Haw Haw.
But seriously, one of my little dudes asked me why the Irish are so violent – naming their towns like a hit list: Kil-kenny, Kil-kerry, Kil-dare. Was the movie "Kill-Bill" set in Ireland?
Okay, okay. For reals, the prefix "Kil" meant "church" in Irish. Still does. So, Kilkenny means "Church Kenny." Now you know.
So. It was time for us to leave the west coast of Ireland. And Yea and Verily, there was weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. For Janiel did love the coast. For the coast had not yet lost it's savour wherewith it was salted in the heart of Janiel. But the coast had set her free. And the midlands of the Isle that is Emerald did loom before her. And verily, Janiel would that she might not go. But in the time of going, a light rose upon the hill and did beckon her forth. And besides, her room at Greenmount had been rented out to someone else. And so Janiel and that other traveler did gather forth all that they had brought up with them, and did load it onto their camel. And they did travel from the coast down to the land inward, toward that citadel on the hill, the Rock of Cashel, and that city beyond, which did call itself the Kil of Kenny. And they were sore afraid.
Nevertheless, they did summon their courage and gird up their cameras and euros, and did fill their camel with gas of unleaded quality. And they did go forth for the space of many hours, having no thought beforehand where they were supposed to drive. And they did get lost for a time, and they did spend an hour searching in vain for a road that had verily been taken up into heaven, for it could not be found, though the map showed it. Then they did have to backtrack from Portlaoise past Limerick to Shannon even though they were nigh unto Kilkenny, because their stupid camel did begin to pop its trunk whilst they drove upon the Way that was High. And that trunk did pop open like unto new wine in an old bottle, and it could not be stopped.
And that other traveler who did call himself "The Bruce," couldst not make the trunk stay latched. And it came to pass that The Bruce called the Rental of Hertz and did tell them that their Camel of Transportation was flawed. And that Hertz company did reply that, oops, a replacement would need to be called forth. And that replacement would be found in Shannon. And woe unto them if they did not backtrack and trade cars. For, the current car was a stinker. Yea, and it did stink like unto a lemon or a clunker. And Janiel said unto herself, Hertz owes me big time and I want to go back to the coast and Kilkenny had better be stinkin' awesome!
And it came to pass that Kilkenny WAS stinkin' awesome. And great was the awesomeness thereof. And they did get themselves unto KilKenny in that new camel (which was not likeunto that old camel in it's niceness, but did suffice.)
Did I mention that I'm writing this on a Sunday? I probably should have.
Anyway, we left Dingle and it was a sad day for me, because I LOVED the coast. Have I mentioned that? Basically, I've given you an outline above of what happened as we traveled, so I'll just let the pictures illustrate my point:
Top of Conor Pass. Dingle behind us (*weep*), Kilkenny (and a whole lot of other stuff) before.
Crazypants, yeah?
And here are shots out the window as we drove through Tralee, Abbeyfeale, and Adare, through Limerick and past Nenagh, then back through Limerick to Shannon, and then back through Nenagh and Portlaoise to Kilkenny. Ahh, the Irish. They're just like us!
Except, you know, Irish.
Here's the proof. Look! Stores! Clothes! Roads! Just like us!
Funky hose! Like us!
Houses! And blurry cemeteries! And cool churches! Like . . . um . . . well! We have some stuff kind of like that!
The friendly local Emo station–where you can gas up and feel emotional! Be goth and buy happy Cadbury Chocolate Cookies! Like . . . er . . . um . . .
Anyway. Then there was, of course, the drive backwards to Shannon–having passed Shannon almost an hour earlier–in order to swap cars because the trunk kept popping open. Just. Like. Us.
And finally, the car-switchup:
Cool, sporty, old car with air conditioning and great gas mileage . . .
. . . meh new car with no air conditioning and pitiful mileage. Not to mention no pickup or handling. But the trunk stays closed.
I'm excited.
To finally arrive in . . .
Kilkenny! And our lovely B&B, The Newlands Country House. Clearly, we got there and collapsed–because look at our slobby selves–stuff everywhere. Tsk. We needed sleep.
