Erin Go Gobble--Thanksgiving 2008

We met John Nolan at 5:45 a.m. on Thanksgiving day and climbed on board the coach to collect the kids at their meeting place just outside the city. Dark and rainy morning. Everyone subdued, drowzy. Quiet drive west. Barely discernable shapes on the side of the highway. Thursday morning traffic on just another workday in Ireland. I dozed.

There was a little more light when I opened my eyes again, and I could make out a bit of color in the rural landscape, a few lights in the windows of distant farmhouses, the silhouettes of bare trees along the road. I watched the sunrise, such as it was, and the sky slowly lightened and I could see smoke coming out of chimneys and the outline of faraway hills, and gradually the monochrome gave way to shades of green, and we were on the N7, heading toward Limerick.

The scenery was a little more mysterious and romantic when it was darker. Because when the light came up, the vista was very much like Pennsylvania as seen from Rt. 80 in the middle part of the state. I heard one of the kids say, "If were weren't driving on the wrong side of the road, I'd swear we were back home!" He was right. The interior of Ireland (that I've seen so far) is not where they take the good postcard photos.

We stopped at Dunkerrin for breakfast a few hours after we started out. The view from the window of the restaurant (that was really a kind of truck stop in what wasn't even technically a village) could have been in Lancaster. John had arranged for us to have an Irish breakfast, and the ladies at the steam table were ready for us. There is nothing light and healthy about what the Irish consider a good breakfast: fried egg, pork sausage, black and white puddings, rashers of bacon, tinned baked beans, toast, butter, jam, scones, and pots of tea. Yikes. (The scones get my vote, though. Lord, but I love scones.)

Sidebar on puddings. We're not talking Jello pudding cups or English summer puddings with custard and fruit. No, the Irish mix up animal innards, blood (yes, blood) and some sort of grain and stuff it into casings and then cook it and slice it. I can't even look at it straight on without gagging a little. Think scrapple with blood mixed in. Eeewwwww. What is up with that?

Don't think about black and white puddings. Visualize nice scones and cream. Nice scones and cream. Nice scones and...

Thus fortified, we were off to the west again, with first stop at King John's Castle, along the River Shanoon in Limerick. Lots of history and folklore there, including a made-for-the-exhibit film telling the story of the seige of Limerick from a woman apparently suffering from PTSD and in need of trauma treatment unavailable in her century. Quite the drama it was. Interestingly, King John commissioned the castle but never actually visited there. The Brits who did were not welcomed warmly and, this being Ireland, the Irish lads who fought them were the martyred heroes of the day. Bad, bad Brits. The castle itself was as cool as castles are. I dig castles. While walking the ramparts (if that's what you call those high parts) I was recalling a castle my father built with (for) me in grammar school. (It was an A+ effort on his part!) The views of the river and the town were spectacular, and the cold, clear morning was a perfect time to tour the site.

Next stop was the village of Adare, which bills itself as the typical Irish village of long ago. But it actually was constructed by some rich landowner, who may have been an earl or something, in the mid 19th century, when Irish folk life was romanticized. It's not quite Disneyfied, but it's kind of like New Hope, or maybe Volant, but with thatched roof cottages and a kind of Ye Olde feel to it. Ick. The bus stopped long enough for kids to pee and buy family crests and souvies, and then we were off again. John Nolan, the cruise director (and a very nice man), packs a lot into his weekend excursions for these kids.

John has CDs for the trip--some Irish folky stuff like "Kilgarra Mountain" with a rock arrangement; some Van Morrison; a song that could be by the Pogues but I'm not sure; some Bruce Springsteen because John considers him honorary Irish; a song that his favorite footballers use as their anthem.... a mixed bag. I have enjoyed listening to Van Morrison and U2 while he drives us through the Irish countryside.

There was a big rainbow as we came into Kerry, with rain and sun mixing comfortably as they do here.

