Ireland Part 1 - Dreams of Alcohol Past

It’s at this point in the story of our Europe trip that I would like to talk about Cork.

Cork has a castle, as most Ireland does. This doesn't help my point, I just like castles.

Cork and I haven’t had the most stimulating history. It’s like when you get into a tiff with someone, and one person overreacts, and their opinion is colored for a large period of time. In my case, that period of time was 7 years. This stems from my first time in Cork, where, in a desire to build my solo-traveling confidence, my parents decided to drop me off in what we had heard was Ireland’s party city. Ideally, I would meet people my age, we would go out on the town, I would learn some things, and I suspect that would have been the case - if it wasn’t 19-year-old me. See, I haven’t always embraced the charismatic goofball - once, I was of the shy personality, someone who thought wordplay was for other people, who found it difficult to word up the courage to talk to others. I was also a “cheap date”. I think at that point, I could get a buzz from looking at a bottle of wine too long. So when a group of us at the hostel decided to toast being in Cork for a wild weekend by taking a shot of some homemade Serbian alcohol, my brain panicked. I could see myself losing control and getting drunk off the one shot, making a fool of myself in a city of - gasp - other drunk people. I immediately made an executive decision: I slammed a bottle of water, went to bed immediately to sleep it off, and left at 6 the next morning for Dublin with the firm belief that Cork was not a city for me.

In hindsight, it might have been a bit of an overcorrection.

Looks like something a city who's up to no good would put up!

The thing is, I love Ireland. I’ve been in love with Ireland since I found some Irish music in my parents’ music collection and played it ad nauseum. The music was the gateway; a deep infatuation with the rolling, seemingly evergreen hills of the mystical land that grabbed me and never let go. Stepping into Ireland for the first time was absolutely magical. I lost myself in the mountains of Wicklow, watched the waves lap at the shores of the Dingle Peninsula, and marveled at the towering majesty of the Cliffs of Moher. Even having the worst fish and chips of my life couldn’t spoil this - this was a deep and powerful love the likes of which I’d never experienced that made me want leave behind the United States and walk the rain soaked hills forever.

I'm liable to think that the hills just never end.

Of course, the one exception to this was Cork, which I had written off as just a city full of drunk, lawless hooligans who party every night and engage in ridiculous shenanigans (the story grew in my head over the years). 7 years is a long time though, and so when Courtney wanted to go see her family there, I jumped at the opportunity. Let’s see how much this actually holds up, I thought as I hefted my slightly strengthened alcohol tolerance and much stronger sense of adventure.

The sense of adventure definitely includes a quest to take pictures of flowers.

I didn’t have to wait long. Both of us had been to Dublin before, so we waved at it lethargically over the course of 24 hours before sashaying onto a bus and heading south. The road quickly broke from the crowded cobblestone streets to curve through the hills dotted with distant herds of cotton balls that barely glanced up from their grazing. Castles and ruins, their sides slowly changing from stone to ivy, stood as giant monoliths on the side of the road, their former significance lost to the image of crumbling masonry. Surprisingly, there was no rain. The sun, not wanting us to feel homesick, had plunged Ireland into a blistering 90 degree heat wave for the duration of our stay, so we added complaining about the rain to our to-do list for next time.

It was just this all the time.

Of course, seeing as visiting Cork was one of the things I was most interested in, I feel satisfied that I couldn’t have chosen a better trip to do that. Courtney had never met any of her Irish family before - the only thing we knew about them was that they were exceptionally nice, and they were letting us stay at their house for a few days. When we arrived, Eileen and Michael, whom Courtney had been texting, picked us up from some random sidewalk in the city (I think the bus driver just got tired of driving and picked the first spot in Cork that looked good), and took us home to feed us a wonderful array of meat and vegetables. We immediately felt at home (food does that). Soon, we were joined by their daughter Eleanor, an equally wonderful person who complemented our humor fabulously. Over the next few days, many wonderful hours were spent at the kitchen table laughing and joking, long after our plates had been cleaned. They made Cork feel like a home, and to that I am exceedingly grateful for such wonderful memories.

They all of course make me look good.

I do want to take a moment and recognize Eleanor. We had no idea what we were going to do in Cork; I think our schedule consisted of meeting Courtney’s family and drinking. Eleanor went above and beyond, taking it in her hands to show us the best Cork had to offer. Apparently she had the weekend off, though I don’t know if that was a pre-planned holiday, or if she took it off specifically for us (I like to think the latter cause, you know, we’re that cool). Cork became as fascinating as the rest of the country. She even drove us everywhere! Trust me, if you drive me around, allowing me to provide you with “witty” commentary and picture taking, then you know we’re going to get along.

