Ireland 2014

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

Depends on what is fresh at market.

I don't see what the rush is. It's only been twenty years.

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

DONKEY FORDS

Tremendous tail winds behind the plane shortened our trip by an hour and we arrived at Shannon at 5:20. The Irish being Irish weren’t quite ready for our arrival especially as another plane from New York landed at the same time.

My parents and I waited for everyone to disembark before we left. There was a bit of a wait for the gentlemen with the wheelchairs. My mother needed a quick trip to the toilet before we went through passport control, which was deserted when we got there.

In Boston, our trip from plane to baggage carousel had taken so long, they were getting ready to put our bags down as lost. Here in Shannon, they still hadn’t unloaded any bags off the plane. It was almost like they were waiting for our actual arrival time before they brought out the bags.

While we waited for the bags, I enacted another ritual which is becoming something of a tradition, last performed at LAX. I opened my passport wallet and dumped all my Euros onto the floor of the baggage area.

Since the Euros were out, I gave two 5’s to my father so he could tip the wheel chair assistants. It always freaks my mother and father out when I pay for things on the trip. There are immediate cries of “Don’t spend your money” or “I have plenty of money and I’m paying for everything” All true, but there money is never handy.

When the time actually comes to tip the handlers, who went so far as to help me off load the bags from the carousel and put them on the cart, my dad hands me the Euros and two 5 dollar bills as well.

Um, Dad? I have more Euros right here on the floor we could give them. My father gets angry that I am not doing what I am told and just giving the American money to the boys. My thinking is if I was in Ireland, it would be a pain in the ass to have to change one 5 dollar bill. Why not just give him some of the small Euro notes I have in my pocket?

Angry father tells me to forget about it. He’ll take care of it. And proceeds to give the American money to the wheel chair assistants. They are gracious enough to just say Thank you.

Our White Ford rental car was big by Irish standards but would be tiny in the US. It was not much bigger than a Honda Fit. I convinced my parents to take the long trek across the road to the loading zone since I didn’t see any area in front of the terminal to bring the car around.

I played Tetris with the bags, the back seat, and the trunk, eventually getting them all to fit. But I didn’t have a hope of using my rear view mirror.

I was pretty foggy after the flight. The sun hadn’t quite risen and a light rain was fallen. I’m now driving from what should be the passenger seat on the wrong side of the road and I’m using a manual transmission for the first time since 2011. My little brain had to juggle a lot of things in order to keep us from a fiery crash.

Before he gets in the car, my father tells me I was driving much too fast in Boston and I need to slow it down. In effort to keep me from multiple homicide convictions, after I have settled in the car, I ask my father to shut up and not help me for fifteen minutes. Fifteen little minutes.

He couldn’t do it. I think we made it to the first roundabout after the airport before he chimed in about driving and where was I going. I gave him a warning bark, but he paid it no heed.

He had to question my choice of exits to get us to the hotel. He wondered why we hadn’t turned off yet. He asked about the upcoming toll road. I used all my wavering skills to get us to the Strand Hotel.

Oh, they were nice at the Strand. I figured they wouldn’t let us check in until Noon, which is standard hotel operating procedure, but Susan, my favorite receptionist at that moment, said our rooms were ready and we could go up. They had a handicap room for the parents and a room facing the river for me. Granted, it wasn’t the one at the end of the hotel I envisioned, but I think those are all suites. I am happy to sit in my chair in the room and watch the Shannon flow passed King John’s Castle and St.Mary’s Cathedral.

We have breakfast in the River Restaurant in the Strand. My father is again angry because the porter misled him about the location of the restaurant. Oddly enough, my father has been in this same restaurant in 2011.

Breakfast is good. I eat all the brown bread. All. I am led to believe they don’t have calories in Ireland so I am eating all I want. Mmmmm, Irish sausage.

After breakfast, the first order of business for the parents is napping. Screw that. I’m wound too tight to sit so I grab the camera and head off. Plus, it is sunny. I’m not making the excuse of waiting for another sunny day. Strike while the iron is hot.

My father, I think jokingly, asked if there were still swans to be photographed on the Shannon, so my first stop was the boat ramp near the Shannon bridge where the swans are known to hang out. Somebody was kind enough to be feeding them so a large flock was already in attendance.

