Sunday, April 20, 2008--Ouch

I will start out by saying I had every intention of going to the local Roman Catholic church in Dingle on Sunday morning--the 9:00 am Mass--just for the experience. That was before Cora and Billy and our evening with them, which turned out to be Drink Fest 2008. When the alarm that Bob had set at 7:00 am went off (his cell phone blaring the theme from "Rocky"), I realized that there was no way in hell I'd be going anywhere, any time soon. Bob got up, showered and went down to breakfast at 9:00 am. He ended up not having to "kiss the porcelain God" the night before, but I was pretty close to myself at that moment. Ugh. Around 10, I felt a little more human and was able to stand erect and shower, so we said good-bye to the Bay Watch (tee, hee) and left town around 11:30 am.

We decided to take the Connor Pass on the way to Lehinch, our next golfing destination. The Connor Pass is kind of a shortcut from Dingle to Limerick. A shortcut that takes you over the top of a mountain on a narrow (single-lane narrow at some points), winding, twisting road where there is just a tiny hedgerow between your vehicle and the abyss. Fun. The top of Connor Pass was shrouded in fog, so I'll assume there were magnificent views to be had. 1/2 down the mountain there was a pull-off with a little waterfall. There was no fog here so we were afforded a beautiful vista of the valley, and Bob was able to accumulate several dozen or so more pictures (!).

The rest of the trip to Lehinch was uneventful. At the little town of Tarbert, we boarded a ferry to take us across the River Shannon, which was something I'd never done before. It was definitely advantageous to take the ferry versus driving around--saved us about an hour of drive time.

We entered County Clare and drove through various picturesque towns and passed many old castles in ruins. The one thing curiously absent? Sheep! After we crossed into County Clare the sheep had been replaced by cattle grazing here and there in the fields.

After arriving in Lehinch and checking into our B&B (the Auburn House--highly recommend!), we got back in the car and continued north to the Cliffs of Moher. The Cliffs of Moher are the craggy cliffs you think of when you think of Ireland. They are magnificent in person, I can tell you. They're made of limestone and are entirely vertical to the sea.

After see the breathtaking views of the Cliffs of Moher, we drove a little further north to the town of Doolin. Doolin is supposed to be a Mecca for Irish musicians. I figured we’d see a lovely little main drag with plenty of pubs on it. Huh-uh. The town of Doolin is apparently spread out in 3 sections. We were unable to find the “main” pub section, but did find the part that ended up at the Atlantic, called “Black Head”—so named for the black rocks that lead out to the water. Atlantic storms have stripped the land from this area, so all that’s left are the black rocks. This area is actually part of The Burren (more on that tomorrow), so that explains the strange rock formations. Very pretty wildflowers were springing up in between the crack of the rocks. Bob took his requisite 100 pictures of the ocean spray against the various rock formations, and we headed back to Lahinch.

Our evening in Lahinch was uneventful—compared to the night before. We took a stroll around the town, and decided on a restaurant called The Shamrock Inn for dinner. I had chicken curry, which was very good. Just about every restaurant over there has some type of curry dish!

Following dinner, we meandered around poking our heads into the various pubs to see what type of live music they had. We finally decided on Flanagan’s Pub, which was one of my favorites of all the pubs we’d been in. The music of the evening was jazz, so we settled in at some barstools to hear the musicians for a bit. Finally, my tent was definitely folding, so Bob and I walked back to the B&B and hit the hay.

Saturday, April 19, 2008--The Wheels Come Off the Wagon

Saturday started off in a fairly benign way. Bob went golfing, somewhere near Dingle, but again I couldn't tell you precisely where. I joined him for breakfast at 8:00 am in the dining room, and our fellow breakfast companion was a fellow who really didn't seem to be firing on all cylinders. I think he was some type of Dingle local who actually lived at the Bay Watch (tee, hee). His conversation started off innocently enough, but things took a strange twist when "Chuck" (his real name is still a mystery) asked us if we knew of anyone that worked at the CIA. I thought at first he was kidding, but Bob and I both realized after a moment that he was indeed serious. We both of course said no, we don't know anyone. And "Chuck" says, "Oh. Well, I have some information about the 9/11 attacks that I've been trying to relay to a CIA man. I knew about the attacks 9 months before they happened." Our response? "Oh." I mean, what can you say to that? He then went on, "A few months ago a person here knew of a CIA man in Palm Beach and I told him to have the man contact me. I never heard from him, though." No SHIT, Sherlock.

Anyway, "Chuck" finished his breakfast and went on his merry-CIA-man-hunting way. Bob and I finished yet another calorie-busting "full Irish" and he left for golf, while I, I'm ashamed to say, crawled back into bed and slept until 11:40 am. I'm on VACATION, dammit!

