Up at 6, on the road by 6:30. Drove the 15 minutes to Rosslare then sat in the ferry queue till 7:30! There was some sort of hold up but the tannoy was only allowing every 3rd word through so the only message we had was “…ladies…late…Stena…minutes…”. When we finally boarded, the staff weren’t ready to serve tea or coffee so I had to sit and wait. Perhaps the captain slept in. Eventually we were underway.

The journey back was a bit rocky but Denise’s tummy bore up ok and we landed on time. Then we started the long, long journey down to Haslemere. Beautiful weather and moving traffic made the first 5 hours a delight but the final hour was hell as we battled traffic jams galore! The longest and worst part of the journey was trying to get through Liphook around illegally parked cars!

We arrived home at 4, had a cuppa and a rest then went and picked up the manic puppies. Mirinda returned from Leeds at 10:30.

All round, I loved Ireland. The weather was fantastic, the people lovely, the sites we visited well worth the effort. However, next time I will do a lot more research before leaving!

Lovin' the Guinness

Woke at 8:15 with Denise worried we’d missed breakfast. We hadn’t and tucked into another full Irish with gusto born of not having dinner last night. We eventually set off for the Irish National Heritage Park.

This is a lovely 35 acres of Irish history from about 5,000 BC to the arrival of the Normans in 1169. We were about the first to arrive so fortunately missed the bus load of 75 school kids on an excursion. The park is very well laid out and the exhibits brilliantly reconstructed. In fact the only trouble is the location. It is surrounded on two sides by very busy roads which you can’t really escape. It would be perfect for someone who was profoundly deaf!

Leaving that aside (and the birds were valiant in their attempts to drown out the trucks, buses and manic Irish drivers) we visited each age and I bored Denise with my limited knowledge of early human history courtesy of my modules at Surrey Uni.

Although very good on information regarding the exhibits, the brochure is not as forthcoming about the park itself. The website, also, does not say how it came about but is very informative for anyone wishing to look further at the excellent exhibits. Some of the stonework rivals Skara Brae though, of course, it was built quite recently! All under the watchful gaze of experimental archaeologists, of course.

Celtic cross and monk's cell

We stopped for a coffee at the halfway mark, just before the crannog. Now here’s a thing. The Irish seem to have just discovered tourism. Ignoring the well oiled machines which are Blarney and Bunratty, everywhere else seems to be lacking in the fundamentals. For instance, this park has a big (if somewhat tacky) gift shop and carvery attached but in order to stop halfway, which is recommended, for a refresher, you have to walk through the gift shop to the café then back through the main entrance to start again. Surely this would be better accessed via the path – customers could still visit the gift shop if they so wanted – but instead there is just a big stone wall separating the drinkers from the walkers. And while I’m at it, why do they hide away the guide books? My regular readers will know how I ALWAYS buy one but rarely do I have to ask…except in Ireland. Ok, these are just niggles but the park is really excellent and the guidebook very good and it’s a shame the place falls down on this.

The second half of the park is just as impressive as the first. The crannog (a man-made island with thatched roundhouses on it) is magnificent and looks real, as if the inhabitants had just left to go and catch the nights dinner and the Viking boat pulled up on the shore of the lake, equally lifelike.

Gaz the Viking

Something I learned is that the Normans lime-washed their castles in order to make them more impressive to the natives. This made them white and stark in the otherwise green landscape. The reconstructed castle in the park looks very bright and gleaming.

Poor Denise was in for a lot of walking again but she managed very well in her inappropriate shoes!

After our few hours of history we decided to visit the castle at Enniscorthy. What a grotty little town! We arrived at 12 and the place was swarming with school kids on lunch break. The castle, which houses an apparently impressive museum (according to the Eyewitness guide) was closed up tight with no signs indicating opening/closing signs or even indicating that it WAS the museum. It looked a sad and sorry place. We searched for a pub but could only find a packed wine bar (Rackards). The barman forgot my Guinness – I had to remind him – though Denise’s tea was ok. We later found an excellent pub closer to the river, the Antique Pub which we obviously SHOULD have visited instead.

After refreshment, we wandered over to the Pugin designed St Aidan’s Cathedral but, as usual, it was locked up tight, so had to make do with looking at the outside. Nice example of Gothic revival but would have liked to have seen inside.