Limerick sits astride the Shannon River and has three bridges to cross it and a motor tunnel that goes under it. When I lived here, there were only two bridges and no tunnel. Yes, traffic was a nightmare then, thanks for asking.

The Strand Hotel is on the North side of the River while the main portions of the town is on the South. The Sarsfield bridge starts right at the hotel’s front door. If my room window opened, I could throw rocks into the river.

One of the great features of this hotel is a wrap around balcony on the sixth floor outside the conference rooms. Going up there was also an early stop.

I crossed over into the city via the Shannon Bridge, also known as the new bridge. I was hunting spots that I had photographed in 1993 and hadn’t revisited. I found the church I needed on Henry Street. Stopped at the Wolf Tone pub where Richard Harris used to hang out. Ventured down St. Joseph Street which is where the wedding will be taking place. It is also where my girlfriend used to live. But I am not a stalker. I am not.

I cut through People’s Park and over to Percy Square for more photograph updates. I walked to the train station, which didn’t get the memo about cleaning up the city for the Tidy Town competition.

I stopped at St. Mary’s Cathedral, the oldest structure in the city dating from the 1100’s. It sits on King’s Island. I didn’t know there was an island in the center of this city until I kept looking at maps recently. Way to pay attention.

When I entered the crowded St. John’s cathedral, it took me a few moments to realize it was crowded because there was a funeral going on. Two coffins rested up by the altar. I was thinking now was not a good time to be investigating the cathedral.

On the way back to the hotel, I passed by what used to be the one Chinese restaurant in town, the Lido. They ceased to exist back in 1993, but I still wander by. They made the best chips in town. If you know me, you know why this is a highlight.

Friends of my father’s, Marie and Tom Hurley were going to be stopping by the hotel at 2pm. I think they delayed a trip to the Canary Islands so they could meet with the folks. I showed them the wedding album and my old Limerick photo album which I made for this trip.

Marie brought biscuits and some cranberry juice for my mother. My mother mainlines cranberry juice to prevent bladder infections. She needs 100% pure Cranberry Juice for it to be effective. Guess what you can’t find in Limerick? Guess who was still tasked to find it?

I told my parents I was going back out for another photo walk, still no naps for Greg. My mother wanted to give me $20 US to buy the Cranberry Juice. Again, don’t we know what currency we are using in this country. And if you do know, why are you making my job harder by making me change your money first before I go buy something with it.

I tell her to keep it. I have a bunch of Euros already. My mother tells me she doesn’t want me spending my money. This is where my last nerve strained and snapped. I said “Why should you worry about $20 bucks when you have already stolen thousands from me?”

So, that happened.

Long silence in the room. Then there were some angry words. And I left for my walk.

On my morning walk, when the sun was rising, all the building were pretty much in shadow. Being the madman, I did the same walk again, starting with the swans and ending at Thomond bridge, which is the third bridge and ends at King John’s castle.

I got back to the hotel to coordinate where we were dining. Well, the parents were too tired to go out but it should would be nice for Greg to go to Donkey Ford’s and pick up some Fish and Chips.

My mother also wants me to sit down so we can talk about things. Another thing I don’t like doing is sitting down and talking about things. We get out the dull knives and go at each other. My father tells me just to listen. With ill grace, I do.

My mother takes out the cash she brought for the trip and gives me the majority of it saying that’s a start. She wants me to write down how much she has paid me, so that if she dies, I will still get the rest in her will. I mention that she isn’t giving me anything, she is returning what she stole.

Boy, this is fun. I feel great. I tried to tell her I had put this behind me long ago and she should just keep it. But no. “I’ll just use my credit cards to buy gifts”, she says.

Off to Donkey Ford’s. Donkey Ford’s was the place my father and his pals would go for drunk food from the pub. Tom Hurlihy and he had talked about it earlier in the day and I guessed it sparked some nostalgia.

They tell me I had probably walked by it when I walked from St. John’s Cathedral to the Lido. I could find it.

I did find it. After realizing the name on the door was simply Ford’s. It was a seedy little place consisting of a walk-up counter and a menu board probably made in the seventies. All the food was visible behind glass panels. It looked like if you wanted food, you wanted it fried.

The lady behind the counter did say the name was Donkey Ford’s as she wrapped up all the food in butcher paper and put it into a butcher paper bag. Very monotone, this store. I got back to the car which was double parked on the street, a Limerick tradition honed by the locals, and drove back to the hotel.