After I woke up (the second time), I quickly showered and set about exploring Dingle. I walked up and down all the streets and poked my head into a few shops. You all will be proud of me--I didn't buy ONE thing.

It started to drizzle a little, so I ducked into John Benny's again, found a cozy seat near a window, ordered a Guinness and hunkered down for nice read (Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain, if you're wondering). Bob eventually showed up around 4:00 pm, then left again to do some wandering of his own. After he returned, we wandered around town for a bit and then finally decided on The Dingle Pub for dinner. I had shepherd's pie, and Bob had Irish Stew. I had a glass of wine, figuring that would be my drink of choice for the evening. I was all Guinness'ed out.

After dinner, we roamed the town again, checking out the bars. We finally decided on The Small Bridge Pub as the bar of choice. The bar is huge and has a great atmosphere. Dark, with lots of stone and four bars serving alcohol in it. It was my favorite one in Dingle.

Towards the back of the bar, they had a huge flat-screen showing some type of athletic contest. We starting watching it, along with a few locals who were gazing at it intently. As we watched, we were actually unable to figure out what the hell kind of sport they were playing. It wasn't rugby, not soccer, not field hockey, not lacrosse, and not cricket--although it appeared to have elements of each in it. It was brutal, I can tell you that. Each player wore only a "rubgy" shirt and very short shorts, and cleats. Some men wore helmets (smartly), but most didn't. Each man had a stick that resembled a hockey stick, but was much shorter. And they would lob this small rubber ball up and down the field--either with the stick or their hands--and try to beat the piss out of one another in the process. At either end of the field, there were goalposts that had a soccer neat beneath it that they would try to lob the ball through to score. After the game was over, we were still completely confused as to what we had witnessed, but we meandered back to the front bar where there would be music playing later.

This is where the wheels started to fall off the wagon. We continued drinking--me, wine; Bob, Guinness--and the bartender asked us where we were from. We of course answered, "Pennsylvania". A few minutes later this very tall guy turned around to us and said, "Did I hear you mention you're from Pennsylvania? You have a big election coming up there, don't you?" Again--we can't escape the hype. Turns our the tall guy (Billy) and his wife (Cora), were in Dingle for the night for a much-needed "Parents Night Out". There were about our age, and great fun! We ended up hanging out with them for the rest of the evening, swapping parenting stories, talking US Politics, and general life stuff. Billy also revealed to us what the "mystery sport" was--hurling! It's apparently an Irish thing and is huge over here. Oh, and I should add we drank. And drank. And drank. Billy would buy us a round. We'd then have to reciprocate and buy them a round. And so on.

It all went downhill from there. All I know is that we eventually left The Small Bridge Pub, and went back the The Dingle Pub, where we ended up closing the bar at 1:00 pm. The only reason Bob was able to drag me away from chatting with Cora was that he insisted he was about to puke. OK--time to leave! We said our good-bye's, exchanged e-mail information, and went back to the Bay Watch (tee, hee). Somehow we managed to get back into our room, even though there were NO lights on. And then we passed out.

Friday, April 18--Driving to Dingle

Friday morning, Bob was up bright and early to go golfing somewhere. I really don't know much about it, except that it took him 45 minutes to get there, he battled 40-50 mph winds while playing, and took several hundred pictures while there. I am not making this up. Those of you that are familiar with Bob's picture-taking tendencies will know this is the truth!

I got up, showered, and meandered down to breakfast in the hotel, which is included in your night's stay. A proper Irish breakfast is called "the full Irish", and it is an artery-clogging fest. Eggs, bacon (but nothing like our American bacon, and they call them "rashers"), sausages (or "bangers"), toast, grilled tomatoes, and black and white pudding. For those not familiar with black pudding, don't be fooled by the name. It is definitely not pudding! It has something to do with pig's blood, and I think that says it all. In the manner of "Extreme Foods", I did try it. And that was enough. Blecch!

An aside to my friend Jack--they also had baked beans! The British kind--just tomato sauce and beans. I thought of you right away. I did try some (not the best, IMHO), but forgot the key of putting them on toast. Next time...

After breakfast, I caught a bus downtown and went to Grafton Street, which is like the 5th Avenue of Dublin. All kinds of high-end shops, including Marks & Spencer. I very excited to finally see a Marks & Spencer...it's the little things, you know.

Grafton Street also houses my own personal mecca--The Body Shop! I enjoyed talking shop with the shopgirls and seeing the stuff that they had that we don't have in the states. Erin, do I have stuff to tell you!

I took the bus back to the hotel and waited for Bob to return from his golfing adventure. I should mention that buses in Dublin are of the double-decker variety, and they are everywhere! The bus system is quite easy to navigate.