St Aidan's

I have found some information on the Internet if anyone’s interested, otherwise just skip this paragraph! The foundation stone was laid in 1843 and the cathedral was built around the existing church. In 1849 the old one was demolished from inside. Pugin’s central tower (for he loved his tall towers and spires) was added in 1850 and the cathedral finally blessed by Bishop Thomas Furlong in 1860. In 1871 the spire was erected but, along with the tower, was immediately demolished as they had started collapsing! This wasn’t fixed until 1873. After all this, the cathedral was restored in 1994!

The TIC is way out of town so there’s no chance of finding out anything. We left the town thinking it a hole, which is probably unfair but the reality is, it doesn’t welcome tourists. My advice is to visit (if you must) via the out of town TIC – it’s at something called the 1798 Rebellion Centre, which is apparently quite good – and maybe they can fill you in first. We decided to drive to The Dunbrody Plague Ship in New Ross instead.

Now here’s a tourist-centric enterprise! The site is a replica of the Dunbrody plague ship which left New Ross for America during the 1840 potato famine. The tour starts with an introductory video which puts the history into perspective then you are taken aboard the ship. A few parts of the ship were undergoing repair for a sailing soon so it’s a shame we didn’t get to see everything but what we did see was pretty sad. I mean in human terms, not exhibit-wise! For some reason the captain was not presenting the tour as he normally does so we had one of the shop guys. He was fine but on the ship we were introduced to a Mrs White from steerage and a Mrs O’Brien from first class who put it all into stark reality. If we’d had the captain as well I think it would have added just a tad more of this reality. Still, it was excellent and quite amazing what people will put up with to find a new life. We discovered that JFK’s great-great grandfather was an immigrant from New Ross and arrived in the US with nothing, JFK returned to the town after being elected president and the old Kennedy house is now a shrine for people who like ex-presidents.

The only real problem with the Dunbrody is they had no guide books at all! I asked the woman who said “We used to have some but we’ve run out.” The website is worth a peek.

Dunbrody rigging

The nicest touch is the tickets. As you pay your money you are given a copy of an original ticket (Passengers’ Contract Ticket) which lists the passengers, the cost and the rations for the trip. Being in steerage, my family (Patrick and Catherine Keefe and their little daughter Mary) had to make their own meals with the flour, oatmeal, rice or potatoes they were given each day (3½lbs) and the measly 3 quarts of water. They could only cook above deck so if the weather was foul they went without. For this they paid £7. They even had to bring their own bedding and food utensils! It was a lot different in first class where you could have a cabin and your meals served to you!

The toilets were the worst. In first class you got to sit over a hole in the bow of the ship but in steerage all you had was a bucket which was to be emptied every day over the side. In bad weather the buckets would slosh and splash and sometimes spill everywhere! And there was no escape for these poor people. Quite a few of them died, including poor Mrs White who left 5 orphaned children to arrive at New York to try and find an orphanage. Ghastly stuff.

We managed to get out just ahead of a massive Japanese tour group and headed out to visit the Irish Tintern Abbey, which I’d never heard of. It was a gift in the 13th century from a grateful William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke. In 1200 he set sail for Ireland but after a ferocious storm, was shipwrecked in Bannow Bay. Relieved at reaching land safely he vowed to build the Cistercian Abbey as thanks. It is in a beautiful location, on a gentle slope looking down at a small but elaborate bridge which spans the tiny Tintern Stream. There is no information to be found anywhere at the site (the above I found on a website which is worth a look) and just a group of busy looking workmen engaged in restoration work.

Irish Tintern

We wandered round and I tried to explain to Denise what we were looking at but my knowledge of abbeys is sadly lacking so it was all stabs in the dark I’m afraid! We walked down to the lovely Norman bridge and up to a small ruined church. Gravestones are dated from the 17th century to 1993. Denise thought it was probably a small family chapel which has fallen into disrepair (it has no roof apart from anything else) when the family left or the land was subdivided. I think she’s probably right but I’ve not been able to find any information about it. It was a lovely peaceful spot though and well worth a stroll around.