If the brownie and the ice cream didn’t drive them into the grave this bag of greasy fat certainly will.

I went to my room where I realized I had lost my fitbit. My addiction to the device is pretty bad at this point. If I don’t have it on when I exercise, then I am not really exercising. So, before I went to bed I had to find a place locally that would sell me one. I did and it was only fifty dollars more expensive than in the United States. I should just start buying them in bulk or have the device implanted.

I went to bed but my mind was still spinning. I did fall asleep after about an hour of puzzling the day and thinking about the fit-bit.

I snapped awake after what I thought was a good night’s rest but turned out to be only two hours. Jet lag is your friend. And I was wide awake. So, I did what any normal person would do, I wrote in the journal for an hour.

That is what normal people do, right?

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

A Trip to Adare

Yup, I am way behind on the scribbling. It is Saturday. I have decided to slow down a bit since I feel like I’ve been on a rocket ride of racing to do things since Monday.

Although, my hotel is making it hard to write. My desk in the hotel room sits on the fifth floor. I have my back to the window. But I can feel the view out the window taunting me as the sun moves slowly across the partially cloudy skies. The wrap around deck on the next floor keeps taunting me to come take a look. So, I hit a few keys, swivel my chair to the window, and watch the swans swim under the Sarsfield bridge. Next thing you know another ten minutes has been swept down the Shannon. And I can’t seem to care that much about exchanging lost time for this great view.

Tuesday was the day in Adare. Adare is a little town South of Limerick that used to have it’s own Earl, the Earl of Dunraven, and Adare was his demense. He owned a giant house on a massive estate complete with river and gorgeous ruins.

But being an Earl doesn’t pay what it used to, especially since you can’t wrack rent the peasants like you used to. Although Lord Dunraven had the reputation as a very nice man. I did at least two charity walks to the Adare Manor which he sponsored.

He had Cerebral Palsy ( I think. He was confined to a wheel chair) and died without a male heir to take over the Earldom. Even at the time in the 1980’s, he only lived in half the house and had tours in the other half in order to keep some funds flowing into the estate.

The place was sold, turned into a hotel and a golf course made on the grounds. The Irish Open was held there twice. The place is currently up for sale again for 25 million Euros. I’m hoping Donald Trump does not buy it.

I know. I’m getting there. Well, for the last thirty years, the only place I’ve ever visited in Adare, was my father’s favorite restaurant in Ireland, perhaps in the world, was the Dunraven Arms, which sits just across the street from the Adare Manor.

Oddly enough, the Dunraven Arms isn’t even the highest rated restaurant in Adare. That honor belongs to the Mustard Seed which we have never been to visit.

To make a long story longer, it occurred to me that I had never seen anything of Adare but the restaurant and the manor. I thought there might be more to see of Adare than those two things, especially since Google listed about five historic buildings all around the Dunraven Arms.

Google also gave me a circuitous route through Limerick to get to the motorway. Morning traffic was miserable as usual. It seemed there were twenty different schools along the way, all with parents dropping off children.

But I wound my over hill, dale, and railroad tracks until I made it to the motorway. I was proud of myself for not taking the opportunity to get lost.


The weather forecast proved correct and clouds covered the sky. I swore again at Deborah Bjonerud for using up all the good weather during her trip to Ireland several weeks ago.

I pulled through the security check point at the entrance to the manor under the assumption that I met the criteria on the warning sign that said residents and guests of the manor only. I was a guest. I wasn’t a paying overnight guest, but I was still a guest.

My aim was to walk the grounds and take photographs, but the weather was so flat and gray, I couldn’t really get the inspiration going. The Manor, now main hotel, was massive as ever. The manicured grounds looked great, would have looked better in bright sunlight.

A couple of guys were fishing in the river next to the manor. I photographed them for a few minutes. I must have forgotten to get model releases from them.

I did venture inside the hotel to see how it looked. I told the receptionist my nostalgia spiel before she had me escorted off the grounds. I walked through a couple of the lower rooms. Pretty spectacular with their centuries old ornamental stone and wood work. I might have to come up with the 400 or 500 Euros to spend the night.

