Killarney Day

The morning after the night before. Well, the night before wasn’t particularly late or damp, so getting up was no chore.

Our first activity is a jaunting car adventure. Several jaunting cars will come to the hotel front door, pick up the group, drive us through the national park to Muckross House and drop us at the Muckross boat house, where several boats will take us out on the chain of three lakes and back to the Hotel. the carts take either four or six people, and are either two or four wheeled conveyances, pulled by patient Irish Cob horses. The Irish Cob seems to be a smaller and sturdy draft horse. If you’ve seen the John Wayne – Maureen O”Hara movie, The Quiet Man, you’ve seen a jaunting car, except these all have inward-facing benches, with a roof and roll-down clear vinyl sides, to protect us from wind or rain.

The trip through the national park is over a dedicated, no-motor drive, so we encounter pedestrians and bicylists, but no ATV’s or cars. We’re in a four-wheel type driven by Gerard and pulled by Sally. Sally has an every-other-day work schedule, and has a good idea of what she’e there for, pulling off the track and turning to afford good camera angles. On the other hand, she also has a good sense of when it’s time to travel on, sometimes before the slower humans have gotten out their cameras and fiddled with all the settings on them.

Along the way, Gerard talks about local history, the establishment of the national park, the plants and trees, and points out a flowering tree already in full blossom despite the late spring, and when someone identifies it as a dogwood, he says no, it’s the wild Irish rose, which pronouncement is inevitably followed by someone saying that we’ve heard that it’s the sweetest flower that grows. Ha!

He points out massive yew trees, which can grow for a thousand years, albeit extremely slowly, but were much decimated by the need for the trunk wood which was famously tough and springy, well suited for the medieval longbow. Rhododendrons are weeds in the forest, and grow thick and vinelike on the forest floor, covering the ground and interfering with regrowth. And as damp and shaded as the forest floor is, moss and ivy simply cover the trunks of the trees to great heights, at least until the canopy begins.

The jaunting cars drop us at the Muckross Lake boathouse, where four open fishing boats take 10-12 passengers each out for the lake tour. This would be extremely pleasant in June or July, and brisk in May. In this April, however, it is rather a trial, particularly for our California travelers. It’s not misty, nor is it rough, but it’s in the forties with a brisk headwind on a chain of three very open lakes, and the ride is about an hour. The boatman keeps up a pretty good chatter and string of jokes, primarily husband and wife jokes — e.g., in Ireland, wife is an acronym for washing, ironing, feeding and etcetera. He apologises for the headwind on the last and largest lake, which is Loch Leane where our hotel is situated. We actually dock at a landing at the foot of the ruin, but by that time we are sufficiently chilled that exploring the ruin is not as high on the agenda as a bathroom visit and a nice hot cuppa. We still don’t know about the ruin.

We have been told by James that the jaunting car and boat tour will take from 9 to 10, so of course we’re back at the hotel at 10:40, with twenty minutes before the bus will take us into Killarney. The troops rebel in fine American style, and the departure is pushed back to 11:30, time for a bathroom break and whatever else is required.

The trip into Killarney is set for four hours, for lunch and shopping. Paula and I set out down the street in search of some pub food. I am still looking for some beef and Guinness pie, and we turn in at the Failte (pronounced falche, meaning welcome) Hotel’s pub, winner of a James Joyce award for authenticity. We are requested to bring back pictures of pubs by a local Wausau pub owner, perhaps for decorating ideas. This one’s a good one. Dark wood, low paneled ceiling, with walls and ceiling covered with rugby team jerseys, banners, Guinness decorations, local political characters, and authentic locals eyeing us as unusual in this off season. The beer is as good as ever, and the food is wonderful, Paula waxing ecstatic over a chicken and garlic penne pasta dish, and myself very pleased with my beef and Guinness pie, which is actually a stew of beef, carrots, onions, and potatoes with a little cap of puff pastry on top. No pictures of the food, but here’s the pub.

Three thirty is bus time, again time to go back, rest or blog, and get ready for the evening. Frustrating that the wi-fi still doesn’t work.

Dinner in the dining room involves pork cutlets, hake, or a vegetarian selection, but promises sticky toffee pudding for dessert. Now sticky toffee pudding is a very Brit thing, but we have enjoyed it in Scotland and Wales, but Ireland as well, which just goes to demonstrate Irish tolerance. Properly made, it involves a sponge cake with dates, slathered with caramel sauce, and topped with either whipped or ice cream. This meal is rather a disappointment in main course and dessert, however, as the pork is rather overdone, although the apple confit is very nice and the vegetables are delicious, especially the mashed turnips. The STP is worth a sigh and a maybe-next-time, because the cake is closer to fruit cake, the caramel sauce is scant where it should be a swimming pool and lacks butter. But we are not downcast, for we’re in Ireland!

Concert after dinner, about an hour, and the a smaller group retires to the bar.

And then to one of the smaller drawing rooms for music, which continues until well after we have gone to bed.