July 14, 2010
“They’re using their bodies like gymnasiums,” Victoria said as the trapezists twisted themselves about the single bar, using their strength to move in ways that I wouldn’t even be able to do on land. The pair — a Swede and a Dubliner — had obviously done this routine many, many times but for me, it was a new experience. Victoria had suggested that we walk down to the Spanish Arch on one of our last days in Galway for one of the programs in the Arts Festival. It was a circus, she said. Visions of tigers and elephants and clowns circled in my head, but this show, though tiny, was just as enjoyable. Children sat in rows surrounding the red rope encircling the circus, as their parents stood further back. The pair was a comedy act as well as a circus feat, telling somewhat adult-themed stories that at least a few kids covered their ears or giggled at. The most laughs from the crows were when the woman twirled hula-hoops around her rear end, and then at least a dozen around the length of her body. The man kept trying to add more and more to her arms, but she would drop them as he ran to gather the rest. Luckily, Galway’s rains held off for the 45-minute show, just until the very end, when as they were saying goodbyes, the crowd pulled out coats and umbrellas before looking for cover.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Pubs & Souvenirs
July 17, 2010
I’ve started a few new collections while in Ireland, not just hundreds of photos of our adventure or postcards from every town we visit, but also items I’ve picked up a the countless pubs we’ve stopped at: coasters and pint glasses. They’re not stolen items in my mind, but souvenirs of the good times we’re having. Now I can bring a bit of Ireland’s culture home with me.
Each pub has a different set of cardboard coasters. Absolut, Bulmer’s, Carlsberg, Guinness — each coaster promotes a different beverage with clever designs and marketing. These are simple to pick up when you order a drink because they’re stacked next to the drafts or even just arrayed across the wooden bar top.
The pint glasses prove more difficult. A sense of skillfulness and --- accompanies their swipe. Last sip, eyes glance around to hope no employees or cameras lurk, and into the purse it goes. The Carlsberg one is from our last night in Killarney, a night when we hopped from pub to pub on the surprisingly crowded streets. (Though some people may not understand why I wanted a Carlsberg glass, it was the beer of Copenhagen from my second trip to Europe, and I still proudly wear my green “THE best beer in the world T-shirt.”) And like many of the other girls here, a Bulmer’s glass is also in my collection. The sweet cider of Ireland is what we all agree we may miss the most, and we’re already on a quest to find a similar version in the States. My particular glass is from a crowded night in The King’s Head in Galway, the night that Spain won the World Cup.
Four would be a good number to stop at. Of course I need a Guinness glass, but I’m not sure what the final one will be. I had hoped Murphy’s, the beer of Cork, but we’re long gone from that city and the frequentness of that draft. But I know I’ll find something.
I’ve started a few new collections while in Ireland, not just hundreds of photos of our adventure or postcards from every town we visit, but also items I’ve picked up a the countless pubs we’ve stopped at: coasters and pint glasses. They’re not stolen items in my mind, but souvenirs of the good times we’re having. Now I can bring a bit of Ireland’s culture home with me.
Each pub has a different set of cardboard coasters. Absolut, Bulmer’s, Carlsberg, Guinness — each coaster promotes a different beverage with clever designs and marketing. These are simple to pick up when you order a drink because they’re stacked next to the drafts or even just arrayed across the wooden bar top.
The pint glasses prove more difficult. A sense of skillfulness and --- accompanies their swipe. Last sip, eyes glance around to hope no employees or cameras lurk, and into the purse it goes. The Carlsberg one is from our last night in Killarney, a night when we hopped from pub to pub on the surprisingly crowded streets. (Though some people may not understand why I wanted a Carlsberg glass, it was the beer of Copenhagen from my second trip to Europe, and I still proudly wear my green “THE best beer in the world T-shirt.”) And like many of the other girls here, a Bulmer’s glass is also in my collection. The sweet cider of Ireland is what we all agree we may miss the most, and we’re already on a quest to find a similar version in the States. My particular glass is from a crowded night in The King’s Head in Galway, the night that Spain won the World Cup.
Four would be a good number to stop at. Of course I need a Guinness glass, but I’m not sure what the final one will be. I had hoped Murphy’s, the beer of Cork, but we’re long gone from that city and the frequentness of that draft. But I know I’ll find something.