I drove to the center of town to the Visitor’s Bureau where they were nice enough to have a car park. The attendant at the desk has grand kids at my old school in Limerick so we held up the line comparing notes about teachers and headmasters before I got a map to the town and it’s visitor sights.

The attendant directed me to a nice path along the river which led back to the Black Friary and Desmond Castle. Yeah, I didn’t know either of these places existed. There were plenty of birds along the river and another fisherman.

There was also the only Trinitarian abbey in Ireland along my walk. The Trinitarians raised money to protect pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land back in the Crusades eras. This was the white abbey since they wore white habits.

The sun was starting to gain the upper hand on the battle with the clouds. But I was up against the deadline of getting back to Limerick to join my parents for lunch with their friends the Kavanuaghs.

I had time for one more stop. There was another ruin that I could get to from the Adare Golf Course, which is more of the local club rather than the pro level course near the manor. I parked in the golf club parking lot, pretending again to be a guest.

The abbey was nice, just needed some sunshine. The best thing on the grounds was a tree wrapped around a pretty big headstone. The tree looked like it was trying to pull the headstone out of the ground, albeit very very slowly.

I got another look at the ruins of Desmond castle and started to think which wall I could hop to get over closer to it and the river running along side it. I would only have to cross one or two fairways, too.

I guess the dead founders of the abbey anticipated my need and provided a small door out to the golf course grounds. Checking for flying white balls, I sprinted across the fairway to the castle.

Then, the sun came out and lit up everything. The formerly grey sky was now a puffy patchwork of white and blue. Castle ruins look good nestled along the river. One of the walls of the castle abutted the tee box for hole two.

The course was mainly empty. Two golfers showed up but they just said hi to the strange camera wielder and went about their game.

I shot more pictures of the abbey and cemetery. The tree breaking the headstone was still in shadow, so I did what I could. I would have stayed longer, but I had a date back at the Strand in Limerick.

I didn’t drive super fast, but I might have gotten a caution. I walked into the lobby of the hotel a few minutes late. My mother and father were already their talking to friend and former Verbatim employee, Pat Kavanaugh.

Pat looked the same, maybe a little grayer, but still spry. Mary, his wife joined us after a trip to the loo. She looked great, too.

“Where we going for lunch, Father”?

Wait for it.

“Adare”

The Kavanuaghs knew of a great restaurant in that area that my father had never been to called the Woodlands Hotel. We would take two cars and I would meet them there. So, back to the roundabout and back along the circuitous route through the city to the motorway.

Since, there was only one turn near a well known landmark, I did not get lost on the way to Woodlands. Since I am in Ireland, getting lost waits for me around every turn and missing street sign.

The Kavanaughs were very helpful getting my mother and father to the bathrooms and into the restaurants. I do plan the trips around bathroom breaks.

We had lunch in Timmy Macs restaurant which was very nice. I had pasta with no chips which was a big step for me. Everyone else had the Salmon.

About halfway through our meal, a stream of visitors filled the room. A tour bus must have disgorged it’s contents out in the parking lot. They came. They ate. They left.

Rain took pride of place by the time we had finished our meal. The Kavanuaghs again helped my parent out to the cars. They looked really fit and healthy. And they are both six years older than my parents. Also, Pat has a prosthetic leg which he lost in a Rugby game.

My parents should be that healthy.

On the return to the city, my mother wanted to stop at the Frank McCourt museum. McCourt won the pulitzer for his book about his youth in Limerick called “Angela’s Ashes”. I have it. Never read it.

The museum resides in his former school house, the Leamy house near Perry Square. It has been many things since it was a school but now has been reconverted to house the museum.

My father decided to wait in the car because my mother is only going to take a quick peak.

Upon entering the museum, I figured it would be a no go because there are twenty steps up to the first part of the museum and another ten to the second part of the museum. Let’s go back to the car.

Not so fast. My mother is going to make the climb.

Pat the tour guides’ first question is “Have you read the book” I confess that I have not. I have it. Couldn’t get passed the first chapter. But I’m sure my mother has read it. Why else would we be here?

My mother confesses to only having read bits of it. I’m only horribly embarrassed. My mother starts in with a million question while jotting down notes in her book. Pat responds to many of her questions by saying, “Well, in the book . . . .” Maybe we should come back after we have read the book?

