Ireland 2014

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IT WILL BE EASY TO FIND



Since time was running out on the vacation, we were scrambling to meet all the people my parents wanted to meet and visit the places they wanted to visit. High on this list of things to do was find a gift shop for my mother.

Normal people would come out with a schedule of when to do things. They would realize you would have to make a few time sacrifices in order to do all things you wanted to do.

One person in our group was not on board with this program. When I informed my mother that we would be leaving the hotel at 9am, she crankily responded “Why do I have to get up so early. I thought I was on vacation?”

I followed my morning routine of walking the three bridges followed by breakfast in the River Room restaurant, watching the sun come up over the Sarsfield bridge. Another routine is growing angry at my fellow americans who are coming to grips with buffet dining.

They seem particularly baffled by the conveyor belt toaster. One woman played with switches and turned off the conveyor belt. My unmoving toast caught fire before I realized what she had done. Another man thought it was good form to touch all the toast coming out of the toaster looking for his own.

I spend a lot of time on this vacation in the circular driveway in front of the entry to the Strand Hotel waiting for my parents to make their way from the lobby to the car. I should really count the grunts and sighs it takes for my mother to get seated in the car. My father continues to refuse help getting into the cramped back seat.

Our first stop because my mother continues to confuse Ring Forts and Fairy Rings is Craggaunowen, a recreation of a pre-historic Irish Ring Fort. Because the security guard at the Hunt Museum let the name slip of Craggaunowen in relation to Fairy Rings, we were destined to go there.

To get to Craggaunowen, we got to pass through one of my favorite towns, Six Mile Bridge. My dad likes it because when you are at the urinal in one of the pubs, you can look out the window at a waterfall. I like it for the duck hotel that floats beside the pub. I pulled in for a quick stop to photograph same.

I only had one wrong turn between Six Mile Bridge and Craggaunowen. It only took about ten minutes before I realized the sign post I blew past actually indicated the right direction. I’m always confused when the signs in Ireland indicate the proper direction.

I’ve been to Craggaunowen twice before. There are three little camp recreations situated around this hill. There up and down dirt trails to get to the camps. I’m not a big fan of Craggaunowen since it is a recreation of the forts rather than an actual archaeological experience. Why go some place fake when the country is littered with actual historic sites is my view?

To visit the place involves climbing, which my mother can’t do. It also has information on Ring Forts rather than Fairy Rings. I’m glad when we pull up to the gate and find the place is closed.

My mother wants me to check my phone to find out opening times. I try to explain again why my phone only works at the hotel in Ireland, the difference between Wifi service and Cellular service. I would probably get more understanding if I told the sheep in the field outside the car.

The upside of this journey is that it is on the road to Quin Abbey. My father didn’t feel like stopping but since we now had a few minutes in our itinerary, off we went. The reason he probably didn’t want to go was that it would involve walking from the car park to the abbey.

My mother wants me to take her picture with my father, with Quin as a backdrop using her disposable Fuji camera. Just holding the thing where people can see me ruins my photography credibility.

My mother asks if I should put the flash on for the shot. Disgust at the question oozes out of me as I say “No” Then she wonders if it wouldn’t be better if I shot the photograph in portrait mode rather than landscape.

Not that these are the words she uses to describe the orientation of the camera, she just asks if I should “Hold it the other way?” Oh, the trials of Job.

Next to the abbey ruins, sits a modern church. My mother is very excited because she has never been in this church. Since she is new to the church, she proudly proclaims that she gets 3 wishes if she goes in and lights a candle.

One of the reasons I have my doubts about religion are phrases like that. God grants wishes? Is that what he does? He hangs around waiting for candles to be lit so he can grant wishes? Is he some sort of Genie?

My father directs me to go with my mother up the path to the church. I see a nice photo opportunity. My mother says “Oh, that will make a good photo” Again, not really looking for an affirmation of my photographic eye from my mother.

We enter the church and light candles. I’m guessing she makes her wishes. Since, we are in a public building, the inevitable question arises from my mother. “I wonder if there is a bathroom”

Our next stop is the giant gift shop next to Bunratty Castle. Ostensibly, we are to buy presents for friends and relatives, but I notice a lot of packages look like things for my mother. We have a nice bathroom break. My father finds a comfy chair to sit in while my mother prowls the aisles.

