Trip to Ireland 2008

Part II

Friday, August 15th

At the breakfast table, I was joined by another guest, an Irishman in his fifties named PJ.  PJ spent at least one night a week at the Scapaflow House since his job of providing farming supplies brought him to the area frequently.  After witnessing PJ’s breakfast strategy, I never wanted to eat again.  He would put two runny eggs on to a plate and mix that in with some yogurt.  His final step would be to unload almost a full jar of jelly into this wicked stew and stir it around quickly.  Stranger than being the type of person that would consciously decide to eat such a mess was the way he may have stumbled upon this recipe. 

I imagine he created it but who, in any sort of a trustworthy mental state, would think, “These eggs are wonderful but they’re lacking something.  Yogurt!  That’s it!  Oh, that is pristine.  But another ingredient that will complete this experience lurks in the shadows.  What is it, I wonder?  Of course!  An entire jar of jelly will surely take this dish to where it needs to be.”?  Watching PJ’s frighteningly foul routine scared the urine out of my body.

After my bitter sweet breakfast, I drove to the Shannon airport.  It seems that in my sleepless stupor of the previous day, I left my credit card at the Hertz Rental desk when I was picking up my whisper of an automobile.  I collected my crucial piece of plastic and as I drove away, I realized that if the higher-ups at Hertz had any brains, they would immediately call up John Mellencamp and ask his permission to use his classic hit in a commercial and change the title to “Hertz…So Good!!”  I envision people in the commercial who speak terrible English with huge smiles on their faces, pumping their fists, singing, “Hertz…so good!!!”  As an aside, I love that John Cougar Mellencamp removed the “Cougar” from his name at the point in his life when he started to look like one.  With that long hair and tough skin, he might attract some frisky drunk college boys in a dark bar.

The weather yesterday was decent and actually involved sun.  Today was filled with far more clouds and rain.  In terms of the weather, I was warned that Ireland’s current summer had been brutal.  Roads were constantly flooding and crops were being destroyed due to heavy rainfall.  I therefore decided early on to be a guy whose travel desires would not be deterred by rain.

It was this personal declaration that led my Toyota Matchbox Car and I north along the Shannon to the nice little town of Killaloe.  I walked around, looked at an old church and headed north further along the Shannon as it became Lough Derg. 

At one point, I noticed a small sign on the side of the road that read “Nun’s Island”.  Perhaps an unexplored island full of wild, native nuns?  I had to investigate.  I drove over half a mile on a very narrow road that ended at the shore of Lough Derg.  About 100 yards away I could see a small island with some sort of old ruin in the center.  Tied up to a dock on my shore were two faded yellow paddle boats.  Written in black marker on the boats was a note that directed interested parties to call a phone number should they want to use the boats.  I didn’t have a cell phone and I was a far away from a public phone.

I looked out towards the island and I could not see any nuns but who knows?  Maybe they were hiding, waiting.  I looked at the paddle boats and then around me and I saw no one.  Who would know or care if I took one of the boats across?  In terms of the importance of this potential scientific, cultural and religious discovery, my mild and temporary boat theft would matter little. 

All of the sudden, several cars started to appear within minutes of each other.  And these cars had people in them!  And these people got out of their cars and started walking around.  The odd thing was that they didn’t seem to be connected to each other.  It was as if all these touristy peeps just popped up out of nowhere to spoil my wonder.   

Bummed out, I took one last look at the magical Nun’s Island and saw some sort of landing on Nun’s Island that would allow for adventurers to secure their floating vessel to.  This meant that pioneers and adventurers probably had already reached Nun’s Island.  This lukewarm consolation provided me with a tad of relief and allowed me to leave the site a little easier. 

I traveled north again, finally making it to the top of the Lough and drove south all the way back to O’Briensbridge.  I cleaned up and met the rest of the gang at the Limerick Country Club for dinner.  Our next stop was Guerin’s for more pub-related activity.

At the pub, I began speaking with Mark Francetic.  Since he was one of two best men, he had to put his speech together for tomorrow night’s reception.  He asked me to review the work he had already done on the speech.  Mark shared some funny Dara moments and touched upon the existence of Dara’s long hair when we were all at college.

When I met Dara, I too had long hair and was gearing up for a semester in Galway, Ireland in a few months.  Dara was pleased to hear this and urged me to keep my long hair for my trip.  He fortified his advice with tales of traveling to many Irish villages with his drinking buddy.  He claimed that many lasses in these small villages found Dara’s overabundant hair inventory to be very attractive while his short-haired friend was dismissed like some leper dipped in skunk juice.  Sadly, I did not heed the counsel from the Celtic Fonzie and cut my hair so I was never able to determine the validity of his strategy.

I gave Mark a hefty thumbs up for his speech preparation and said goodnight to him.  All that remained for me this day was a short drive back to my B&B and hopefully a journey laced in sleep.  Good night tenderonies.

Saturday, August 16th

Last night’s sleep took a long time for it to be true.  It was also peppered with the sounds of what felt like dozens of idiotic dogs barking.  I will do my best to refrain from rambling on about my genuine and acute disgust for barking dogs but know this – we must elect a President of the Universe to wipe out this all too common of an issue. 

After a breakfast that included a wonderful meal, an Irish couple defecating on George Bush and one more final round of witnessing PJ’s abysmal slop, I walked north along the Shannon.  The weather gave me clouds and more light rain.  The walk gave me an up-close look at the Shannon River’s hydroelectric dam.  Approaching this large structure through the woods gave me the feeling of being a spy that needed to blow up the dam because it was now under control of some evil dude nation.  Not finding any explosive devices on me or the ability to recollect such an agenda, I enjoyed the view and walked home.

Once back, I took gold in the event of napping.  When I came back to life, I readied myself for Dara and Christine’s wedding.  I put on my suit and walked out the door.  Right when I reached the end of the driveway, I heard Antoinette open the door.

“Chris, come here.  Let me take a look at you.”

I laughed at this request and had no choice but to walk back for her enjoyment.  I even added a graceful spin to my presentation for her supplementary amusement.  Antoinette smiled and exuded a sense of pride that is often detected in a mother seeing her son off to his first prom.

Miraculously, the rain stopped for the ceremony and the cocktail function afterwards.  A spot of sun even willed its way into our celebration from time to time.  The ceremony took place at the local church in Castleconnell.  For music, we all got to listen to one of Ireland’s most prominent harpists, Janet Harbison.  During the course of the ceremony, she had the stunning and welcomed audacity to play “The Rose” by Bette Midler.  With a single song, Janet ensured all of God’s angels were present in this highest of romantic rituals. 

After we all filed out of the church, we walked the quarter mile or so to Dara’s family’s house for the reception.  After cocktail hour and pictures, we made our way into a large tent for food, drink and whatever other merriment was to be found.  It seemed like once the last person entered the tent, a steady rain began to fall.

With hurt feelings, I looked around at people enjoying a fresh keg of Guinness.  To restore my good nature, I allowed myself one pint and later on, a cigar.  I don’t know if my American naughty license is valid in Ireland but I’m sure acting like it is.

After savoring fine food, music, Mark Francetic’s fine speech, conversation, and the most involved and elaborate outhouse I’ve ever seen, I decided to head home as my Mono was calling.  It was a great night that deserved a great sleep.  Until tomorrow, mysterious peeps.

PART III