09-27-2014, 03:50 AM
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.
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.
So much for the flickr badge idea. Dammit