Crough Patrick
July 15, 2010
The wind whips around us on the top of Croagh Patrick (pronounced croak) and we can’t see anything below because of the clouds and the fog. Every so often, the grey clears to reeal a spot of blue sky above Westport’s blue harbor dotted with islands. The wind moves the clouds so fast we don’t even have time to get our cameras out. Rain sounds like hail as it gently hits the ground and our sturdy raincoats. Soft grass covers a small patch on the side of the mountain in front of our rocky seats, but below we see rocks, rocks, and more rocks.
No one had known what to expect when we eagerly decided to climb this mountain. I had read a bit about how rocky it was and that pilgrims should rent a wooden walking stick to sturdy themselves during the climb. But besides that, we thought we were ready for anything. We were in for a surprise. “That’s nothing more than a pompous hill,” Matt had said with disdain as our small bus wound toward the mountain. All of us looked at him in disgust while contemplating the beast ahead. He soon realized that what he thought was Croagh Patrick was actually a hill blocking the real mountain. “That’s sick!” he finally said upon seeing the rocky summit ahead.
We started off with a group picture at the base, and jackets stowed in our packs, began the climb. Steps led up the side of the hill beside the ominous white St. Patrick statue and soon melded into a rocky path. They were small rocks here, mixed with water flowing down the side of the mountain. Finding the best way to get up already proved difficult as the path varied from loose gravel to wobbly shoe-sized rocks to even larger ones that were luckily secure in the ground. Even 10 minutes up, the group had already split, and I trudged along in the back. My chronic cold combined with the steepness of the climb were already getting the best of me; many people later said they thought I wouldn’t make it because of my tomato red face and heavy breathing, but I knew that I would make it. I had to.
An hour up, the path leveled onto what was called the shoulder of the mountain. We passed a grassy clearing below where climbers had spelled out words with rocks: KISS, AMORE, KUTKEY’10. From our height, they looked like small white pebbles, but I’m sure each stone was much larger. Finally, halfway meant it was time for a break. While sitting on top of more rocks along the path, the fog enveloped the mountain. One moment I could clearly see the harbor below, but the next we couldn’t even see the side of the mountain. The gray moved around us, threatening rain to end our journey, but somehow the skies knew they should hold off for us. Sheets of fog — or clouds? — hid the trek above.
Further and further we climbed, balancing our feet on the precarious rocks, hoping to not slip. There it was: the base of the final ascent loomed before us. The rocks just kept going up, looking unsteady as climbers ahead attempted to go up. Rocks jutted out from the brown dirt beside us, giving a slight handhold to pull ourselves up. Carefully and slowly I continued up. Taking short breaks to look back at the unknown grey behind and the neverending rocks ahead, I watched other climbers pass me in both directions. Down came two dogs — did they make it all the way to the top? — and a woman who has climbed 14 times. Her wooden walking stick keeps track of the dates of each conquest. A man in too-short shorts sped up past me, barely glancing down at the rocks slipping under his feet. “Just around the bend and then up,” one man told me as I huffed and puffed. “Fifteen more minutes!” another woman said.
I made it. We survive the climb of Croagh Patrick. It isn’t a spiritual pilgrimage like it is for many, especially on Reek Sunday, but it is an individual journey for each of us. A time for reflection, ambition, achievement. With congratulations to each climber, we give our weary feet a much-needed rest. But just for five minutes until the rains come, cutting short our refueling and journaling, spurring us to make the climb back down.
The rocks slide beneath us, and at one point it’s like surfing as I skid down behind a couple with walking sticks. That’s enough uneasiness for me though; I’d rather descend with deliberation and concentrate on each step. It takes time, but slowly, and after only three falls, I’m back at the shoulder. Familiar sights seem new from this opposite direction. Jellied legs are unsure if they can make it farther, but then we see the parking lot, the last stretch of the walk, the St. Patrick statue.
And yes, I bought the T-shirt. I climbed Crough Patrick.