We go to the top floor where they have recreated two rooms to look like McCourt’s old home. There are props and half a pigs’ head for the Christmas dinner. My mother keeps interrupting poor Pat with lots of petty detail questions about the cigarettes on the table and if that was actually McCourt’s bike.

I try telling my mother to let Pat finish his routine but Pat has gone so far off the rails of his patter, he can’t find his way back to the story. He just lets my mother ask questions and he answers.

We make our way back to the first floor to a recreation of McCourt’s classroom in what might have been the area for his actual classroom. More questions from mom after she collapses in exhaustion from the descent in a chair by the door. Pat just starts bringing pictures off the wall for her to look at, since she will not be moving from that chair.

Una, the museum owner and curator comes by. She is ecstatic my mother will be writing about the museum. The museum is having financial difficulties and the building will probably be sold out from under them. So, any press is good press.

Una proffers my mother a card in the hopes she will give them a good review on Trip Advisor. I ask for the card instead, saying I will take care of it. My mother says no, she’ll do it. I ask for the card again and bet Una a million Euros my mother has no concept of Trip Advisor and wouldn’t know the first thing about writing a review. I am then accused by mother of always denigrating her.

Una has a put call out to Billy Cunningham to stop by. Cunningham was a classmate of McCourt’s at this very school.
Our fifteen minute pop in has turned into an hour visit. My father suffers downstairs in the car. When I go out to check on him, he asks me what is in the museum. Not that much.

Well, as we are making our way out, in an attempt to not have to meet Cunningham, he shows up. More questions. Cunningham is featured in Angela’s Ashes. It would probably be more impressive to meet him if we had read the book and knew his background.

Cunningham has stories. He tells us about getting fitted for musical instruments based on hand size. I film it with my iPhone. I could have listened to his thick Limerick accent all day, but I have a grumpy father in the car.

I take them back to the hotel for their nap. We are heading out for dinner with the Bradshaw’s later, but I have a Fitbit to replace.

I found the shop, Harvie Norman’s, online. They weren’t the cheapest but they were the closest and I knew how to find them. There store was about two blocks up from where the first Verbatim factory was located on the Ballysimon road.

The nice man at Harvey Norman’s gave me ten percent off after I told him my tale of woe. I should have stopped on the way back to photograph the Verbatim plant, but I had to get back to meet the Bradshaw.

Or, I had to get back in order to drive to the restaurant to meet the Bradshaw’s. Plans change on a pence. We were to drive out to Durty Nelly’s which is next to Bunratty Castle. When I was here at school only tourists stopped at this place, but the restaurant’s reputation has changed and the food was really good.

Norman Bradshaw is one of my father’s oldest friends in Limerick and is the reason we are in Ireland. His daughter, Anne, will be wed on Saturday and she was nice enough to join us with her sister for dinner.

It was bad restaurant in that it was noisy and my father couldn’t hear a thing. It was a good restaurant, because the company was enjoyable and the food was really good. I had chips along with my garlic potatoes. You heard me. I did have potatoes with my potatoes. Life is good.

[Drunk Monk]

I did have potatoes with my potatoes. Life is good.

This is always how I've imagined Ireland to be. Potatoes, cheese, whiskey & Guinness. :drinkers:

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

Every time my mother speaks, the little voice inside my head says, "What? Are you stupid?"

Note to self: Make sure little voice does not become big voice.

[Drunk Monk]

let it all out here. we understand. after the great book tape fiasco, we have tasted your pain.

perhaps it's time for you to move from the potatoes and cheese to the whiskey and Guinness. Guinness for STRENGTH! :drinkers:





actually, on 2nd thought, that might not be such a good idea. but no worries. being a loyal DOOMbro, we'll all knock back a Guinness or five and beam that stoutly power to you via the DOOMforce.

"I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced."
"Nah, that's just Greg, biting his tongue again."

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

My mother asked me today if I knew what I was doing with her disposable film camera when I was using it to take a picture.

[Drunk Monk]

Okay, all the DOOMbros must go out and pound a Guinness for Greg's sake.

Good luck, bruddah. It's only a little while longer mt056

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

She also pointed out a spot that would make a good picture, just in case I missed it.

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

I THINK THIS IS THE TURN

My parents and I are on completely different schedules. I get up at 6. They can arise any time between 8:30 and 9:30. Even after that, it takes them awhile to get going. My strategy is to go and do something in the morning and come get them for some late morning tourist stuff.