We returned to the car and drove back to Wexford along the curious coastal way – curious because there wasn’t much coast to see. After dropping our stuff in our room and paying Georgina’s mum for last night and tonight, we walked down to The Dragon Heen Chinese restaurant for a lovely dinner with panoramic views of the station and taxi-rank. The food was excellent but they didn’t serve Guinness so I had to make do with a Tiger beer.

After dinner we strolled back to our room where I left Denise to write up her journal and I went in search of the missing Guinness. It didn’t take long for success. I sat in the Thomas Moore pub lapping up both the beer and the atmosphere. They promised a traditional Irish band at 8pm but Mirinda texted me her room number (she’s staying the night in Leeds) so I popped out to the phone box and we chatted for ages. Afterwards, feeling exhausted, I decided to skip the pub and went back to our room where we watched TV until falling asleep at about 10pm. Home tomorrow.

After a lovely bacon and egg breaky which belied the overall state of the B&B, we set off at about 9 back to Bunratty so we could visit the gift shop. On arrival, this time, we actually parked in the car park though it was a close run thing as a bus decided to block our entrance at one stage and we had to do a dodgy swing around thing in front of Durty Nelly’s!

We were so early I think we were the first customers. Denise recognised someone from yesterday obviously doing the same as us. My only real complaint about Bunratty is the fact that it’s so big! You could easily spend all day there and still not get to the gift shop! Let this be a warning – go to the gift shop FIRST.

It was then off, back through Limerick and away to Cashel. It was a long way to Tipperary but we made it and Denise did a great job of negotiating its narrow streets of lunatic drivers. Along the N74 a huge billboard insisted we buy Phelan’s Footwear just as we entered the oddly named town of No Overtaking. Pulling into the home of the mobile cinema otherwise known as Cashel car park, we parked, paid and walked towards the rock.

Cashel is a medieval town grown up around a very large rock upon which a tower was erected in the 10th century. The monks would clamber up a ladder to the front door, set 12 foot up and draw the ladder up behind them as protection from marauding sinners. It hadn’t dawned on them that these same marauding sinners could just build a human pyramid to the door or, in fact, make a ladder themselves.

Rock of Cashel

Before our assault on the rock itself we decided a preliminary tea/coffee was in order so we dropped into the lurid pink Granny’s Kitchen. I actually ended up visiting it twice as I left my hat there and had to walk all the way back down the hill. I also admit that we both just HAD to have a little bit of a Riverdance with the local statue.

The most beautiful feature of the rock is the still largely intact Cormac’s Chapel. It has managed to survive due in large part to its magnificent stone roof. It is thought that the chapel is the work of Cormac MacCullinan who was bishop and king until his death in 908. Others think it was the work of another Cormac, this time McCarthy, king and bishop later. It is accepted that it was consecrated in 1134. It is interesting for many things including two square towers which create the transepts when viewed from the outside. On the walls are fragments of frescoes, uncovered recently. When St Patrick’s Cathedral was built, its walls came very close to the chapel, leaving a thin strip of light between the buildings.

The guide who took us round the rock was excellent. Given her great gab I’d have to assume she has kissed the stone as well! She told us that if you could reach through the St Patrick’s cross and touch fingers, you’d never have another toothache. Poor Denise, still suffering from her own toothache wasn’t even close but I JUST managed it with a little guidance from her.

The cathedral which dominates the rock was built in 1169. In the choir are two memorials, one is that of Miler Magrath. According to the guide, he was very cunning. He was a Roman Catholic Bishop and thereby given lots of land from which he earned masses of money. He then met Queen Elizabeth I and agreed to become a protestant when she offered him even more land. By the time he died, at the grand old age of 100, he was a very wealthy man. His inscription claimed he was an equal to St Patrick and would be spoken of through the centuries. As the guide stated, he was right about the last bit!

From the outside of the cathedral, round by the graves, the guide pointed out a gap in the hills (actually she called them mountains but to an Australian, these were hills) and told the following story:

Once the devil was chasing an adversary along those mountains. He was getting tired and hungry and angry with frustration so he reached down and grabbed a chunk of rock which he put in his mouth. Facing his adversary he spat out the rock. The rock flew over the adversary’s head and landed where the Rock of Cashel is today. Experts have said that this is ridiculous because the rocks are not the same but they haven’t taken into account the change made by the devils spittle.