We stopped at the Kerry museum for a tour. The smell was awful inside. Why? Because they'd constructed an "authentic" medieval village in the basement, complete with sights, sounds and, yes, aromas. Jo and I had to see what was down there. Quite impressive, it was. A full panorama of life in the middle ages in Kerry, with a butcher slaughtering a chicken, a blacksmith shoeing a horse, sewage running down the drain sluices in the street, monks chanting w/ incense, the whole lively scene. Including the stench. One understands better the value of pomanders and sachets in the Middle Ages. I could have used an orange studded with cloves to get through the exhibit. We skipped the rest of the tour and went along the winding, narrow streets in search of something with "Kerry" on it (Jo's brother is Kerry), and a cup of tea. We found both. (Full disclosure: there was a scone involved.)

Kerry is not far from the sea, and the squall that blew up confirmed that. We tucked into a shop where we found a cobalt blue teapot that is coming home with us. We also found a new tea cozy to replace our overused one. I spotted a steeple and dragged Jo along to see St. Michael's church, where the big oak doors were locked, alas. In the vestibule was a photo montage of the five current priests of St. Michael's. Apparently the vocations are alive and well in Ireland?

We ended up the day in Tralee, as in the Rose of Tralee, which is a perfectly charming little town with narrow, winding streets and lots of shops and such. It was cold and wet by the time we arrived, so we were relieved to check in to the Tralee Townhouse, a pink and white stucco hotel run by a woman whose method of registering us all was to hand Jo a basket of room keys and ask her to pass them out. The ensuing chaos was shortlived enough, and we were soon taking a little nap in our small, quiet room on the 3rd floor. Jo and I were able to call our folks back home to say Happy Thanksgiving, something that made both of us happy.

John Nolan arranged for us to have a Thanksgiving dinner at the Brogue Inn, a short walk from the hotel. We were in the upstairs room--a pub, really, with the beginnings of Christmas decorations all about. The owners didn't quite get the concept of Thanksgiving, but I'd give them points for effort, because they had festive napkins and tablecloths for us--in Christmas designs, but again, not their big holiday, T-giving.

Dinner was a typical 3-course Irish affair: soup, meat/potato/2veg, and dessert. We had a nice pureed veg soup with the amazing grainy brown bread that we find everywhere we go (and I, for one, am not complaining about that one bit). Then came the pub's version of our T-giving dinner, created just for us: a stack comprised of a slice of tukey atop a layer of stuffing atop a slice of ham. A baked potato, some roasted new potatoes, a half-ear of boiled corn, and a mix of boiled winter vegetables. Also a tablespoon of fruit jam masquerading as cranberry sauce in the dimly lit room. Then they served warm apple pie--a tart, really--with cream. And tea.

Basic Irish cooking that I've sampled is clean, simple, hearty, hot and tasty. Not a clove of garlic in sight, nor a splash of EVOO. But it's good. They do tend to serve potatoes in more than one presentation in every meal, but that isn't necessarily a terrible thing, y'know?

The meal over, we listened to the song stylings of one each Derry, a cheerful old fellow who played the accordian for us. Seems that for the last couple of years, Derry has been the entertainment and performed Irish songs for the group. Since 2007, however, he learned himself some American tunes. So his first set started off with When Irish Eyes Are Smiling and Danny Boy and gave way to such Yank-pleasing ditties as Yellow Rose of Texas, Dixie, Bicycle Built for Two, and Yankee Doodle. Perhaps having heard that the Latino population of the US is gaining numbers, he included El Condor Pasa and Que Sera Sera. He also played a waltz and a polka before ending up with the Star Spangled Banner. It was quite the repertoire. Derry sipped at his Guinness throughout his performance and took no breaks except to tell a joke that was really, really bad but which cracked him up enough that he had trouble finishing it. (I'm not sure, but it might have been an old one Uncle Wal used to tell.)

Somewhere toward the end of the evening, Jo's colleague had everyone there say what they are thankful for. It was touching to hear the kids express their gratitude for all the things that are important to kids that age. Some of the students had family members come over for Thanksgiving, and those folks shared their thoughts as well. The one English major in the group read a funny poem he'd written (English majors rock).

When it was my turn (and you know how I dreaded that), I heard myself saying what was in my heart--that my life is rich with blessings, and the older I get, the more aware of what all those blessings are. I am filled with gratitude every day, including on a Thanksgiving day spent in Ireland. How grateful I am for that!