More on Ireland, mostly for my memories. You're welcome, though.

[ar_wahan]

            We were greeted at the door of our Corofin B&B (http://www.familyhomes.ie/view_more.php?id=141 ) by Paula, a warm and welcoming woman who showed us our rooms, and apologized for having to leave us to run an errand.

            In our room, I gratefully pulled off my still-sloshing riding shoes (from the crossing of Lough Graney) and changed into dry clothing. As I poked my head out the door, I heard a man greeting new arrivals. “I’m Patrick,” he said.

I went toward him down the hall. “I have a Patrick, too!

 He was Paula’s husband, and he had just come home from his job with the local electric utility. Waving us into a large dining room, he immediately offered all of us a drink – and I don’t mean tea, although that would have been available too, I’m sure.

I was delighted to learn he had Bulmer’s, a refreshing hard cider that I hadn’t tasted in years. He teased Cowgirl (whose measure he apparently quickly got), telling her he’d make her a cocktail later in the evening (I can’t remember its name or ingredients, but it sounded kind of awful to me!) – if she drank it now,he said it’d knock her out before supper.

He also immediately started calling my husband “Paddy” – a nickname my husband detests. But as (my) Patrick later said, he’d let this fellow get away with it. That’s how quickly they bonded.

In a little bit, Pat the host would drive us into town to meet the rest of the riding group at a restaurant, where Bertie had made reservations and arranged for a pre-set selection of (presumably same-priced) options from the menu. For now, we sat in Pat’s cheerful house and got to know each other.

                   
                    I mentioned how we were planning to travel (after the trail riding part of our trip) to the towns where my husband’s great-great grandfather and great-great grandmother had come from. I mentioned my own ignorance about where my own supposedly Irish ancestors had lived.

Here Cowgirl got beyond her usual loud, overly hearty, push-em-away forcefulness to volunteer that she had Irish ancestors, but didn’t know anything about them, or where they’d come from. For the first time, I really felt for her – I could sense her loneliness and sense of abandonment (I’d known from her brash demeanor that she was fighting demons of some sort, but this was the first time she’d let me in.). I can’t remember the surname, but it was a very unusual one, and our host enthusiastically told her that some folks with the same name lived in this very area! And who knows, they might even be at the pub tonight. (Bertie had suggested that after dinner, we walk next door to a specific pub among the many in Corofin, because there would be musicians playing. I learned later that while Americans might assume there is always live music at a pub, it’s not true – only on certain nights.)

We also talked about politics (Irish and U.S.), and the economy, and the Celtic tiger. “Paddy” and “Pat” really hit it off, like cousins reunited at a family reunion. Pat urged my husband to read Michael Collins: Part I, by Tim Pat Coogan, and in fact pressed his own copy into my husband’s hands, but of course he wouldn’t be able to read the whole thing that night. My Patrick did in fact sound quite interested, though, so I’ve written it here so I can remember come Christmastime.

Then we got into Pat’s car and went into town. Pat got a call saying he had to do some repairs on a power line somewhere (he kept his utility truck in his back yard), but he said he or Paula would pick us up at 10 p.m. (for Patrick, Samurai and me, because we were pooped), and he’d try to join Cowgirl and Dutch Medical Student at the pub after 11 p.m., and would definitely bring them home, as they wanted to stay out longer.

The family had a number of semi-feral outdoor cats they were feeding. My Paddy took a photo of one on the B&B’s interesting patio fountain (though a window, so kind of blurry).

                Dinner was very nice. We shared a bottle of wine with a couple of our fellow riders, a Chauteau Bonnet Entre-Du-Mer Bordeaux 2005. I’m not a wine expert by any means, the only reason I have the name is because we liked it so much, I wrote it down. But so far, I can’t find it in this country.

We wandered into the pub, and the musicians were just setting up. The place was packed by the time they started playing. We were all in a back room, and the musicians were in a front room, so I squeezed my way through the throng just to get a look at them. I blinked, baffled. Cowgirl had just been sitting at the next table in the back room. How did she get here ahead of me?

Then I realized …. It wasn’t Cowgirl! It was a slightly older woman who otherwise looked just like her! I pushed my way to the back room and told Cowgirl what I had seen. She should go take a look! Perhaps this was a long-lost relative!

She shrugged me off. Later the next day, when I mentioned it again, she said she didn’t remember me saying anything.

Ah, well. I tried.

Paula picked us up. Pat had just come back from his emergency utility run. My Patrick offered him some hand-made fishing flies, and Pat pulled out a little bottle of Irish whiskey that he said was very special, and that one could only get in Dublin (where he was originally from), and he wanted us to have it. It is called Clontarf, and it appeals to my liking of Bourbon, I guess, because it is “mellowed through Atlantic Irish Oak Charcoal.” I actually did find it at a store in Amherst.

We chatted a bit, then we crashed while Pat went off to get Cowgirl and Dutch Medical Student and have a pint with them.

The next morning, Paula served the most awesome breakfast. We had been offered cold, dry scones at breakfast every morning during the ride, and they were pretty yucky. Paula, though, presented scones fresh from the oven, and they were marvelous!!! Totally changed my understanding of what they were all about. In fact, everything she  cooked was superb.

                    Then her kids woke up and started coming down the stairs.

Paula made her half-awake daughter, maybe age 8 or 9, demonstrate Irish step dancing. This is because Dutch Medical Student had mentioned that she had been studying step dancing in the Netherlands, and wondered if it were similar to Irish step dancing.

When the pudgy but genial son emerged from bed, he, too, was put on the spot at once and told by his mother to demonstrate Irish music on the concertina.

I felt bad for both kids, who were very good-natured about being put on display, but not exactly thrilled..

In this, I have my only complaint about this B&B. Leave your kids out of it, at least first thing in the morning. Even if you do advertise yourself as a “Family Home.”

Comments

[ayeamspartacus.livejournal.com]

Yeah, I'm not much on people who make their children perform. I was always being made to play the trumpet (which I did badly) since it was my only easily demonstable skill. (It doesn't exactly work to have a kid write a sonnet or shoot a can off a fence from 50 yards for the guests.) My little sister is always being made to play piano (luckily she's good) and I wish I could help her out sometimes.

I really love the posts about your trip to Ireland. It sounds like a great place to visit.

[stark404.livejournal.com]

Are you going to consolidate all your Ireland posts together to create a small book? Even if you only make 50 copies and give them as Christmas gifts, it's still a book, and it's still an official publishing... (sorry, J - I'm really big on people leaving their experiences behind for future generations to read and benefit from!)

[ar-wahan.livejournal.com]

I was actually already thinking about doing that for my aunt and uncle in Seattle.