Our guide

We sat through an audio visual display which set the whole place in a historical context and gave Kelly the opportunity to text Denise, causing her to drop her camera in her rush to turn off her phone!

After having our fill of the rock we ventured back into Cashel for a lunch (and a Guinness) in the funeral directors turned hardware store turned pub, in the middle of the high street. Had a very filling baguette each.

Eventually it was time to retrieve the car and set off back to Wexford and the Abbey House B&B. Our holiday angel must have gone for a pint herself because there were a few sprinkles of rain and we managed to get caught behind a series of slow drivers. Poor Denise was not happy!

There is an odd driving habit in Ireland. Slower drivers will move into what is basically a skateboard lane, allowing faster drivers to pass them. It’s odd but refreshing as most roads are single lane and not straight enough to see very far. Unfortunately for this run down to Wexford, the vans and 4WDs and small truck drivers seemed to be too law abiding.

We eventually reached Wexford at about 5:30 and were heartily welcomed back by Georgina’s mum and let into room 3 – only one set of stairs this time! After writing a few postcards, I left Denise to her journal while I went in search of a post box and the TIC. I found them as well as the quay, ruined only by the continuous stream of noisy, smelly traffic! I wandered the maze-like streets, gradually working it all out. It’s certainly a lot more lively on a week night!

After checking out the Church of the Immaculate Conception (closed) I went back to the room.

Mary

We made a plan to visit the Irish National Heritage Centre tomorrow. As I wasn’t ringing Mirinda till after 10 tonight, I watched TV then walked down to the station (where the phones are). I introduced Denise to the marvels that are Hula Hoops and now she’s an addict. Ok, ok, it’s MY fault.

Have found out what the youth of Wexford do at night. They drive their noisy, pathetic, little cars round the one-way road system. Main street is very narrow so I guess it’s a lot of fun narrowly missing parked cars and annoying tourists. Occasionally they stop at the local burger joint and all swap cars and start again. Utterly mindless. Youth is obviously very, very dull in Wexford if this is the extent of their excitement.

I had a couple of pints of Guinness then went back to our room where Denise was fast asleep.

Woke at 6. Woke at 8. went to breaky at 9. Scrambled eggs and bacon on toast. Very cheery, very tasty. Left around 9:30, dropping off first at Blarney Woollen Mill so Denise could experience the massive shopping experience that it is. She was impressed and she didn’t even get to go upstairs! Left with arm loads of gifts. Finally shopped out, we set off in the direction of Limerick.

Last night we decided we’d stop off and visit Lough Gur Stone Age Park so went a (bit) off road, passing through small Irish backwaters and down narrow lanes. Noted a lot of Norman influence along the way with towers and castles galore!

Driving along a rather mysterious and long stretch of highway with huge signs warning us that no lanes were marked when they actually WERE…and not recently either. Maybe someone forgot to bring the signs in about 10 years ago.

After only a few minor wrong turns, we drove into the Lough Gur carpark. What a fantastic place! On such a beautiful day the lake looked more than real; like someone had put up a massive great picture of someone’s idea of paradise.

Lough Gur

After a visit to the sub-sub-standard toilets, we strolled up to the information hut where, having paid, we sat through a video/slide show about the place. A brief stroll around the small reproduction museum entailed. I thought the shield was a little too impressive for something that had been in the ground a few thousand years until I read it was a reproduction! D’oh! And I’d like to be an archaeologist!

I then dragged Denise up a very steep path and through countless top-grabbing, spiky edged branches until we reached a dead end and had to retrace our steps – it was easily worth it for the fantastic view of the lake. Finally making it back to the car after a ten mile hike…oops, I mean kilometres. Funny how Ireland is all metric and a good job cars have both options on the speedo!

We then set off for the Great Stone Circle, remembering to drop in at Holy Cross for a pint of Guinness and a pot of tea at TD Reardon’s. Arriving at the stone circle, we were accosted by a farmer, who was charged with collecting €2 from us both and then giving us the spiel about summer solstice and the standing stone and the babies who lay about in the middle of the circle having only been born a fortnight ago.

Stone circle babies

Poor Denise, complete with blister, was then dragged around, this time, cattle fields, to look at, basically, rocks. The funny part was that the smaller circle was bisected by the old road, half having been removed but then put back when the new road was moved about 50 metres away. Well, funny in an ironic way. You see, these stone circles are thousands of years old but I have to wonder if the replacements where put in the original places and in the original configuration, otherwise we may as well have been looking at…well, rocks, really.

