Click here for Travelogue Part 5

I wake up in Galway more rested and fortified than I have any right to be, having patronized what feels like half the pubs in the city over the last few days. I set my compass southward; the plan for today is to drive down to Cork along the western coast, stopping off for a gander at the Cliffs of Moher. I’ve been assured the cliffs are a worthy tourist trap, but I am a bit wary. I have a lot of business to attend to patronizing the pubs in Cork and I’d hate for something like the resplendent beauty of nature to get in the way.

My drive to the cliffs is uneventful and scenic. The route is positively silly with pebbled beaches looking out onto a panoramic view of the steely ocean and sky, the kind of setting that lends itself to a bonneted woman wrapped in a plaid shawl staring out at the sea, wondering when her lad will come home after a cannonball blows his leg off in a naval battle. I stop off to admire one such beach, keeping my eyes peeled for an aforementioned bonneted woman so that I can tell her that Napoleon Bonaparte has been dead for some two hundred years and that she need not worry. I find no such woman, but there are some pastured cows who let me approach them with mild apprehension.

A note on livestock - I had just come from Scotland, where the Highland Cow is much ballyhooed and considered a mascot of sorts for the nation, with good reason. They are magnificent beasts. However, in terms of quantity, prevalence, and size of cow, I think Ireland has them beat. I know this will piss some of my readers off.

As I get closer to the cliffs, I start climbing in my little Nissan up winding narrow roads into the hills, driving behind several tour busses that are handling the switchbacks with varying levels of faculty. I remember that this is a touristy spot, and start to get impatient when the traffic to the park entrance backs up.

With frustration mounting, my eyes roll when I see that parking is 15 Euros. Pissy and grumpy, I approach the cliffs thinking that this had better be one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life.

Mother Nature sure schooled my sorry ass! I gasp at the first lookout point as I gaze upon the Cliffs of Moher, dumbstruck by their ethereal beauty. Who am I to question a UNESCO World Heritage Site? Tourists speaking a multitude of languages mill about me, taking photos and walking either up to the higher points of the lookout for a better view, our out to the cliffs themselves. At some point, the clouds part and shafts of light seemingly from on high beam onto the rock faces, contrasting the shadows in gorgeous interplay. Fine, rub it in my face!

After I’ve had my fill, I hop back in the car to continue on my way to Cork. It is nearing midday and I’m burning daylight. A few hours into my journey, I feel the need to answer the call of nature. I had passed by Limerick a while back and I’m in a more rural area, having opted for a more scenic route. Glancing at my map, there doesn’t seem to be another major population area for quite some time, so I decide that at the next little town or village I go through, I will stop off and find a place.

Driving down R513, I see a beautiful stone ruin off the side of the road that I am tempted to stop and examine, but I decide against it because I don’t feel I can waste the time, and I need to take a leak. Right past the ruins is the main drag of a small hamlet, so I park the car and decide to find a place to relieve myself. The gas station doesn’t have a toilet, and most of the businesses on the street don’t seem to either. No problem, I think. Surely there is a pub or two in this little town, I can probably pop into one, head straight for the loo and be on my way! There is a small place called Carmody’s that I figure is as good a spot as any.

I walk in and if there were any music playing, it would have done that record scratch thing like in a movie. I enter a room only slightly bigger than the kitchen in my New York City apartment. There is a friendly looking, rosy cheeked lady sitting on the stool behind the bar, a few elderly patrons who look to be retirees enjoying a midday pint sitting at the bar, a couple of true blue barflies sitting on a couch with 1-3 dogs, and a wrinkled, well-pickled fellow who looks and smells like a capital D drunk sitting at a small table next to them. Save for Old Rummy, none of these people would have looked out of place at my Grandma O’Toole’s funeral¹, and indeed I have not seen such a collection of ruddy faces and thick, Irish necks since that occasion. They have all stopped whatever they were doing to stare at me because I would guess that nobody “new” has entered this establishment in 25 years. They do not seem hostile or unfriendly in the slightest, but they are reasonably baffled.

Caught off guard, I stand there gaping like a moron until the bartender asks if I’d like anything, so I figure I should get a beverage so as to not seem rude. I order a non-alcoholic Guinness without any self consciousness, because I have been pleased to find that pretty much every pub across the country has decent zero proof options, or “zero zero” as I’ve heard it called. The Irish are so dedicated to drinking beer in some form or another, they wont let something like sobriety inhibit the act.

I am immediately pleased by my accidental happening upon this place. The regulars are delighted and amused that a random, amiable dope from the States has darkened their doorstep, and they ask about my travels. The bartender (who seems to be the proprietor of the establishment) and I have the easiest time communicating. There are four men who chat with me and each of them are hard to understand based on thickness of accent and level of inebriation at increasing levels of difficulty. On the easier side is the man to my left who is bald, wearing a thick sweater and spectacles, and seems like all of my uncles smashed together in a particle collider. I pick up about 90% of what he says and occasionally ask him to repeat something. On the other end of the spectrum is the stewed prune, who is fully unintelligible, but seems incredibly sweet. When he addresses me I just smile politely and say “interesting” and nod. After a few minutes of this, the bartender bails me out and says “ oh thank you, Peter” and I have an off-ramp.

I preface that I am not trying to be rude before I ask where exactly am I, and I learn that the town is called Hospital. I ask if there is a big hospital here or something and they ask if I saw the ruin on the way into town. That was the hospital at one point. I ask when it was built and Peter shouts “fifteen hundreds” and its the only clear thing I hear him say the entire time I’m there. Bald Uncle and I have a cathartic chat, as he is curious about just what the hell is going on over there in America and have we lost our damn minds, and I am happy for the chance to commiserate with someone outside the situation who also understands that it is god awful. The bartender tells me about the folk musicians who played until two in the morning last night and how usually they close earlier, but once they get going you just don’t want to stop them, and there is some discussion about a wrestling match happening at the community center down the road that evening. I am incredibly comfortable and I savor the hospitality.

Eventually I do what I came to do and bid a fond farewell to the good folks at Carmody’s. I am running quite late to Cork, but this was a worthy diversion, without a doubt.