I dump all the bags on my father’s lap and shoot the picture for Facebook.

At one point my mother loses her credit card. I scramble the store asking the check out ladies if they have it. Nope. Turns out it was just in my mother’s pocket that she hadn’t checked. I make many trips to the second floor cafeteria to get drinks.

Since there is plenty of time before our lunch date, my father decides he wants to go to South Hill, one of the poorest sections of Limerick. My father had a close association with the priest, Father Joe, who was in charge of this area.

Father Joe was fundraising when he wandered into the Verbatim plant on Ballysimon road. My father was in a position to donate funds to a local charity. Father Joe had spent months trying to get funds to throw a Christmas party for the kids in South Hill. For all of his efforts, he had raised 7 pounds. My father asked him how much he needed. “A thousand”. My father cut him a check.

The story of Father Joe is long and involved. He eventually suffered a break down because of the pressures of running that same parish for such a long time. On the occasions, we have returned to Limerick, Father Joe is one of the people my father likes to check up on. But every time we see him, I get the feeling Father Joe doesn’t want to see us.

So, we didn’t look for him too hard on this trip. But we were going to his old parish. South Hill used to have a lot in common with the bad parts of King’s Island, with abandoned cars on the cement lawns and burnt out houses.

It looked much better this trip through. It didn’t look nearly as desolate as King’s Island. The abandoned houses had been torn down and vacant lots had nice green grass in them. Part of this trip was looking for a house my niece Jenelle, had stayed in back in the early 80’s.

Things had changed too much in South Hill for us to find in the house.

Another stop for the day was the Magdalene laundry I had been to the other day. My mother had seen the film Philomena, which talks about a girl who has to give up her baby for adoption at such a laundry. Later in life, her one regret is never having seen her child and starts on a quest to find him.

My mother wanted to go to the actual laundry where it happened.

I didn’t realize this was her motivation until we were in the laundry and my mother was quizzing the women behind the counter about the story of Philomena. I thought she was coming here to find out about the laundry in general. Or maybe she wanted to find out about the lace makers, since this was also the place where the girls were made to make Limerick Lace.

Now, the women behind the counter was quite pleasant, considering this hadn’t been a Magdalene laundry for almost twenty years. And, miracle of miracles, this woman had worked in the laundry back in the time when we were using the laundry.

But she was confused by the questions my mother asked about the movie ‘Philomena’.

Oh, dear. I had seen the movie, too. The movie takes place in the town of Birr which is about forty miles North of Limerick. They were never in this laundry. Yes, the girl did come to Limerick and get impregnated, but she was put away in Birr. She lost her baby in Birr. She eventually finds her missing child buried in Birr.

I explained this to all parties and left to go to my double parked car in the car park.

My mother still wanted pictures of the old convent church. I promised I would get them another day.

I left the Convent and headed down the Dublin Road to the Locke Bar where we were to have lunch with Hugh Elliot. Mr. Elliot designed the Verbatim buildings down at Raheen. The only glitch in my plans was an intended right turn to the Locke Bar, which turned out to be illegal.

A bus driver turning in front of me indicated with a disgusted look that I should only turn left. Fine.

The last time I was at the Locke Bar, in 1993, the waitress was kind enough to dump a load of drinks in my lap. I was going to be on my toes for this one.

I tuned out to my parents conversation after a few minutes. I wasn’t feeling warmly towards Mr. Elliot. He gave off the vibe that he was the smartest guy in the room and it was a little off-putting. Granted, he might actually have been the smartest guy but I didn’t need him to prove it to me.

I used the time to run over to see if our laundry was done at the non-Magdalene laundry at Arthur’s Quay. That would have been too easy. I was told to come back after 4.

For the afternoon, I had several errands to run in town. I had promised the Bradshaw’s I would have some pictures from the wedding for them. My Dad wanted me to get a present for Brendan Bradshaw since we were going out to celebrate his birthday that evening. I was also to find a card. And I needed to pick up the laundry.

Well, the printing turned out to be a disaster. I don’t know if it was there equipment or my digital files. I had them print out one picture as a test. The picture came out green and decidedly murky. I didn’t need 200 prints like that. Naturally, the manager said the machines were perfectly calibrated and the problem had to be on my end.