We then took off for the final run into Limerick. We stopped in a shopping centre car park on the outskirts when we realised that stupid Gary had left the name and address of the B&B back in Haslemere so I took a punt and rang the fax number. Mike answered and gave us some very simple directions – we were only a couple of miles away – and we soon rolled up to the Annville B&B.

After the lovely Blarney Vale, Annville was a big step back. Basically clean but a bit old and tired and our room was about the size of a cupboard. Actually my bed was right next to the floor to ceiling mirrored doors of the cupboard and I think it was bigger. The bathroom is long and narrow – sort of like a thin corridor really in that you can’t lift your arms unless you turn sideways – and has a power shower which redefines the word ‘power’ – ‘dribbly’ would be far better. Still, it’s a bed for the night so we unpacked, had a tea/coffee then set off for Bunratty Castle.

To get to Bunratty we had to drive through Limerick and, boy, did it live up to its reputation. I’d read that it is dirty, rough and unpleasant and they definitely got that right! Thank God we only had to drive through it. My apologies to anyone nice who lives in Limerick but it really is the pits.

We turned into Bunratty and parked a mile from the car park with an hour and half before closing time. It’s more than just a castle! A whole village has been recreated using buildings from elsewhere (how often are we going to see this? Australia, Norway, Sussex, etc) with the added attraction that most of them house working shops and businesses. There’s a lovely sweet shop, a post office and, of course, a pub!

After wandering round the village and admiring the views we made our way back to the castle to slowly mount the battlements. Standing high above the world we snapped some photos but were then rudely interrupted by the caretaker informing us that we’d been locked in! How come this keeps happening to Denise? It’s a wonder she will even go into a castle let alone climb to the top! Anyway, we followed him down the long, winding staircase until eventually breathing freedom once more.

View from the Bunratty battlements

I haven’t been able to find any information regarding the origins of the Bunratty Folk Park but there’s masses on the castle, including the very impressive guidebook which I recommend.

In around 960AD the area was in Viking hands. It was a good strategic position being at the mouth of the river Raite (thus the name) and near the Shannon estuary. It was so good, in fact, that when the Norman knight Robert de Muscegros arrived in the 13th century he secured a grant for it and set up markets and fairs which did extremely well. Sort of like the first Irish superstore set up outside Limerick.

From this a town grew and eventually a stone castle was built by Thomas de Clare. His ownership came to a permanent end in 1318 when he and his son Richard were killed at the Battle of Dysert O’Dea. Mrs de Clare then, presumably in a fit of peak, set fire to the castle and ran off to England.

For the next 200 years, Bunratty remained in Irish hands and it was in the middle of the 15th century that the present castle was erected. There is conjecture (isn’t there always?) whether the new building was constructed by the feuding O’Briens or the MacNamaras but it spent most of its early life in the hands of the O’Briens.

This remained the case right up until the early 1700s when they moved to the unlikely sounding Dromoland (no idea why they moved but have to assume they liked the name) and Bunratty was acquired by the Studdart family who lived there for about 100 years.

The Studdarts built Bunratty House which still stands in the Folk Park – we actually went in and wandered round. Interestingly, the house was built to give temporary accommodation while the castle was being renovated but the family liked it so much they decided to stay and, as a consequence, the castle started to decay. A defining moment came at the end of the 19th century when the roof of the great hall collapsed – villagers were talking of it for yonks, apparently.

Bunratty house

Finally, in 1945, the castle was bought by Lord Gort who restored and furnished it to that which we see today! He restored it to it’s 15th century best and my hat goes off to him, it’s fantastic.

The village didn’t close until 5:30 (the castle at 5) so we wandered back up to Mac’s Bar for a Guinness. It felt just like we were sitting in a little village street, enjoying our drinks in the sunshine and waiting for the postman. By 5:30, the postman hadn’t arrived so we left Bunratty. Unfortunately the gift shop had closed so we strolled back to the car, deciding to have an early tea at Durty Nelly’s, where the car was parked. Had a lovely fish & chip & Guinness dinner – delicious. The history of the pub is typically Irish and can be read on the website.