My dad wants to go to the Locke bar off the Abby river for lunch. I ask him if we can go at 1pm. He counters with noon. It’s his trip. We go by his clock. Grumble. Grumble.

I’m aiming for short trips to the surrounding environs that I haven’t visited before. This time I’m heading south of the river Shannon to Glin where there are supposed to be some nice sites. Glin was one of the few towns that was overseen by a Knight.

If you are going to do a long trip, it helps to get up early. Failure number one. Yeah, I’m still trying to get to my old rhythms and I wake at 7:30. This puts me on the road again amid the morning traffic so it is slow going out the dock road towards Glin.

The sun shines in a beautiful blue sky. My head is on a swivel looking for good photo opportunities which aren’t that hard to find. For instance, I spot a ruined a castle off to my left surrounded by trees, lit by the rising sun.

It is still early in the trip, when I have plenty of time, and I opt to pull off to see if I can photograph the castle. I drive down a narrow little lane looking for a sign or a turn to the ruin. The Irish gods of directions are not helpful. I can't find anything to lead me to the castle.

Well, there is more to photograph down the main road so I head back to it.

In my rearview, I catch sight of a splendid ruin along the banks of a small river. I find a turn around and head back to the ruin.

The ruin was in Askeaton and was another abbey complete with cloister. The early pictures I took were tricky to compose since someone had parked their pick-up truck in the center of the cemetery.

I wanted to get a picture of the abby on the river so I headed out the gate and looked for a way I could get in position. This led me to the river, which led me to the town which led to more wandering taking pictures.

The ruins of a Hellfire club stood right next to the ruins of another Desmond Castle. Not as nice the Desmond Castle in Adare because a lot of it was covered in scaffolding. But photographs abounded.

I photographed the swan on the River Deel who was accompanied by a shy Heron. I heard the howling of the Greyhounds from the kennels. I wandered into fields I shouldn’t have. The usual for my peregrinations.

By the time I finished my photo walk, I realized the clock was no longer my friend. If I was going to have time to wander around Glin, I was going to have to have tunnel vision on the road. No more stops for pictures.

This lasted to about Foynes where I had to shoot a bay on the Shannon Estuary. But that was the last one.

I blew right through Glin without realizing it. Well, I did realize it, but I couldn’t believe how nondescript it was. Just a bunch of small houses and not much else. I turned around about kilometer later and came back to the town. Still not much there.

A check of the watch told me that I didn’t have time to stop anyway before I had to get back to the hotel for the noon date with my parents. Fortunately, I had seen a shortcut back on Google Maps.

A shortcut that I found. Ha!

The route was well marked but it was on tiny little roads which didn’t allow me to go very fast. I was just going to make it back to the hotel. It seemed to take forever before I was back on the main road just outside Adare.

I pulled into the hotel parking lot with a few minutes to spare.

I knocked on the parents door. It cracked open enough for me to see my father. They were just getting up. “Why don’t I come back in an hour. Like at 1?” The time I wanted to get together originally? Sure.

My father, at first, wanted to go to the Locke Bar for lunch but he was't feeling well. The new plan was just to skip lunch and wait for dinner.

We headed over the Sarsfield bridge to Arthur’s Quay shopping mall so my mother could stop in the Tourist Board just outside the mall and then go to an Irish Handicraft store they have been visiting for a long time.

My mother wanted to go to the tourist board because it had a really good gift shop inside. Too bad that closed a couple of years ago when ownership of the building changed hands.

I dropped them at the curb and proceeded into the car park (parking lots are for Americans). One of the problems with driving in car parks, is I don’t have a great sense of the width of car. Everything looks incredibly narrow. I drive up the ramps and around the other cars incredibly slowly, living in constant fear I’m going to scrape all the paint from the car.

I go into the handicraft store, but my parents hadn’t arrived yet. The women in the store asked me what I was looking for. I said, “My mother”

I found them outside actually crossing the street by themselves. They are making progress.

In the shop, the sales crew immediately knew my parents. Stools were brought out so they could sit. The clerk started bringing out clothes for my mother to admire and hopefully purchase.To be kind, most of the clothes were a bit tight on my mother and there were no sizes bigger.

