The Emerald Isle

The Emerald Isle-

I didn’t believe the computer screen when it was telling me I could rent a car for only 1 euro a day. I leaned in closer, still 1 euro. I slow blinked, squinted, it didn’t change. This can’t be right. I knew there was going be additional options to bump up the price, but there still has to be a catch. The Dolpin and I took a shuttle from our hotel to the car rental place at the airport for 7 euros (the price equivalent for the full week rental on our car). I concluded the only way they can get away with that is to be subsidized by the insurance companies. The price to insure the 7 euro rental for the week was 380 euro! Fortunately my travel insurance ($350 for 4 months) covers it and we dodged that bullet. Signed, sealed and delivered we walked away, after taxes and surcharges, to the grand total of 32 euros for the weeks rental. Couldn’t believe it.

To get the true European feel we went for the go-cart sized Fiat hatchback and, to enhance our adventure, went old school with a map instead of GPS. I’ve driven on the left side with right side steering wheel before, but this was my first experience adding a (left sided) stick shift to that element. I stalled out of the gate, but quickly got used to it and had no further hiccups the rest of the week.

We put on a ton of miles (kilometers) and saw amazing scenery. The rolling green hills are reminiscent of New Zealand and the dramatic cliffs of Cape Town. The condition of the roads weren’t bad, but the width of them were straight bullshit. In most places the 2 lane highways were only marginally bigger than ONE lane on a US interstate. Several times I was forced to slam on the breaks to allow an oversized truck or tractor pass in the opposite direction. Each time I grew more and more thankful about our go-cart dimensions. Along the west coast we cruised in an ongoing search for the countries best seafood chowder and spotting old castles in the distance was like a game of slug bug. In any given hour (not day, hour) it can go from light drizzle, to bluebird skies, to torrential downpour, to hail and back again. I’ve easily seen more hail in 1 week of driving around Ireland than my previous 15 years combined. One of those times I was caught out on a hiking trail and even with jeans and a weatherproof jacket on it felt like I was in the losing end of a paintball blitzkrieg. [fun fact as heard on Irish radio: the average person spends approximately 45 days of their lives talking about the weather]… (In Iowa that’s closer to a year or 2). Throughout the country we listened to Irish radio and were fascinated by the attention given to American news and pop culture. American flags can also be found hanging along side the Irish and EU flags on many small town pubs and there is even a mural in a popular church that has a depiction of JFK praying to Jesus.

US president JFK is an “IRISH” national hero and along with church murals his name can be found all over the country including the official name bestowed upon the town of Galway’s main square. All in all, The Dolpin and I agree that Ireland is the most US friendly country we’ve visited.

After our St. Paddy’s Day festivities (it’s Paddy, not Patty, I was reprimanded for that here), Dolpin and I were both determined to give our livers a break. Not drinking as a backpacker is a tall order. Not drinking as a backpacker in Ireland is like trying to avoid pizza in Italy. Not drinking as a backpacker in Ireland while it’s raining, is walking into pastry shop on a low carb diet. What the hell is the point? Bars are everywhere and I mean EVERYWHERE. Oh so you think that’s a hardware store? Well it is, but it’s also a bar. The hostel? Also a bar, the B&B?-bar, kebab stand-bar, old relic of a castle? Yeah that’s a bar now too. While driving around on a Sunday we saw a sign for a soup and sandwich deal at a small roadside cafe. Inside we were told they don’t make the soup on Sundays and when asked where we could find a hot breakfast the sweet old lady advised us that most places don’t open on Sundays. She then, with amazement in her eyes, told us that the bars don’t even open until “TWELVE NOON! on Sundays!… could you believe it!?” By the time we left her shop she repeated that unfortunate fact 3 more times…”TWELVE O’CLOCK they don’t open till!” The nerve!

Over the years my mother has developed an extensively detailed family tree. Knowing, from her efforts, that I have an 8th grandfather hailing from Ireland we made a point of stopping in the area he was born just to have a look. First we made our way to the town of Tipperary which is the same name as the county. We stopped in for lunch and I asked the bartender if he recognized the name (O’Heaverin) he said he didn’t but after we ate he walked us outside to point out the heritage center which specializes in that. The clerk at the family history office of the heritage center said their records only dated back to the mid 1800’s. I told her I was looking for an ancestral line from the 1600’s and showed her my moms email that listed the exact names of people along with description of: mother’s, mother’s, mothers, mothers, mothers, fathers, fathers, fathers, fathers, father; Thomas O’Heaverin born in Cappamore, Tipperary in 1663.

They said they unfortunately couldn’t help track down an existing relative but were fascinated that the line was traced back so far. She gave me a pamphlet from the office and said “your mom put in some serious effort, have her email us anytime!”. From there we made our way 30 min north to the small village of Cappamore. It was a very small town with a very small town feel and we stopped in a mom and pop type place. Again, as bartenders know best, I asked if he recognized the name. The exact name no, but a slight variation of it was recognized and from there it was all hands on deck. The bartender/owner asked his wife, who asked her son, who said the town priest would know, the table behind us tried digging up the priests phone number, when they didn’t have it someone from that table walked around to the other side of the bar and asked a lady to call someone that they knew would have it…etc etc. This persistence went on for about 15 minutes until I was eventually able thank them enough times and convince them that I was only curious if the name was still around and that all I really wanted was a picture with the towns welcome sign and grab 1 beer where this ol’ fellow was from. Finally after the dust settles the guy sitting directly next to me, a weathered farmhand in his 60’s, who had yet to say a word to that point, puts on his black rimmed women’s librarian style oval rhinestoned spectacles to look at me, leans over and whispers “You should look at the internet. There’s a ton of amazing things that can be found, I looked at the internet last year. A lot of good info on there”.

In addition to plentiful bars and horrible weather, that’s the other thing that hits you in the face about Ireland; The unbelievably friendly hospitality. Of all the places I’ve been I now put Ireland at the very top of the nicest people list, just ahead of Laos. From a distance you wouldn’t expect it. The rough, rugged and suspicious look is the prevailing characteristic of Ireland’s townspeople. Once you open your mouth to ask a question or simply say hi their eyes light up with excitement and they embrace your company with the good natured banter of old friends. Perhaps props to JFK, not really sure. Either way it’s noticeable and far from isolated. Ireland has THE nicest people I’ve ever come across, period… Well there was this one guy that as Dolpin and I passed him on a walkway yells through his 4 remaining teeth “look at the two gays! Sucks to be gay!”… Everyone EXCEPT that dude was cool.

Bob

[Fun P.S. Fact- the national color of Ireland is green because that is the color the British imposed upon them and forced them to wear during their early occupation and rule. This was to protect a British person from mistakingly fraternizing with an Irish by accident. Instead fighting against it they took ownership of the green and embraced it. In this same manner a British monarch imposed upon Scotland their national animal which is still represented, alive and well, to this day; the unicorn.]