The wind whips around us on the top of Croagh Patrick (pronounced croak) and we can’t see anything below because of the clouds and the fog. Every so often, the grey clears to reeal a spot of blue sky above Westport’s blue harbor dotted with islands. The wind moves the clouds so fast we don’t even have time to get our cameras out. Rain sounds like hail as it gently hits the ground and our sturdy raincoats. Soft grass covers a small patch on the side of the mountain in front of our rocky seats, but below we see rocks, rocks, and more rocks.
No one had known what to expect when we eagerly decided to climb this mountain. I had read a bit about how rocky it was and that pilgrims should rent a wooden walking stick to sturdy themselves during the climb. But besides that, we thought we were ready for anything. We were in for a surprise. “That’s nothing more than a pompous hill,” Matt had said with disdain as our small bus wound toward the mountain. All of us looked at him in disgust while contemplating the beast ahead. He soon realized that what he thought was Croagh Patrick was actually a hill blocking the real mountain. “That’s sick!” he finally said upon seeing the rocky summit ahead.
We started off with a group picture at the base, and jackets stowed in our packs, began the climb. Steps led up the side of the hill beside the ominous white St. Patrick statue and soon melded into a rocky path. They were small rocks here, mixed with water flowing down the side of the mountain. Finding the best way to get up already proved difficult as the path varied from loose gravel to wobbly shoe-sized rocks to even larger ones that were luckily secure in the ground. Even 10 minutes up, the group had already split, and I trudged along in the back. My chronic cold combined with the steepness of the climb were already getting the best of me; many people later said they thought I wouldn’t make it because of my tomato red face and heavy breathing, but I knew that I would make it. I had to.
An hour up, the path leveled onto what was called the shoulder of the mountain. We passed a grassy clearing below where climbers had spelled out words with rocks: KISS, AMORE, KUTKEY’10. From our height, they looked like small white pebbles, but I’m sure each stone was much larger. Finally, halfway meant it was time for a break. While sitting on top of more rocks along the path, the fog enveloped the mountain. One moment I could clearly see the harbor below, but the next we couldn’t even see the side of the mountain. The gray moved around us, threatening rain to end our journey, but somehow the skies knew they should hold off for us. Sheets of fog — or clouds? — hid the trek above.
Further and further we climbed, balancing our feet on the precarious rocks, hoping to not slip. There it was: the base of the final ascent loomed before us. The rocks just kept going up, looking unsteady as climbers ahead attempted to go up. Rocks jutted out from the brown dirt beside us, giving a slight handhold to pull ourselves up. Carefully and slowly I continued up. Taking short breaks to look back at the unknown grey behind and the neverending rocks ahead, I watched other climbers pass me in both directions. Down came two dogs — did they make it all the way to the top? — and a woman who has climbed 14 times. Her wooden walking stick keeps track of the dates of each conquest. A man in too-short shorts sped up past me, barely glancing down at the rocks slipping under his feet. “Just around the bend and then up,” one man told me as I huffed and puffed. “Fifteen more minutes!” another woman said.
I made it. We survive the climb of Croagh Patrick. It isn’t a spiritual pilgrimage like it is for many, especially on Reek Sunday, but it is an individual journey for each of us. A time for reflection, ambition, achievement. With congratulations to each climber, we give our weary feet a much-needed rest. But just for five minutes until the rains come, cutting short our refueling and journaling, spurring us to make the climb back down.
The rocks slide beneath us, and at one point it’s like surfing as I skid down behind a couple with walking sticks. That’s enough uneasiness for me though; I’d rather descend with deliberation and concentrate on each step. It takes time, but slowly, and after only three falls, I’m back at the shoulder. Familiar sights seem new from this opposite direction. Jellied legs are unsure if they can make it farther, but then we see the parking lot, the last stretch of the walk, the St. Patrick statue.
And yes, I bought the T-shirt. I climbed Crough Patrick.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Aran Islands
July 12, 2010
“This is about as high as the tower was that I wrote about,” Luke says as our noses peek over the edge of the cliff, eyes mesmerized by the drop to the water below. Our bodies inch forward, wanting to be ever closer to seeing more, but scared what happens an inch too far. “No way,” Matt says, unsure if Luke was as dauntless as a jump from this height would make him seem.
We’re within the walls of Dun Aonghasa, a circular stone fort built around 2000 B.C. Just like on the rest of the island of Inishmore, the walls are stacks of stones dug from the earth, held together by nothing but gravity. It’s a rocky climb from the point where we dropped our bikes off up to the fort — practice for Thursday’s climb up Crough Patrick.