With packages in hand, they headed upstairs to the bathrooms. I spotted a health food store and went in. They actually had my 100% cranberry juice. It looked like purple sludge but it had the right percentage. I bought a couple of bottles.

My father finished first and I found him a seat in the food court. My mother came out and assumed since we were sitting in the food court we were getting food. Um, no. Dad didn’t want to eat because he wasn’t feeling well. Remember?

She didn’t. She headed to the counter for food. She also hoped she could have chocolate milk with her lunch.

My mother had two stops she wanted to make before she collapsed, the Hunt Museum and the Limerick Museum also known as the Jim Kemmy museum. The Hunt museum was just a short walk from Arthur’s Quay mall. Well, short for anyone else. But she wanted to do it.

With me carrying her purse, and my father left behind in the park to do his Sudoku, I led her the hundred yards to the museum.

My mother gets fragments of information in her head and treats them as the god’s truth. She had heard that the Hunt Museum had a lot of information on Fairy Rings. Fairy Rings are circular groups of trees that dot the landscape of Ireland. The Irish won’t go near them and it’s considered bad luck to enter one. When my father oversaw the building of the Verbatim plant, special care was taken not to disturb the fairy ring on the property.

The guard at the front door just gave my mother a perplexed look when she asked him about Fairy Forts. He might have had an air of disgust about another dumb american accusing the Irish of being superstitious.

The confusion came because the Hunt Museum had a lot of information on bronze age ring forts. Since they both had the word ‘ring’ in it, they must be the same. Since, they didn’t have information on Fairy Rings, my mother didn’t want to tour the place. She would tour the gift shop.

I went back to the tiny paint removal maze to grab the car and retrieve my father from the park. A guard was going to ticket me because I pulled into the bus lane to grab my father. I illegally parked in front of the gate of the Hunt Museum to get my mother.

Although the Jim Kemmy museum was just another short walk away, I would be driving. My father and I had a discussion about where the museum was and the best way to get there. I had done the silly thing of looking the place up and finding it on the map. Then I parked in a parking lot opposite the council buildings, which currently housed the museum, despite my father’s assertion I should go to the front to be closer to the entrance.

The walk from Arthur’s Quay had sapped my mother’s energy for the day. I was dispatched to go in and find out about Jim Kemmy and his museum.

Well, the Jim Kemmy museum is no longer the Jim Kemmy museum. It is now the Limerick City museum. There has been a bunch of political maneuvering in Limerick now that the City Council and the County Council have merged. ( I could spend a lot of time talking about that merger, but I think it probably best left for another time). Part of that fallout is the museum is simply the Limerick museum.

The museum currently resides in temporary quarters in the City Council building with most of the museum contents currently in storage. They only had a few displays about early Irish History and Limerick lace making. Nothing about Jim Kemmy.

I returned to the car to pass on this news. My mother wanted further information which I did not have.

Since we were in the car, my father decided to hunt down a long lost friend by the name of Noel Kennedy. I believe my father met him in the Ardhu Bar which was attached to the Ryan Hotel. My father stayed in the Ryan for many months when he first came to Ireland back 1978.

Noel had a heart attack about twenty five years ago which led to him having a stroke. Every time we come to Ireland, we look for him. But he has been in a rest home or somewhere else every time we’ve called on his house. The most recent reports we had said that he had passed away.

My father figured we would give it one more shot. This leads to the usual ‘I think the house was down this street . . . . ‘

But my father’s instincts on this occasion were good and we found the house right behind the Gaelic grounds off the Ennis Road (Yes, leaving clues for myself if I have to find the place again)

Again, the boy was dispatched to knock on the door to find out the current state of Noel. I was leery, hoping that we had the right house.

An infirm man I didn’t recognize opened the door. I told him he were looking for Noel Kennedy. The man shook as he pointed to his chest and said “I’m Noel Kennedy” I guess reports of his untimely demise were greatly exaggerated.

He got a big smile on his face when I said my name. Then I told him to wait a minute while I went and got my father from the car.

Noel’s wife Mary appeared, castigating Noel for not using his walker. She told us his balance was bad and he has a tendency to fall. My father came in and we all moved to the living room. Mary filled us in on the details and then my father and Noel had a chat which I think made both of them happy.