I printed a different photo and got the same results. I had never seen my photos come out like this so I decided to find another photo finishing place.

At the next place I found on Williams St, I ran into similar results. I was thinking it might be the size of the files. I had made them small in order to get them on the Flash drive. I thought they might be too small to make prints.

So, print making was a bust. Time to find Alfredo’s and get a gift certificate for Brendan Bradshaw.

Swept in by my father’s assurance that it would be relatively easy to find the famous Alfredo’s on O’Connell street, I headed up the street. If my father was correct, the restaurant should just be a couple blocks up from Williams street towards the Crescent.

You would think I would have learned by now? Nope. Lucy, in one of her many guises, holds the football and I attempt to kick it.

I walked the ten blocks up O’ Connell street until the shops petered out and turned to row houses. There were plenty of restaurants. None of them named Alfredo’s. I passed the Marco Polo where my parents had dined on Sunday. I passed La Piccola, where we would be celebrating Brendan’s birthday this evening. But no Alfredo’s

It was a lovely sunny day, a perfect day to be out taking photographs.

I turned around at the Crescent and headed back down towards William Street on the opposite side of O’Connell hoping I could see it from that side.

As an aside, the Crescent is a wide spot in O’Connell street where they erected a statue of the Liberator, Daniel O’Connell. The Crescent is also the site of my school’s original location. The Crescent occupied a group of buildings just opposite the statue. I don’t know which came first the naming of that wide spot as the Crescent or the naming of my school as the Crescent.

I didn’t find any sign of Alfredo’s from that side of the street either. I went into Eason’s book store to pick up the birthday card. I asked at the front desk if they had ever heard of a restaurant called Alfredo’s.

The women at the counter thought she might have sort of maybe heard of it. She checked with a co-worker. They talked and came to the conclusion it might be opposite Chocolat, the restaurant in the Royal George Hotel.

Knowing full well that it wasn’t there, but not wanting to be accused of giving up on any leads, I headed back up O’Connell street. Run, Charlie Brown, run.

I went up to the Crescent and back without finding any sign of the restaurant. I checked closed buildings to see if they were Alfredo’s in a former life. I made sure signs hadn’t been painted over the original Alfredo’s sign. Nothing.

At Eason’s, during the location conversation, one of them brought up the fact that maybe Alfredo’s was now Piccola. I went to check in at Piccola, but it was locked up.

I stopped in the tourist board at Arthur’s Quay to get eight copies of a genealogy book for my mother. I asked them to check for an Alfredo’s restaurant on their computer. They couldn’t find anything.

By this time, the laundry was ready. I picked it up and headed back to the hotel. Since I was carrying a massive bag of laundry over my shoulder and couldn’t get to my cel phone camera, a horse and trap raced by me across the bridge.

In my hotel room, I did what I should have done before I went in search of the mysterious Alfredo’s, I checked my own computer for Alfredo’s. It took me about a second to clear up the mystery.

There had never been an Alfredo’s. However, Alfredo was the part-owner and Maitre’ D at a restaurant called Piccola. So when my father asked Brendan what his favorite restaurant and he said Alfredo’s, Brendan probably should have lengthened it to Alfredo’s Piccola.

Which makes sense since if you were celebrating your birthday and were going to your favorite restaurant, they would be the same. I explained this to my father on the way to the restaurant for dinner.

The parking gods were with me and I scored almost all of a legal parking spot in front of the restaurant. Only about a third of the car was parked illegally into the bus loading zone.

Piccola’s resided in the basement level of a Georgian House on O’Connell street. Fans blew to provide some ventilation for the very hot room. My father grabbed Alfredo on the way in purchased a gift certificate, better known as a gift voucher in Ireland, to put in the card.

The food was quite good. Like all Irish restaurants, I was able to have two different kinds of potatoes with my Ravioli. Nobody even looked at me funny when I did.

The other reason Irish Birthdays rule is because they put fireworks on their birthday cakes instead of wimpy candles. I experienced this at Durty Nelly’s when the people opposite us celebrated a cake with a fountain of sparks shooting out of it. And again at Piccola’s when they brought out Brendan’s cake complete with fiery fountain.

I’m not sure if you are still expected to try and blow it out, although Brendan did try.