Bob and I set out to Dingle around 12:30 pm. Getting out of Dublin was much easier than trying to get in the day before. In case you're wondering, we took the M50, the N7, the N20, and finally the N86 to get to Dingle. Surprisingly, most of these roads were four lane highways. A few, however, were two-lane, narrow, hair-raising affairs where folks sped along at 100 km+. We heard a stat on the radio around Limerick that 75 people were killed on Limerick roads in the past year. After driving the roads, I can see why.

A few words on the drive itself. It was gorgeous, of course. Lots of open land divided by hedgerows, so that it looks much like a patchwork quilt. In the "patchworks" are various types of animals--cows, goats and sheep. There are TONS of sheep. Sheep, sheep, and more sheep. Did I mention there were sheep??

Also, there are no billboards to be seen anywhere. Really! And there are no signs at exits to towns pointing out possible amenities like food or gas. If you get off an exit looking for food, it's a crapshoot. There was also this strange species of yellow shrub everywhere. It kind of looked like a holly bush, but had yellow at the end. Any plant lovers out there that might know?

Over 5 hours later, we arrived in Dingle. Patti, you're right. What an adorable town! It's situated next to Dingle Bay with lots of brightly colored fishing boats in the harbour. There are tons of little shops here and there, and the best part--over 50 bars! Some of the bars are located in stores, like Foxy John's Hardware. This is every man's wet dream--a bar in a hardware store? But I digress...

Bob and I got situated in our B&B, The Bay Watch B&B (I am not making this up), and set out to get ourselves a pint. About 30 steps away is Murphy's Pub, so we had a few pints there and made a new Irish friend in the process! He was quizzing us about the upcoming Pennsylvania primary on Tuesday, and US politics in general. Bob and I are just amazed that we are what? 4,000 miles from home and the PA primaries are ALL OVER the news here. And when people here find out we're from PA they always have to comment on it. We can't get away from all the hype, even an ocean away. *sigh*

Both of us having nice Guinness-induced buzzes, we meandered around the town looking for a cool pub that served food and had Irish music. We settled on a place called John Benny's, which must have been the happening place, 'cause it was packed. We each had fish & chips, and settled back to hear the music.

I should point out that Dingle is crawling with American tourists. I mean, you can't swing a cat without hitting an American tourist. Initially at John Benny's, an American couple sat down next to us, and the guy asked the waitress if they had any American beers on tap. I was ready to just crawl under the table. Are you kidding me? You're in Ireland, for crying out loud! Drink Guinness, or at least Harp, and LIKE it! The annoying American couple left, and were replaced with four girls from Florida, probably in their 20's, here in Ireland for vacation. They were a lot of fun, so we chatted with them for awhile.

Again, after a long day of driving and one too many pints, we were both ready to call it a day. We left John Benny's and headed for the Bay Watch (tee, hee).

Thursday, April 17--Or is it still Wednesday?

Anyway, we finally arrived in Heathrow, and 5 long lines and hour later, we arrived at our Aer Lingus gate for our 10 am flight to Dublin. By the way, the geriatric tour group somehow all made it onto the B.A. flight and was with us at the gate in Heathrow. Just in case you were wondering.

The flight to Dublin was relatively uneventful, except for the fact that I fell asleep even before the plane took off. More amazing, there was NO Xanax or wine in this equation. It's amazing what sleep deprivation will do for you.

We arrived in Dublin, easily passed through customs, found our luggage and our rental car (a tiny Ford Escort--Bob's head about sticks through the roof, much like Fred Flintstone's). Finding our hotel was another matter altogether. We knew the hotel was on Swords Road, so we kept following signs that said "Swords". Unfortunately for us, these signs point to towns, not roads. So we ended up in the town of Swords, which, while completely adorable, was not our destination point. We headed back down towards the airport, and, after stopping at a gas station to ask for directions (Bob's idea--who woulda thunk it?), we finally arrived at the Regency Hotel. Our rooms weren't quite ready, so we bellied up to the bar and had ourselves our first pint of Guinness in Ireland. And another. Guinness is much tastier in Ireland, by the way. I'm told it has something to do with the water that it's made with.

Our room finally ready, we freshened up, bound for the Holy Grail of Guinness--the Guinness Storehouse! One of the travel mags I've read described the Storehouse as Disneyland for beer lovers, and I'd tend to agree with that assessment. An audio and visual assault, the Storehouse is 7 levels of how Guinness is made, culminating with the Gravity Bar at the top, complete with 365 degree views of Dublin. The free pint you're given there completes the experience.