A young man with a light blue nametag stuck to his blue sweater has been sitting on the ledge near us, listening to our conversations about how we should all become trained cliff jumpers so that if the fort was under attack, we could safely jump into the Atlantic to save our lives; Matt wants to make a movie with that plot. I look over at the man when Luke talks about his tower jump — which was from a height of about 70 feet — and the man shakes his head.
“How high is this?” I ask.
“More than 70 feet, I’ll tell you,” he replies with a laugh. “This is 300 feet up. The Cliffs of Moher are 700 feet up.” No one has died from these cliffs, he tells us, unlike at the Cliffs of Moher. “Well, people have survived the fall there,” he says, “but they die a few days after that.”
Pádraic’s summer job is to monitor the visitors to the fort and fuss at them if they do what they’re not supposed to. “You’re not allowed to be up there!” he calls to an oblivious man walking along the top of one of the outer stone walls. “Man on the moon! You can’t be up there!”
To a girl curious how long it takes a stone to hit the water: “You can’t do that,” he says with a hint of regret and apology mixed in his voice. “It’s in my contract to tell you not to… But just take a lash. I can’t see anything now.” He’s looking right at her, but she understands. She drops the stone. “Seven seconds.” Pádraic nods. “About seven or eight, yes.”
He was born on Inishmore, about 15 minutes away from the fort. Growing up was just like growing up anywhere else, he tells us, and he and Matt immediately compare video games. Now he’s a student at N.U.I.G., which is where we’re staying; he knows Corrib Village — and its gate. He frequently brings up his Polish ex-girlfriend, and even compares Matt to her after he asks too many questions. He watched part of the World Cup final last night, “but then the Guinness was going too fast.” Though a black New York Yankees hat sits on his head, he’s not really sure why he’s a fan. So many of the Irish settled up in New York and Boston, he explains. That must be why we’ve seen so many hats. But to him, baseball is the most boring sport ever invented. Hurling is a real sport.
“It’s agility, speed, sweat… bones, bodies.”
“This is about as high as the tower was that I wrote about,” Luke says as our noses peek over the edge of the cliff, eyes mesmerized by the drop to the water below. Our bodies inch forward, wanting to be ever closer to seeing more, but scared what happens an inch too far. “No way,” Matt says, unsure if Luke was as dauntless as a jump from this height would make him seem.
We’re within the walls of Dun Aonghasa, a circular stone fort built around 2000 B.C. Just like on the rest of the island of Inishmore, the walls are stacks of stones dug from the earth, held together by nothing but gravity. It’s a rocky climb from the point where we dropped our bikes off up to the fort — practice for Thursday’s climb up Crough Patrick.
A young man with a light blue nametag stuck to his blue sweater has been sitting on the ledge near us, listening to our conversations about how we should all become trained cliff jumpers so that if the fort was under attack, we could safely jump into the Atlantic to save our lives; Matt wants to make a movie with that plot. I look over at the man when Luke talks about his tower jump — which was from a height of about 70 feet — and the man shakes his head.
“How high is this?” I ask.
“More than 70 feet, I’ll tell you,” he replies with a laugh. “This is 300 feet up. The Cliffs of Moher are 700 feet up.” No one has died from these cliffs, he tells us, unlike at the Cliffs of Moher. “Well, people have survived the fall there,” he says, “but they die a few days after that.”
Pádraic’s summer job is to monitor the visitors to the fort and fuss at them if they do what they’re not supposed to. “You’re not allowed to be up there!” he calls to an oblivious man walking along the top of one of the outer stone walls. “Man on the moon! You can’t be up there!”
To a girl curious how long it takes a stone to hit the water: “You can’t do that,” he says with a hint of regret and apology mixed in his voice. “It’s in my contract to tell you not to… But just take a lash. I can’t see anything now.” He’s looking right at her, but she understands. She drops the stone. “Seven seconds.” Pádraic nods. “About seven or eight, yes.”
