Jan 26 2017
Regular readers will recall my promise for an Irish relocation should Trump win the presidency. But I swapped that pledge for a more realistic winter romp, similar to prior trips. Past accounts are documented here, here, and here.
And a reference to my early Irish adventures from the mid-90s — the era of foxhunting, frequent partying and stealing signposts with Karen (aka, Sister Sheep) is noted Here.
Back to present time. Our crew wrapped up an action-packed, 10-day jaunt a couple days ago.
It’s fitting that we leveraged a shortened school week, due to Trump’s inauguration. And this time around, Martin came as well!
This marked Brynn’s 4th consecutive, jet-setting journey to Ireland, compared to Martin’s first foray in 20 years. (Not to mention his 10-year gap in any international travel, since Italy, May 2007. Yowaz! My passport is a restless beast which requires regular, frequent outings. At least once a year.)
Well, Martin quickly caught up; we immersed him in Irish life, starting with Sheepfest at Kilcolgan Castle. This has become an annual tradition, a celebration of silly nicknames and juvenile behavior from the good-old days.
This year’s sweet sheep treats. And yes, the cake toppers are wasted:
Here’s Tara, a more responsible “sheep in training,” and a descendant from the original herd (Mary’s daughter). Tara’s a talented musician and dancer.
Ireland is virtually devoid of tourists in January. For good reason: It’s chilly and sunlight is in short supply. But it guarantees crowd-free excursions, last-minute bookings, and exclusive tours of castles and museums (provided they’re open).
St. Multose Church in Kinsale clings to 800 years of history. The graveyard is the burial site for victims of the Lusitania’s fateful voyage in 1915.
Politics might’ve prompted this trip, but we dodged the presidential hype on TV and radio… until the big day. Friday, Jan 20th found us wrapping our stay in Kinsale. And we grabbed lunch at a pub recommended by Potomac Huntsman, Brian Kiely, who texted a plea for Cadbury chocolate. (Hey Brian, I got the goods.)
The well-timed name of the restaurant was purely coincidental — totally unplanned.
But technically, the kids can say that they dined at The White House on Inauguration Day.
By the time Trump raised one hand and set the other atop a bible to take the oath, we’d migrated to Inchydoney.
We tuned in for the remaining inauguration coverage while the sun offered a tempting distraction:
The next morning, we reverted to a news-free existence and focused on the beach, pubs, live music and other fun.
A morning stroll at low tide with ‘Zilla:
Since so many destinations were deserted and crowd-free, Martin and I let the kids roam unfettered.
That’s how we lost them, or if you prefer, how we “misplaced them.” Most notably, at the quirky Glengarriff attraction: Bamboo Park.
We asked for trouble since the property consists of a labyrinth of trails hidden by bushy forest vegetation: dense bamboo and sprawling clusters of ferns and palm trees.
Here’s Martin, issuing a mild protest, when asked to pose by a sample palm tree:
Shortly before our vacation began, the kids stumbled on a TV showing of the 1973 movie,”Papillon,” starring Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman as prisoners, who attempt a harrowing escape from French Guiana’s rigid penal system.
Bamboo Park was similar to the tropical rainforest depicted in the flick — perfect to test the game version of Papillon. A kid and a parent would act as prisoners, given 60 seconds to flee and disappear in the maze of unmarked, tropical trails. Then, the remaining family members would serve as guards, and hunt down the escapees.
And upon locating them, beat them senseless.
Kidding, of course.
It took just two rounds for even the most vocal youngster to grasp the benefit of a hushed voice. And the importance of shedding bright-colored jackets. We ran down the paths and reduced communication to hand gestures.
In a later round Cayden, Brynn and I worked as guards, but failed to find the criminals. Eventually, we split up to scour more ground. Over time, we spied one another less frequently, until we were lost — swallowed by the foliage.
We never found our escapees. The round only ended when Hadley voluntarily surrendered. “We’re standing here!” she shouted from the distant greens. “You better show up in 2 minutes to we’re taking off again!”
Considering all the photos of beaches, palm trees and tropical trappings, this trip resembles Florida, don’t you think?
Seriously, Ireland is virtually interchangeable with the Panhandle State. Actually, Google says that Oklahoma is the Panhandle state. Whatever.
It’s Florida, the EU version… if you set aside the frigid temperatures and ski jackets.
And the stone walls, and ruins and castles.
And the hilly terrain.
And the sheep.
And the Irish people, of course. Their accents, culinary distinctions, and the whole driving-on-the-left-thing. And history and cultural differences.
Shed all that stuff and Ireland is the spitting image of Florida! Or French Guiana.
To be continued…