Before leaving for the B&B, we were unexpectedly entertained by a group of very drunk Irish women singing at the top of their lungs without the benefit of any singing talent or actually hitting correct notes. If we’d been deaf it would probably have been a bit of fun.

Back at the room we sat down to write up our respective days. The room we are in has an opening at the top of the door which manages to direct all the noise in the house straight to us so every movement, every word, every bodily function is amplified. Add to this the fact that the main bathroom is just a wall away and you can imagine the noise.

At about 7:30 I set off in search of a phone box from which to call Mirinda: it was about a mile and a half away! But the walk gave me a chance to realise the proliferation of girls in twos or alone, power walking (or so it seemed) in sweat pants on the streets of Limerick suburbia. They are everywhere, all shapes and ages which makes walking feel pretty safe but weird all the same.

Eventually I found a telephone (on a very busy road with no glass in it so had to talk with one finger firmly wedged in one ear) and talked to Mirinda until my money ran out then made the long trek back to the B&B. An odd sighting on the way back: a diminutive spiderman struggling to glide up the bank on the side of the road caught my eye. Have to assume some child is bemoaning the loss after chucking it out of his/her pram.

Back at the B&B Denise was well asleep. I watched Friends, Scrubs and The Inside of My Eyelids. Great news, Chelsea beat Man U 3-1 at Old Trafford! Well on the way to the championship cup.

Awake at 6:30, up by 7. A beautiful sunny day. Breakfast at 8:30 which comprised a full Irish which is a full English with the addition of white and black pudding. It was as usual very filling and basically means we’ll not be needing lunch today! After bidding Georgina’s mum farewell (Georgina is actually on holiday this week in Lanzarote, or somewhere like that) we set off for Blarney at 9.

We had a lovely run down the coast along the N25 through Waterford and Cork including some fantastic views of the sea. We pulled up at the Blarney Vale B&B around lunchtime.

This B&B is lovely. The owner, Anne Hennessy, is a lovely, welcoming lady who, when informed that no, we didn’t want a double room as we were brother and sister, exclaimed “Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought you were courting!” all in a lovely Irish accent. The room we ended up in was massive and very, very comfortable. After unloading our stuff we set off for the castle and the inevitable kiss.

The village of Blarney is gathered around a large green with the castle set back from one end and a large pub at the other. We made our way through the turnstiles and up to the battlements, wending our way up the narrow and steep spiral staircase until, finally we stood facing our objective. There, his legs dangling over the edge, sat an old bored looking man who steadies you as you bend over backwards to plant your lips on the slightly greasy stone. You don’t have time to realise you are dangling over an enormous drop as you reach back and then pull yourself forwards again. I didn’t feel even remotely more skilful with my new ‘gab’ but hoped things would improve in the future.

kissing the blarney stone

I have to report that the Blarney Stone is wet and slimy, as if the impressions of millions of lips have turned to some sort of snail-like excretion.

From our entrance onto the battlements, Denise started to become a bit wobbly, her vertigo kicking in as she glimpsed the views from the wide open battlements. As she approached the man she said her legs became more and more unsteady and her tummy started to slowly spin. But she did it!

Pleased it was over, we started to walk back down. A very rude man held up the procession somewhat by taking a photo of a couple, completely blocking the staircase and ignoring the pleas of the gradually building queue behind him. But we managed to get by eventually and wandered through the floors of the castle as we descended. And no, he wasn’t an American tourist!

Historically, there was probably a wooden hunting lodge at Blarney as early as the 10th century, followed by a small stone structure. In 1446 the building of the present castle started, built by Dermot ‘the strong’ Laidir for the strong MacCarthy clan. All that remains today is the keep but when it was originally built it probably encompassed an area of around 8 acres! It was, in fact, a small walled town. It was largely self sufficient and could withstand any attack.