He was born on Inishmore, about 15 minutes away from the fort. Growing up was just like growing up anywhere else, he tells us, and he and Matt immediately compare video games. Now he’s a student at N.U.I.G., which is where we’re staying; he knows Corrib Village — and its gate. He frequently brings up his Polish ex-girlfriend, and even compares Matt to her after he asks too many questions. He watched part of the World Cup final last night, “but then the Guinness was going too fast.” Though a black New York Yankees hat sits on his head, he’s not really sure why he’s a fan. So many of the Irish settled up in New York and Boston, he explains. That must be why we’ve seen so many hats. But to him, baseball is the most boring sport ever invented. Hurling is a real sport.
“It’s agility, speed, sweat… bones, bodies.”
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Clifden
July 9, 2010
Though the plans were set the night before to meet at the gate at 7:45 a.m. so that we could catch the 8:30 a.m. bus to Clifden, early that morning Elizabeth, Luke and I changed our minds. It was too early to consider traveling and we should wait until the 11:15 bus. That made more sense to us all.
There’s a commotion outside my room. Lindsey and Ryann are wondering who keeps ringing our doorbell. My clock says 8 a.m.
No! Didn’t Luke remember our conversation…. Uh oh, that conversation was in my dream. I was late! My alarm didn’t go off! I yell out the window, but he’s already gone. Will they continue to Clifden without me? I don’t know his room number so I can’t even call him.
Facebook to the rescue. Elizabeth is online. She says they waited at the gate for me at the pre-arranged time, but then since I didn’t show up, decided to take the 11:15 bus. Just like we had decided in my dream.
Once we finally arrived in Clifden later that afternoon, I wished that we had still had those few extra hours to explore. Our trip just hit the surface of what seemed like a charming town. Since it was Friday, a market was set up in the main square. Vendors had produce beneath tents, leather boots and belts, wooden bowls and salad servers, and simple blue and green pottery. Buildings around the town were painted in the usual Irish tradition of bright colors, which to me makes the town seem alive, awake, animated. The art galleries featured paintings that I knew would look perfect in my family’s orange and art-covered kitchen — but not for the 500+ euros. My mom would have adored the sheep standing on an orange canvas, though. The jewelry store’s shelves were filled with traditional Claddagh rings, Celtic cross necklaces, Celtic knots, along with many other unique designs made by the family jewelers right in that shop.
Though the plans were set the night before to meet at the gate at 7:45 a.m. so that we could catch the 8:30 a.m. bus to Clifden, early that morning Elizabeth, Luke and I changed our minds. It was too early to consider traveling and we should wait until the 11:15 bus. That made more sense to us all.
There’s a commotion outside my room. Lindsey and Ryann are wondering who keeps ringing our doorbell. My clock says 8 a.m.
No! Didn’t Luke remember our conversation…. Uh oh, that conversation was in my dream. I was late! My alarm didn’t go off! I yell out the window, but he’s already gone. Will they continue to Clifden without me? I don’t know his room number so I can’t even call him.
Facebook to the rescue. Elizabeth is online. She says they waited at the gate for me at the pre-arranged time, but then since I didn’t show up, decided to take the 11:15 bus. Just like we had decided in my dream.
Once we finally arrived in Clifden later that afternoon, I wished that we had still had those few extra hours to explore. Our trip just hit the surface of what seemed like a charming town. Since it was Friday, a market was set up in the main square. Vendors had produce beneath tents, leather boots and belts, wooden bowls and salad servers, and simple blue and green pottery. Buildings around the town were painted in the usual Irish tradition of bright colors, which to me makes the town seem alive, awake, animated. The art galleries featured paintings that I knew would look perfect in my family’s orange and art-covered kitchen — but not for the 500+ euros. My mom would have adored the sheep standing on an orange canvas, though. The jewelry store’s shelves were filled with traditional Claddagh rings, Celtic cross necklaces, Celtic knots, along with many other unique designs made by the family jewelers right in that shop.
Galway Film Fleadh
July 6, 2010
The paparazzi stand in the corners of the theater, snapping photos of moviegoers. The writer, producers, and actors all sit in the audience for the film’s premiere. Our group of 23 fills an entire row in the surprisingly small theater in the Town Hall Theatre’s Main Auditorium.
