steep, but we expected that. Dad ordered some andouille sausage, Seth had chicken something-or-other, and I—well, I broke one of the cardinal rules of dining out. I ordered the monkfish medallions, on special.
Never order fish if it’s on special. Anthony Bourdain taught me that in his landmark book, Kitchen Confidential. However, that’s exactly what I did, in part because Seth used to fish for monkfish and was curious to see how it was prepared in Ireland.
Well, I can’t speak for all of Ireland, but The Cooperage did a piss-poor job of it. My dinner arrived: three pieces of roasted monkfish, roughly the size of a silver dollar, on three slightly-larger disks of eggplant, garnished with a dab of some kind of cream with something vaguely herb-like sticking out of it. I took one bite and was, shall we say, unimpressed. “How’s the sausage?” I asked Dad.
“Honestly? It smells like so much like urine, I haven’t been able to eat it yet.”
Seth took a bite of my monkfish. “Frozen,” was all he said.
For €29.00 (about $43.00), I expected more than three bites of frozen, half-assedly prepared fish. At least the olive tapenade was good, but boy, did we leave The Cooperage disappointed.
Back at the hotel bar, I got fully drunk for the first time on the trip. We listened to a hotel band and sat with an older couple from Cork who were up visiting Killarney for the week. The man found the three of us, especially my brother and I, quite amusing, and the woman thought that taking our father to Ireland was the sweetest thing anyone in the world has ever done. They were two of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and that’s not just because I was plastered. Dad has since confirmed it, and he was barely drinking anything at all. After a couple of hours, Dad and I left Seth in the hotel bar and went to bed.

Tomorrow we’d be leaving Killarney, on a long trip north to Galway.