The booklet describes how the word ‘blarney’ came to be part of the English language thusly:

The MacCarthy’s of Blarney Castle followed the usual pattern of war and peace between their Irish neighbours and their English overlords. Queen Elizabeth I, however, wished to tighten the screws on the Irish chiefs by demanding that they agree to possess their lands under legal tenure to her. Cormac Tiege MacCarthy, Lord of Blarney, had no intention of submitting to the Queen’s demand, yet as a shrewd politician he made sure to conceal his plan from her. Skilled in subtle diplomacy, he answered every demand from the Queen by a letter protesting his undying loyalty and making flattering references to the person of her Most Gracious Majesty. On the receipt of yet another such letter, Queen Elizabeth lost her royal composure and shouted in rage ‘This is all Blarney, he never means what he says, he never does what he promises’.

On the way back down we stopped off at all the floors visiting the Young Girl’s Bedroom and the murder hole over the front entrance where I explained to Denise (and some other Australian tourist) what it was used for. It’s an excellent castle for climbing in and around as there’s lots of complete nooks and crannies.

We then went to spend some dosh on postcards and a squeezy Guinness bottle for Mr B. We wandered round a bit until we ended up in the Muskerry Arms named after the now defunct Muskerry Tramline which serviced Blarney up until 1830. The pub also has accommodation and if the beer and the food are anything to go by, a stay here would probably be pretty good. We just had a Guinness and a coffee and then wandered back to our room.

Denise had a snooze while I wrote some postcards then went for a wander to see the church. The magnificent Church of the Immaculate Conception, high on a hill overlooking the Muskerry Arms. It was locked up tight. I ended up discovering the biggest souvenir shop I’ve ever seen. It’s in what once was the Blarney Woollen Mill and extends over two floors. I bought Mirinda a scarf made at the mill. The full story of the Mill’s decline then re-growth is quite wonderful.

The tale revolves around a young Blarney lad called Christy Kelleher who started work at the prosperous Mill in 1928 as a lad of 13. He started from the bottom and worked his way up to machine supervisor. He managed to improvise repairs enough to keep the Mill running even through the parts-starved war years. In 1951 he went to work for an insurance company but still managed to start a souvenir ‘shop’ in an old wagon at Blarney.

Kelleher bust

Business at the Mill was declining and in 1973 it closed its doors for good and the big building stood empty and neglected. Through hell and high water Christy managed to scrape together enough money to purchase the Mill and transfer his souvenir business into two floors of it. The rest he converted into a hotel, now appropriately called Christy’s. He died in 1991 aged 76 and is remembered as a visionary and possessor of the great Blarney spirit. What a guy! His bronze head looks quite jolly.

After wandering round this emporium, I strolled back to the B&B, had a shower and wrote up my journal. We went back into the village at 6 for dinner at the Muskerry Arms. I had a lovely poached salmon on mash with a dried tomato puree with, naturally, a Guinness. Denise had roast lamb which was, alas, the sad victim of kitchen over-design when it was actually lamb steak on mash. Still, very yum. After dinner I popped out to try and ring Mirinda but she wasn’t home so we had a Guinness and a Bailey’s latte for supper then walked back to the B&B.

Denise is amazed at how light it still is at 8:30pm. I had a text from Dawn asking if she could watch the Southampton game during the barbi next Saturday. I said Mirinda would not be overly impressed but thought we could pull it off.

I tried to call Mirinda on the mobile but have worked out that I get charged even if she rings me! That is like SOOOOO annoying. What is the point of that? Anyway, I eventually wandered back into Blarney and called her on the public phone box outside the pub.

We left from Braintree, Essex as we’d attended Len’s birthday party the night before and had stayed overnight at Kay & Wreford’s. Being up at 6 and away by 7 was no problem for a constitution as tough as mine even after a night of excessive drinking and merriment.

Wreford took us as far as the A120 with the stern instructions never to leave the motorway…ever! And he was right. All the way to Fishguard is almost all motorway and very, very easy. We had an amazing trip – not too much traffic, weather fine (apart from a brief but torrential spell of rain as we crossed the Severn Bridge), two stops for petrol and Kay’s fantastic ham salad sandwiches.

I thought the toll on the Severn Bridge was a tad steep. £4.80! At least it’s only for one way I guess. Also odd that you pay AFTER going on the bridge. Perhaps you can tell the toll booth operator that you didn’t actually like it so refuse to pay. Bit odd really. Maybe it’s something to do with Wales being on the other side of the bridge and collecting the tolls from the unsuspecting English tourists. Even so, it’s a very impressive bridge with a wonderfully sweeping approach road that takes full advantage of the views.