This is the Galway Film Fleadh (pronounced flah), Ireland’s leading film festival now in its 22nd year. Since one of the classes offered during this program is a study of Irish films, the Fleadh is obviously an important part of the course; some of those students are watching up to four movies a day. But since that’s a bit much for me, I’ve only purchased four extra tickets.
The opening night as quite an experience because I’ve never been to any type of film event where the creators are present. I don’t think that it was the premiere of “My Brothers,” but the film was outstanding. Three brothers journey to recover a watch for their dying father, and along the way, they encounter emotional experiences that draw them apart but ultimately strengthen their relationship. The two young brothers had never acted before, but their inherent talent made their characters shine. It’s one of those movies that I wish I could buy.
The film was followed by a reception – but the small boathouse was so cramped that it took away from what should have been an intimate feeling. Instead we tried to balance wine glasses and heavy plates with light tapas on our raincoat-laden arms; luckily, no casualties. But overall, I’m so glad that I got to see a taste of the film festival culture.
The paparazzi stand in the corners of the theater, snapping photos of moviegoers. The writer, producers, and actors all sit in the audience for the film’s premiere. Our group of 23 fills an entire row in the surprisingly small theater in the Town Hall Theatre’s Main Auditorium.
This is the Galway Film Fleadh (pronounced flah), Ireland’s leading film festival now in its 22nd year. Since one of the classes offered during this program is a study of Irish films, the Fleadh is obviously an important part of the course; some of those students are watching up to four movies a day. But since that’s a bit much for me, I’ve only purchased four extra tickets.
The opening night as quite an experience because I’ve never been to any type of film event where the creators are present. I don’t think that it was the premiere of “My Brothers,” but the film was outstanding. Three brothers journey to recover a watch for their dying father, and along the way, they encounter emotional experiences that draw them apart but ultimately strengthen their relationship. The two young brothers had never acted before, but their inherent talent made their characters shine. It’s one of those movies that I wish I could buy.
The film was followed by a reception – but the small boathouse was so cramped that it took away from what should have been an intimate feeling. Instead we tried to balance wine glasses and heavy plates with light tapas on our raincoat-laden arms; luckily, no casualties. But overall, I’m so glad that I got to see a taste of the film festival culture.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Earls Court Guest House in Killarney
The buffet table was filled with bowls of cereals and granola, plates of scones topped with powdered sugar and various breads, bowls of fruits including prunes, pitchers of fresh squeezed orange juice and ice water, and of course, the crock pot full of porridge. I don't know how much cream it may have already been cooked with, because it was so smooth and sweet. Topped with a squeeze of honey and a splash of cream, I could have eaten that for weeks without anything else.
But of course, there was more. Earls Court House in Killarney also let guests order one item off the menu, in addition to everything we could ever want from the buffet. For each of the three mornings, I ordered something different -- unfortunately, I always forgot to bring my camera down the three flights of stairs with me, so I have no photos of these breakfasts that were so filling but that you didn't want to stop eating.
The first morning (Saturday), when the black and white clad waitresses came to take our order, I decided on an omelette filled with onions, tomatoes (pronounced the Irish way of toe-mah-toes), and cheese. The eggs were cooked to be light and fluffy, with the fillings mixed in, and then it was all folded over. Though I was already full from my favorite porridge, I knew that I probably wouldn't be eating lunch until much later (if at all) since we had a full-morning boat ride planned on the Lakes of Killarney, so I devoured as much as I could. (Not that I minded since it was so delicious!) After walking for miles that day from Ross Castle to Muckross House and back along Killarney's main road (where cyclists were ending a 112-mile ride around the Ring of Kerry), we were starved for dinner. That night, we ordered Domino's delivery; I'm never sure the best way to split the costs for things, so I went through on the menu to calculate each person's order, but then the delivery guy charged us just 34 euros. It should have been at least 59 euros for the seven of us. It was our lucky day and each person's came to just about 4 euros.