After our Storehouse experience, we took a taxi back down to the Temple Bar area. It's a definite mecca for, as the Irish call it, stag and hen parties (bachelor and bachelorette parties). It's definitely chock full of pubs and tourist-y type stores selling overpriced goods adorned with the Irish flag. We had dinner at The Quay Pub. I had an amazing Beef and Guinness stew and Bob had the same. VERY tasty. But since it had been a loooong day, coupled with a few pints and glasses of wine, my tent was definitely starting to fold. We made our way back to O'Connell street and caught a bus back to our hotel. I was asleep in about 5 minutes and didn't move the entire night!

Wednesday, April 16--We're off to Ireland!

We're off! Bob made me leave for Dulles at 12:00 pm, instead of the 1:00 pm he had previously told me. I think he was a little worried about getting there, since this was our first time to that particular airport.

No worries, though! We got to Aer Lingus' ticket counter at 2:30 pm, only to find out that it didn't open for ticketing until 3:30 pm. Bob staked his place at the head of the line (natch), while I planted myself near a window to read the latest edition of Entertainment Weekly. As I sat, a HUGE "geriatric" tour group approached and got in line. There had to be 60 of them. At this point, I'll admit that I was glad Bob made me leave extra early--we at least beat the tour group.

Finally, the desk opened. The first words out of the girl's mouth was, "There's a problem with the plane, so we've arranged for you to fly on a British Airways flight to Heathrow in London, then on to Dublin from there." Not a very auspicious way to start, but after hearing "there's a problem with the plane", I would've swam to get to to Dublin. Another plane was a definite plus.

God bless British Airlines. After we got on the plane--only an hour after the Aer Lingus flight was supposed to have left--I noticed that each seat had a little "goodie bag" of the following--a blanket, a pillow, a headset, eyeshades and a little tiny toothbrush and toothpaste. PLUS, each seat had it's own TV screen--with access to movies, TV shows, music, kids stuff and more.

The plane was packed, but I was able to sleep rather well--maybe 4 hours or so. I'm sure the two glasses of wine and 2 mg of Xanax I'd taken didn't hurt. But my God! Did they feed you! A HUGE dinner, complete with as much comped booze as you wanted (hence the two glasses for me). Quite nice. Then they served us a breakfast of muffins and yogurt around 6:00 am (new time). I'd fly with them again any time!

Top 5 T-shirts Seen at the PSU-ND Game

In an homage to "Late Show with David Letterman", I humbly present the "Top 5 T-shirts Seen at the PSU-ND Game":

5. "I snatch kisses and vice-versa."
4. "Notre Lame"
3. "Ann Arbor is a whore." (my perennial favorite)
2. "I beat anorexia." (seen on a very large man)

And the number 1 t-shirt seen at the PSU-ND game:

1. "I stole Charlie Weis' t-shirt." (seen on a 6X t-shirt worn by an average-sized college kid)

Juvenile and low-brow, yes. But it still makes me giggle.

The Perfect Rob Roy

That's what Bob's grandmother, Emilie--who everyone called "Gram"--always drank after a long day at Chris Henderson Realty in Wildwood Crest. She'd walk in the door at 5:00 p.m. and announce, "Time for a Perfect Rob Roy," then walk down to her vast wet bar and promptly make herself one. We all knew then that happy hour at Gram's house was in full swing!

Gram died last Sunday at the ripe old age of 88. In the past few years her memory began to fail and she'd been in the care of a local nursing home in the Wildwood area. But up until that point she still lived independently in her little Cape Cod in Wildwood Crest. Before that she'd spent 30 years living in "The Big House", which is what all of Bob's family called the house that she and Bob's grandfather, Len, built and then retired to in 1967. It was an awesome house, made for entertaining. Situated on Atlantic Avenue, right across the street from the ocean, it boasted the aforementioned wet bar, located in the family room, and a large living room with sliding glass doors that opened up onto a patio in her backyard.

Some of my fondest memories of The Big House and Gram center around happy hour. After she'd make her Perfect Rob Roy, we'd all make ourselves a beverage and meander out onto the front porch to watch the cars cruise up and down Atlantic Avenue. Gram would make herself busy inside fixing little plates of peeled, steamed shrimp with cocktail sauce and a side of saltines, making sure that each plate had exactly six shrimp and exactly six saltines. We'd then sit in chairs on the front porch while Toby, Bob's enormous furball of a dog, would run back and forth on the roof of the house, right above the porch. See, he'd found a way he could squeeze through the railing on the sundeck above the garage onto the roof. This fact caused great consternation to many people passing by, who'd invariably shout, "Hey! You know your dog's on the roof?!?" And Bob's dad would casually reply, "We don't have a dog."

Every time Bob and I visited Gram she'd always hug me and say, "Hi, doll!" I'd always felt completely accepted by Bob's family, and Gram and her hugs were a huge part of that. I know this is what many people will remember about Gram. The big hug. The smile. I know this is what I'll remember best about Gram.