Gaelic Glory Days
Mari S. Gold
When my husband and I took off from Kennedy Airport in October, 2013, bound for Ireland, we had no idea it would be our last trip together.
Our time in Dublin began at Trinity College where I was fascinated by the Book of Kells with its enchanting monk-written marginalia like “It’s cold in here,” and “I’m tired,” 9th century scholars behaving like those of today. One night we ate at The Winding Stair, a lovely restaurant near the Abbey Theater after which we saw The Picture of Dorian Gray.
After days of more sightseeing and more food, (including a glorious meal at Fallon and Byrne where I finally understood why foodies swoon over Irish butter), we joined our group, Wolfhound Adventures. Although older than the other nine Wolfhounders, it didn’t matter in the slightest. What mattered was our leader, Dave O’Connor, a multifaceted charmer who can tell a tale, sing a song and bring Irish history to vivid life.
Our vehicle, the Wolfmobile, was a Mercedes Sprinter attached to a trailer holding bikes, used throughout the trip. En route from Dublin to southwest Ireland, we stopped at The Rock of Cashel and Athassel Abbey, founded in the twelfth century and sitting pretty by the River Suir with cows grazing on its banks. Back in the day, Athassel belonged to the Butler family; as Dave explained, the rights of “butleredge” provided the honor of pouring the first glass of wine for a newly crowned king–a good gig.
At Cahir Castle we viewed the working portcullis that today’s filmmakers dote on as they can capture authentic wheezing and cranking. There I learned about a machiolation, the floor opening between supporting corbels of a battlement that was supremely useful for dropping hot oil or other nasty substances onto the enemy. The word derives from the Old French machecol that goes back to Old French macher meaning ‘crush’ and col ‘neck.’ Don’t know what was more fun; the linguistics lesson or understanding medieval machinery.
Breakfast was inevitably a carb-rich wonderment: eggs, potatoes, bacon and black and white puddings, types of sausages. Under ordinary circumstances there’d be no need to eat again until dinner but the air was cool, we were hiking, biking or wandering in the open and looked forward to sandwich lunches and bountiful Irish dinners.
Thoughtfully, Dave had arranged for ground-floor, handicapped-accessible rooms at each B&B to accommodate my husband’s serious foot problem that made walking upstairs challenging. Typically, Dave didn’t ask–just did it.
We had the opportunity to visit Skellig Michael, an island with the remains of a very early monastery including famed “beehive” dwellings. I opted not to go, put off by the long, cold boat trip and climbing six hundred potentially slippery steps. Wolfhounders who went had a great time but hearing their post-mortem convinced me I’d made the right choice. Other days were filled with once-in-a-lifetime experiences: horseback riding on the beach of Derrynane under a sky filled with pink clouds; a hurling lesson on a beach where we also attempted Gaelic football with an enthusiastic Jack Russell terrier as a teammate, and learning to dance an Irish set from an instructor Dave whistled up which we “performed” at McGann’s Pub in Doolin. I’m sure we butchered the steps but the folks in the pub were very generous with their applause. (And we were fueled by lots of Guinness.)
In addition to his enormous store of knowledge Dave has the Irish musical gift. Each time we returned to Wolfmobile after a stop, he’d have the perfect song playing as after our visit to the elegant jewelry shop of Brian de Staic, when we were treated to Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend. At another point, Dave organized a movie music quiz–my one generational challenge as the only song I could recognize was from Mary Poppins.
The South Pole Pub in Annascaul was a (literal) hoot, Halloween’d to the hilt as the Irish are huge Halloween fans. At the Burren, a wild, brown landscape that looks like the moon surface, we walked around a fairy ring to thank the fairies in Gaelic. I hope they understood as the only Gaelic I was sure of is the toast, Slainte. Donogore Castle, Listoonvarna known for its Matchmaking Festival each fall, the tiny Gallarus Oratory made of tightly-fitted stones that’s still in use, hikes, bike rides, humor and history filled the days.
Our return to New York was on the last plane before airports were closed in advance of Hurricane Sandy. Two weeks later, my husband was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I’m incredibly glad that our last trip together was such joy. I remember Joel looking at the Cliffs of Moher, both of us feckin freezing and having a wonderful time. Thanks, Ireland, thanks Dave.
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