Especially if you take me to a weird shark sculpture, I'm going to have a good time.

Let me give you an example. Determined to start off strong, food was of course the first option, and Eleanor did not disappoint. Our first destination was Ballymaloe. Ballymaloe is one of those cooking schools for people who want to learn how to cook with as few people around them as possible. Astride a frankly ridiculous amount of manicured farmland, the estate sits serenely surrounded by trees that curve and bend to form shady overhangs for your car. Twisting, one-lane roads flanked by excessively tall grass cut their way through the carefree landscape, giving the impression of driving through a corn maze. It seems specifically designed to cut off all views of anything so that when you finally arrive at the estate, the grass parts and you behold the full majesty of the splendorous establishment. By the time this happened, we were incredibly hungry, so it worked. I remember thinking that it was the best thing ever as we parked. We were not disappointed - the food was spectacular. A part of me wants to save up 18,000 euros just to learn there, but that idea might be a tad undercooked.

The estate itself, ready and waiting to take all of your money for schooling.

But wait, don’t think that all Cork has to offer is food - no no! They also have peacocks!

He was beautiful, regal, and walked the certainty that he owned the place and we were all just allowed to walk on his grass.

Well, several different kinds of animals, but they all treated us with the same begrudging sense of acceptance that a dog might have if you dress it up in ridiculous costumes for Halloween. This was at Fota Wildlife Park, a zoo that lets the animals with good behavior out to mingle with the guests - not that they really did anything except sit in the sun and wish we would go bother the next animals down the lane. The good thing was that the heat had persuaded many people to stay indoors, so us and the animals got to experience nary a crowd as we strolled excitedly through the park. I, of course, took endless pictures. What else was I to do when I could stand mere feet from a baby kangaroo paying extensive attention to a bowl of water? One particular monkey even gave us a bit of a show (no, not that kind, you weirdos). He saw us approaching and then started swinging around on a pool and shaking his hips (no, that doesn’t sound any better). Let’s move past this - just know that we had a good time (that just does not help this at all, does it?).

We were there for about 5 minutes just watching.

They just did not care.

This is Grumpy-Face Kate. Apparently, she sits like this all the time and just glares at passerby.

Monkey business aside, the one thing that I had on my list to do was to have a night out on the town - and Courtney was all for it. While my alcohol tolerance hasn’t necessarily improved that much in 7 years, I was confident that I was a step or two past the stage where taking a shot sent me into a panic. Eileen was happy to oblige, with just a little laughter at our request to be taken “downtown”. Cork may be a city, but it’s not especially urban. For instance, it’s a bit lacking in the skyscraper department; rather, it has a collection of streets conveniently in the middle of the city, a city center if you will, where all the young people go to take a good hard appreciation of some beer and live music, both of which Cork has in ample supply.

As some of you more attentive readers might have already figured out, Cork is an Irish city, and one of the biggest attractions is live music. Ireland itself is awash in musical history and culture; simply walking through a town at night gives you a wide sampling of the musical buffet one could take part of. For our night, we decided to mix it up and get a bit bluesy. In a bar packed with passionate locals, we enjoyed one of Cork’s finest local bands, the Hot Guitars. They were an absolute riot: a group of guys who’ve all been playing for 40 years and don’t give a damn about anything except the music, lead by an eccentric, harmonica-crazed singer with Dr. Frankenstein hair who consistently wandered into the crowd to belt out the lyrics with wild abandon at people filming him - what’s not to love? It was so good, we joined the throng of people in the center of the bar, dancing excitedly as the band let those sweet blues bars carry us through the evening. Eventually, we headed upstairs to the Frisky Whisky, another pub who specialized in traditional celtic music. The band for that evening was called Hell for Leather, and they were really embracing the traditional Irish music feel by punctuating their regular set with La Bamba, the Killers, and Modest Mouse (you know, classic Irish things). I must say, the Killers played with a fiddle was possibly one of the most exciting covers I’ve ever heard. If I could listen to their entire song list like that, I would.

The Hot Guitars, with an additional saxaphone for good measure.

What a great name for the bar.

It’s amazing how one situation can color your view so completely, and that something else can just as easily turn it around. Walking into Cork, I didn’t know what to think. It was thanks to our wonderful hosts that instead of a lawless party city, I discovered one of my favorite places in Ireland. I will absolutely be returning, and not just for the people. I feel like I could stay there for a long, long time. It really is wonderful.

The river through Cork, with a history of pirates and trade. Always a good time.

But of course, we didn’t stay forever. The call of the countryside drove us, literally, to seek out new adventure. Well-rested, flush with good food, we soon set out on the next stage of our journey - the Wild Atlantic Way.