Ireland, part II of a several part series

I am now less tired, though I do not have less homework.

As I walked back to my hostel from the pub, I passed a drunk guy with a guitar doing what I thought must be the worst interpretation ever of Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here." Unfortunately I was wrong--not three blocks later there was a drunker guy with a guitar doing the worst interpretation ever of Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here."

The next morning I went to the bus station to catch a 10:00AM bus to Carlow. I bid a fond farewell to Dublin and was looking forward to going into the countryside after a stressful week in London and two busy days in Dublin. Carlow had won a spot on my itinerary because a portion of my family, the Kinsellas, emigrated from there to the US. Well, I only knew that they were from the county, and I decided that the county's capital was as good a place to stop for a night as any.

It was a nice town, and my only non-hostel night on the trip. Carlow is too small to have a hostel, but they had a plethora of B&Bs. Mine was the Celtic B&B. It took forever to find, not because it was far from the city centre (it was only a ten-minute walk) but because I first went the wrong way out of the city centre looking for it. But I eventually made it there OK and was quite pleased with it. It was only €35 for my en suite room and breakfast, and the room had a nice double bed with a TV, a kettle w/tea, and cheerful lace curtains. If one had to spend more money than a hostel, this was a good way to do it.

I spent the afternoon ambling about the town. It had some wonderful castle ruins, a nice collection of old churches, a gorgeous riverwalk, and a peaceful, well-tended city park. Carlow would be a nice place to call home. I spent a good deal of time resting on the riverbank in the park, thinking about what this area had looked like a century and a half ago. It was odd to think about this being one of my ancestral homes, but it was also comforting. The gentle landscape put me at peace, a peace I had not felt recently in the buzz of my travels and city life. Early evening some drizzling rain set in, and I didn't realize it, but I would not see the sun again until England (you know the weather is terrible when you have to go to England for sunlight). I went into a pub to dodge the rain and to have dinner, and my bowl of Irish stew and potatoes was as hot and hearty a meal as anyone could have hoped for. It was perhaps marginally cheaper than a comparable meal in Dublin would have been, which is to say it was only annoyingly expensive rather than painfully expensive.

Driven inside by the setting sun, the rain, and a day's walking (and by the fact that it was a Sunday night in a small town, so there wasn't much in the way of nightlife), I decided to try out Irish TV. Much to my delight there was a Gaelic language channel, and they were of course showing a hurling match. Hurling, for those of you don't know, is a sport a bit like lacrosse. Or maybe not at all like lacrosse, I don't know. The players all carry sticks with a sort of flat paddle area on the end. The ball looks about the size of a baseball, and is either carried on the end of the stick or thrown ahead to the next player. Points are scored by flinging the ball either over a goalpost (think football field goal posts) or under the post, with 1 pt when it goes over the corssbar and 3 points when it goes under. I am sure that watching hurling broadcast in Gaelic has made me a more culturally aware human being. When I had gotten my fill, I turned to my Seamus Heaney Beowulf translation for futher entertainment. It was a pleasant, quiet evening and truly felt like vacation.

In the morning I experienced the breakfast portion of the B&B, and the traditional Irish fry-up is certainly an experience. It consisted of orange juice, tea, lots of soda bread, three pieces of white toast, butter & jam, a fried egg, two sausages, two rashers of bacon, two sort of hashbrown-esque entities, and a fried tomato. There was, at that breakfast table, enough food to feed a small third-world country. Or one hungry American student. It was probably my caloric intake for the next several decades. I finished as much as I could, and it was all tasty. I don't really like sausage much at home, but sausage in the UK and Ireland is way better than any I've ever had in the States.

I left the B&B and the charming town of Carlow behind me and boarded a train to Kilkenny. The Irish rail system was pretty good. It's law that all signs in Ireland have to be in Gaelic, which means that all of them have to be in both Gaelic and English since Gaelic is not widely spoken. I was a bit concerned for a moment on the train when all the announcements were in Gaelic--I waited for the English version, and none came. Several minutes later they did repeat all of the information in English, for which I was grateful. I can't remember now why I first put Kilkenny on my itinerary, but from the very beginning of my planning it had always been on the list. And I was glad it did.

It was sort of drizzling when I got off the train, and I set off for my hostel. Kilkenny reminded of Bayeux more than anything, because it is still very much a medieval town, with narrow winding streets and old buildings. The hostel was more charming than the hostel in Dublin had been, though less modern. There was a very nice kitchen (which I didn't use) and a nice common room with a fireplace. I was in a six-person room with a few Spanish girls who were in and out all day and night. The room was a bit cramped, but I didn't spend time there except to sleep, so I didn't care too much. I claimed a bunk with my backpack and then set off for sightseeing.

My first stop was the towering 13th century cathedral that was on a hill above town. It was everything one would expect from an ancient cathedral, and almost completely empty to boot. Its front lawn was dotted with gravestones so ancient all writing was completely gone; now they just looked like strange stony growths covered in moss. It would be a great place for a B horror movie. Inside it was beautiful and calm, though sombre. I enjoyed it much more than I had enjoyed Christchurch Cathedral, and I donated a euro and lit a candle.

I left the cathedral and followed signs to the Black Abbey. This was a 12th century Dominican Abbey. It looked awesome from the outside, but a sign near the door informed me it was closed to visitors. It was, however, open for mass daily at 1:15PM. It was 1:05. I dithered a bit, since I was in muddy jeans and a bit bedraggled from the drizzle and not Catholic, but once a few other people went in wearing jeans I followed. How often does one get to hear a mass in a 12th century Irish abbey? The inside was stunning and the mass had all of the sober beauty Catholic masses always have. I've always been enthralled by Catholic mass, and although this one had none of the grave music I love so much, it was a great experience nonetheless.

to be continued when I don't have to leave for class