I brought up the fact that Noel was one of the few people to beat my father at squash during his time here. Noel laughed. My father denied it. I wasn’t going to remind him the events of that story. The gist of it was Noel thought they had started the game while my father thought they were just warming up.

Noel haltingly told us about his sons who were doing very well for themselves. Mary mentioned that Noel was heading back to the rest home so they could work on his legs and maybe get some strength back in his legs.

It was a tearful good-bye when we left.

Since we were close to Thomond park, the big Munster Rugby facility, I mentioned we should go by another old set of friends, Mick and Lilly Goggin who I remembered as living close to Thomond.

Again, we went through the I think it was this street shenanigans. Again, the boy was dispatched to knock on a strange door. It’s like a real life ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ for what’s behind that door.

Well, we were two for two as Mick Goggin opened the door.

Lilly was the receptionist at Verbatim Ireland for ten years and was the first person I think my father hired to work at the factory.

Lilly had been sick all week and we were told she wasn’t going to get out of bed. But when she heard my father was outside in the car she put on her flip-flops and came to the car.

More chatting. More promises to meet later. Mick told us he was now president of the Munster Rugby team, which was the team for the province and played at Thomond Park which loomed over our heads.

I knew there was a Munster match this weekend, same day as the wedding, and I jokingly asked if he could get us tickets. Without a hesitation, he said “Of course” Crap. I could go to a high level Rugby match with probably really good seats.

I declined with heavy heart. We wrapped up the street car chat and headed back to the hotel.

For dinner my parents opted for pizza. Shamefaced, I asked at the front desk for the number of a good local place that delivered. That turned out to be Apache Pizza. It also turned out to be a bad idea since the pizza was not what you would call good.

The parents love to go to shows. They had found a dance company that was putting on a new show at the Lime Tree Theater at the Mary Immaculate college. The show was an aerial dance extravaganza and was based on the W.B. Yeat’s poem ‘The Second Coming’

I found directions to the place and loaded the parents in the car. The usual drill is I go to reception and validate the parking. My parents slowly make their way to the curb while I descend to the underground garage. I’m still not sure why the goddamn Irish made everything so narrow. Then I drive up the ramp through the tiny gate and get my parents at the curb. I’m usually blocking a couple of cars from making the turn around in front of the hotel. On a good day, I block a whole bus full of tourists.

We drive to the dock road, looking for the turn. My father has also decided he knows where this place is despite the fact there has been no map consultation on his part. I think we are at the turn when my father tells me this isn’t the turn. I argue back this is where it said to turn on the map. My father says I’m wrong. I tell him I question his direction skills.

My father and I should never drive together. Too much alpha male direction finding.

Turns out, I was wrong and he was right. That didn’t burn at all.

I drop them at the modern looking theater and go hunt for parking.

Fortunately there are elevators to take us to our seats. A nice usher brought my parents chairs while we waited for the doors to open. There were also bathrooms which they availed themselves of.

The Second Coming was a very experimental piece of work. It was deconstructed Irish Step dancing with the dancers switching from haphazard out of control, almost drunk dancing to very precise footwork. At certain times, some of the dancers were attached to wires and pulled up into the air to perform some acrobatic aerial dancing.

They had an actor play Yeats. His job was to say a few lines and then watch the dancers. A weird projection showed a distorted image of him on the screen at the back of the stage done in real time.

There were also a lot of ceramic eggs being handed around. The best part was when dozens of pairs of shoes fell from the rafters.

The show ended with with two of the dancers climbing some spiral wires that went from the stage floor to the ceiling. It was all very experimental.

I can’t say if I enjoyed it or not. It wasn’t my cup of tea. But it was nice to expose myself to new things.

I was able to find my way back to the hotel without any help at all.

[Drunk Monk]

had i been thinking, i would have lent you my chauffeur cap. my kid gave it to me as a joke. it looks like one of those gay caps they wear at the folsom st fair. i only wore it once for a halloween costume. i'm sure it would've looked great on you.



that is a sweet story about noel and lilly.

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

I would just like to say I have caught entirely too many glimpses of my mother naked on this trip.

TMI?

[Drunk Monk]

that's a dealbreaker. now i'm scared to read anymore.

[cranefly]

So.

Do I have to go to Facebook to see the photos?

Just wondering...

[Greg_phpbb3_import1]

No, CF, there will be no pictures of my naked mother on Facebook.