Especially since the next day we were hitting St. Patrick's Rock of Cashel–a very cool old mountain fort that had been turned over to the Church after King Aenghus was converted. Cormack McArthy built a chapel there (Not the author. The ancient dude. I mean, the really ancient dude). St. Patrick had a cathedral there. Many cardinals had a choir there. People died and were buried there. Archbishops built a castle there. Monks froze in the wind for 500 years before deciding–hey! It's cold here. And not so much fun. Maybe we should move out. Which they did. After spending 499 years and 364 days discussing it.
Yeah. We needed to go there.
So we ate something that I can't remember because we were so tired, then came back, passed out, dreamed about the coast, woke up in the midlands, ate breakfast, decided that the midlands were quite beautiful, and drove to Cashel.
For this:
The Rock of Cashel. Which, according to legend, hosted the conversion of King Aenghus of Ireland by St.Patrick. At the baptism of whom, legend further states, the king was accidentally stabbed in the foot by St. Patrick's crozier, when the future saint banged it on the ground. Or thought he banged it on the ground. Apparently Aenghus thought the pain was part of the strange new Christian baptism ritual, so he didn't say anything. Much to St. Patrick's later mortification. One assumes.
Up closer, the Rock of Cashel looks like this. Note the ancient Celtic scaffodling:
And on the inside–in the Cardinal Choir–a bit like this:
Them Cardinals? They had it nice, yo.
(I have no idea why I just went all "Janiel-in-the-hood" with that "yo." It just seemed to follow.) (yo.)
But the monks? Not so much. Because they lived in this. Right next to God. Okay. So maybe that was nice. If a bit drafty:
And on the inside, this:
We found, in the south transept, a number of graves and memorials. This particular memorial touched me. It was in honor of a step-son-in-law, for his goodness and kindness in caring for the memorial purchaser's daughter and children.
I know. How dear is that? Made me want to meet those people. And how cool am I to include the little blooper at the end where I thought Bruce had turned the camera off? (Mostly because I'm too tired to edit it out.)
Then you have the north-western exterior of the Rock–overlooking a gorgeous abbey that I know nothing about–and more graves and memorials. Also the wicked-strong and ever-present monk-crushing wind:
This is the east exterior side of the north Transept. Check out those ancient headstones–wind even blew one over:
Except they're not ancient! These headstones are from the 1800's. They look older than some that I've seen in Boston from the 1600's. Guess sandstone doesn't fare well in constant micro-burst air flow.
We also saw headstones with burial dates in the 2000's. What would one have to do, or be, to be buried at the Rock of Cashel, one wonders. One does not, however, wonder quite enough to get buried up there oneself. At least not yet.
Wow. That is all.
Well, by this time the wind had beaten us to death, and it was time to go back to Kilkenny. But not without a little look at a few exquisitely Irish characteristics of the place:
Irish sign-age. 🙂
Yeah. Pay no attention to my blathering musings. I'm including this clip solely for the little lasses rolling down the hill. I want to roll down the hill! Why didn't I roll down the hill! Next time, I'm totally rolling down the hill.
Rusty old iron fence. Some bits bent, some bits missing. And looking out into a gorgeous pasture in the middle of town. *sigh* Yeah. I could use me some of this in my backyard.
Here we have an example of Irish engineering. Something we saw all over the country:
Hot water is on the right. Cold water on the left.
Wah?
You supposed to hop back and forth between them to get warm?
Our bed and breakfasts were smarter. They had both taps in the same sink. Separately still. But in the same sink.
Have I mentioned that I heart the Irish?
I also heart their flora and fauna. Look at the blossoms from this tree. And they smelled heavenly. Like a mix of honeysuckle, rose, and hyacinth:
How about a closeup, Mr. DeMille?
Awww. Don't they look ready for the ball? Or perhaps the ballet? I need someone to tell me what they are.
And with that lovely image, I leave you until next time–when we take in our last draught of Ireland, at Kilkenny Castle
Slán!
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