Sunday morning, I opted for the pancake option after hearing from several people the day before that they were delicious, but not like the pancakes I might be used to. At home, whenever all my relatives on my mom’s side of the family get together at our house for celebrations such as my grandparents’ 65th anniversary or our graduations, my mom makes pancakes. The recipe for “Light and Fluffy Pancakes” doesn’t require too many more steps from Bisquik or other mixes, but the outcome is a thousand times better. I’m always a little skeptical of pancakes that I order, but there was no need for concern at Earls Court House. The combination pancakes/crepes were rolled with an apple mixture inside, and came with a little pitcher of maple syrup that tasted real, not like the fake stuff you find too often. The pancakes weren’t overly sweet and had a stronger consistency, which made them fold like crepes. Along with another tiny scone and some oatmeal, this was a carb loaded start to the day. But we only had three days to eat like this, so I was going to take advantage of these lavish meals!
It was time for a real Irish breakfast on Monday morning. I was not feeling 100 percent this morning, but of course this food helped make me feel better. You might think that an Irish breakfast centers on the meat – sausages and bacon that’s more like ham than our American bacon – but there are plenty of other pieces to make the meal filling. The plate of course comes with eggs served any way you want – I chose scrambled – along with tomato slices, mushrooms, toast, and baked beans. It’s not a combination that I would ever think about putting together for a breakfast, but in Ireland, it works. Each flavor balances the others – the acidity of the tomatoes, the meatiness and earthiness of the mushrooms, and even the sweetness of the baked beans.
And now it’s back to cereal. You can never go wrong with Honey Nut Cheerios and a banana for breakfast every morning, but every once in a while, it’s good to be spoiled.
But of course, there was more. Earls Court House in Killarney also let guests order one item off the menu, in addition to everything we could ever want from the buffet. For each of the three mornings, I ordered something different -- unfortunately, I always forgot to bring my camera down the three flights of stairs with me, so I have no photos of these breakfasts that were so filling but that you didn't want to stop eating.
The first morning (Saturday), when the black and white clad waitresses came to take our order, I decided on an omelette filled with onions, tomatoes (pronounced the Irish way of toe-mah-toes), and cheese. The eggs were cooked to be light and fluffy, with the fillings mixed in, and then it was all folded over. Though I was already full from my favorite porridge, I knew that I probably wouldn't be eating lunch until much later (if at all) since we had a full-morning boat ride planned on the Lakes of Killarney, so I devoured as much as I could. (Not that I minded since it was so delicious!) After walking for miles that day from Ross Castle to Muckross House and back along Killarney's main road (where cyclists were ending a 112-mile ride around the Ring of Kerry), we were starved for dinner. That night, we ordered Domino's delivery; I'm never sure the best way to split the costs for things, so I went through on the menu to calculate each person's order, but then the delivery guy charged us just 34 euros. It should have been at least 59 euros for the seven of us. It was our lucky day and each person's came to just about 4 euros.
Sunday morning, I opted for the pancake option after hearing from several people the day before that they were delicious, but not like the pancakes I might be used to. At home, whenever all my relatives on my mom’s side of the family get together at our house for celebrations such as my grandparents’ 65th anniversary or our graduations, my mom makes pancakes. The recipe for “Light and Fluffy Pancakes” doesn’t require too many more steps from Bisquik or other mixes, but the outcome is a thousand times better. I’m always a little skeptical of pancakes that I order, but there was no need for concern at Earls Court House. The combination pancakes/crepes were rolled with an apple mixture inside, and came with a little pitcher of maple syrup that tasted real, not like the fake stuff you find too often. The pancakes weren’t overly sweet and had a stronger consistency, which made them fold like crepes. Along with another tiny scone and some oatmeal, this was a carb loaded start to the day. But we only had three days to eat like this, so I was going to take advantage of these lavish meals!
It was time for a real Irish breakfast on Monday morning. I was not feeling 100 percent this morning, but of course this food helped make me feel better. You might think that an Irish breakfast centers on the meat – sausages and bacon that’s more like ham than our American bacon – but there are plenty of other pieces to make the meal filling. The plate of course comes with eggs served any way you want – I chose scrambled – along with tomato slices, mushrooms, toast, and baked beans. It’s not a combination that I would ever think about putting together for a breakfast, but in Ireland, it works. Each flavor balances the others – the acidity of the tomatoes, the meatiness and earthiness of the mushrooms, and even the sweetness of the baked beans.
And now it’s back to cereal. You can never go wrong with Honey Nut Cheerios and a banana for breakfast every morning, but every once in a while, it’s good to be spoiled.
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