We finally reached Fishguard at around 1pm, the whole trip taking just a smidge over 6 hours. Denise did very well with the driving, especially considering that she hasn’t actually stopped since arriving in England last Friday evening.

Fishguard harbour

Our ferry didn’t leave till 3:30 so we bummed around Fishguard while we waited. The coffee/gift shop was our obvious first choice where we indulged in refreshments and postcard purchasing. I then convinced Denise it would be fun to walk up to the church we could see overlooking the town. This mysterious building has the ability to vanish the nearer you get to it so we ended up chasing it up hills, around corners and all over the place before we actually caught it. As we arrived two chaps were busy locking up so we didn’t get to see inside St Peter’s but the outside seems to have been shortened somewhat, for what reason we know not!

So we wandered round and made uneducated guesses then slowly walked back down to the quay (admiring the very brightly painted buildings on the way) where, outside the coffee shop, the two chaps from St Peter’s were setting up an outside church for a service for the sea scouts who have a base thereabouts. Just before we left to board the ferry, a brass band marched the scouts in to take tidy seats before the chaplain at his dais and God’s words rang out as we (and lots of other cars) started to form up at the grid which would lead us onto the Stena line super fast ferry.

Something most people wont know – and it might come up in a trivia contest you’re at one day – is that the last invasion of Britain took place not far from Fishguard at a place called Carreg Wastad. It was on the night of 22 February, 1797 and about 1400 heavily armed men came ashore. Unfortunately they were also very, very thirsty because they immediately stole a whole load of alcohol and got totally pissed. Sensing the advantage, the towns people managed to round the Frenchmen up. Jemima Nicholas managed to round up 12 with just a pitchfork! After 2 days the French gave themselves up to local soldiers, one assumes with pretty bad hangovers.

The Stena ferry is pretty much the same as the cross channel ferries but quicker with the added benefit of a group of repulsive Irish teenagers who think the height of entertainment is to play each other their ring tones and speak using the most amount of swear words as possible. These kids would have been the cannon fodder for most ancient armies and you can see why. Pity they serve no useful purpose any more. I don’t think you can count being a nuisance as useful. In the light of recent news reports about yobbish behaviour, it’s interesting to note that the staff aboard the ferry did nothing to halt this group’s anti-social behaviour even when they took a lifesaving vest, inflated it and hung it round one of their necks, joking about drowning in the sea (a pity they were joking, really). You have to remember we’re in the open sea, nowhere to run in case of trouble and yet a group of teenagers are allowed to run rampant like this. Keel haul the crew, that’s what I say!

Anyway, we arrived dry, unmolested and rested at Rosslare on time and tried to follow the moron in front of us who seemed to have difficulty deciding which way arrows point – he turned left in the ferry rather than follow the HUGE right-hand pointing arrow directly in front of him. As we left the ferry he again ignored the massive sign and went left until turned back by a guy in a yellow light reflective jacket who did not respond to the man’s cheery waves but instead insisted he go all the way back and stop trying to forge new trails.

The run to Wexford was simplicity itself and we arrived at the Abbey House B&B by 6:30. This was in part thanks to Georgina’s excellent instructions. Unfortunately the same cannot be said for her booking skills! She’s booked us into a double room and as her mother showed us and asked if it was ok, we declared we were brother and sister. She then had to rearrange a few things before settling us into a twin room at the top of the building. We then went in search of dinner.

Wexford has a windy, wandering main street, lined with shops and restaurants and pubs galore. Unfortunately they are nearly all closed on a Sunday so we just wandered until we found Roberto’s Italian Restaurant where we supped on carbonara (Denise) and pizza with an egg in the middle (me, of course). The meal was lovely and afterwards we strolled back to our room where I left Denise to doze while I went to ring Mirinda.

On the way back from the phone I dropped into the Selskar Pub (named, I assume, after the abbey I couldn’t get into) for my first real pint of Guinness. They were right, it DOES taste better. Could have drunk it all night but instead, I went back to our room and was in bed by 10 (Denise was well asleep).

My first impressions of Wexford are not exactly complimentary. It seem like a grotty little seaside town with hordes of parentless children in souped up sedan cars and a maze of streets with few restaurants. I’m hoping my opinion will change with familiarity upon our return.