A Tale of Two Irish Rovers OR: A Trip to the Third Best Place to Spend St. Patricks Day!
As the title of this week’s blog implies, there is indeed a tale of a trip to the Emerald Isle. However, in the spirit of the mischief of the Leprechaun we will be pulling the old switcheroo and rather than your trusted normal scribe Kate (Suffering from slight separation anxiety will be adding annotations in red), I Richard the oft mentioned travelling companion, will fill you in with the details of the journey. In reality I have been living the life of Reilly (yes, second Irish reference already and it is only the introduction!) having handed in all my assignments last week whilst young Kate has been a bit busier, so I agreed to step into the breach. Don’t worry normal service will resume in two weeks’ time, there is a brief European sojourn this coming week which will interrupt the normal publication schedule, and you will be returned into the warm embrace of words without u’s, double negatives (a South African conversational staple) and blogs that are not as long as War & Peace. Okay let’s begin; readers I wish you (Irish?) luck…
The tale of this Irish excursion begins long before the scheduled departure, to the only place more Irish than Ireland. Yes that is right casa del Garrett (The Spanish really adds to the Irish-ness of this statement), Kansas City, KS (I believe Richard understands that it is actually Lenexa, KS and was just attempting to give my parents a slight heart attack.. well done). Whilst I was obliviously gnawing on a turkey bone in 35 degree (Celsius that is), (95 Fahrenheit) summer heat in South Africa an idea was forming in young Kathryn’s head. A way to kill the assorted birds of my impending birthday, both of our love of travelling and a pilgrimage to the ‘spiritual homeland’ with the single stone of a trip to Dublin for St. Patricks Day! Secretly, hotels were booked and flights arranged whilst the reality slowly dawned on Kate that she would now have to keep this news confidential for an entire month! (A very, very long time!)On her return Kate matter-of-factly mentioned that she had planned something for the weekend of the 17th of March.(This was only matter of factly mentioned because someone alluded to the fact that plans were already made for that weekend) I glanced at the calendar and noticed that the 17th was in fact St. Patricks Day, to which I uttered the now much mocked words “Well whatever it is you have organised I better be able to get a Guinness or else.” In hindsight the smirk on her face should have provided some clue, but being perceptive has never been one of my great assets. As it was I had to wait until my birthday in early February to hear the news. After a morning of being given numerous Irish themed stocking-fillers (sorry stocking-stuffers for my American readership!) it finally dawned on me (embarrassingly only after my third gift!) that we were going to Ireland! More specifically Dublin and even more specifically on St. Patricks Day! If I was an American I would have whooped! (I’m pretty sure you whooped).
I’m sure it is has been previously mentioned or at least alluded to on this blog that the primary reason for us being able to take these various European jaunts is the joy of cheap plane travel in particular Ryanair. However, as with all things in life you have to take the good with the bad. No I am not referring to cramped seating, the selling of every conceivable item on board or even the hidden charges. I am referring to the fact that the airports that they use are nowhere near where they claim to be and tend to involve at least an hour journey just to get to them! Unfortunately Glasgow is no exception to this rule and we in fact fly out of the town of Prestwick on the east Coast, due south of Glasgow. This combined with the fact that we had a scheduled flight at the horrific hour of 07:00am meant that we had to spend the night in Prestwick in order to make our flight the next morning. If for some reason the name Prestwick rings a bell it is because either: 1) You are an Elvis aficionado and know that this is the one spot in the UK that the ‘King’ visited (whilst he was a solider – useless fact #5789) or more likely 2) because of golf. Yes, Prestwick is the home of the first ever ‘Open’ golf championship (or British Open as it is called in America) which is golf’s equivalent of Wimbledon and Prestwick town is also just down the road from Troon a town whose golf course still hosts Open championships. Having grown up in a house with a golf mad father and having had numerous golfing friends, I was really excited at the prospect of spending a day in this golfing heartland. I had thoughts of wandering around the bunkers and sinking imaginary 50 foot putts with my invisible putter. Unfortunately fate (or more correctly university) intervened and I found out that I had to give a presentation until 5pm and that we would only be able to get into Prestwick at night. My disappointment was slightly lifted however as Kate showed the upmost sympathy and disappointment as well. At least I think it was sympathy and disappointment; in South Africa fist-pumping (I have never fist-pumped in my life), a beaming smile and the continued repeating of the statement ‘Yes, thank goodness!’ would generally be construed as her not wanting to spend 4 hours wandering around a windswept grassland dodging flying white balls – however I realise our cultures do differ in certain aspects and I’m sure that is just a unique American way of expressing sorrow… (I was truly heartbroken).
In any event we had a wonderful evening in Prestwick and the excitement was certainly building for the trip. So much so that even the 5 am start the next day was taken in our stride and we arrived at Glasgow-Prestwick International airport slightly bleary eyed but excited none-the-less. As we waited at security (an interminable wait due to a bachelorette-party group in front of us having to empty and sift through the contents of their hand luggage in order to remove countless trays of make-up, bottles of fake tan etc.) three ladies joined the queue behind us. They were decked out in green clothes, St Patricks Days novelty sunglasses - the works. Cleary, we thought, fellow travellers to Dublin. One of the many things I have developed since meeting Kate is my people watching skills. Previously I have wandered through life without giving much thought to my fellow inhabitants – blissfully ignorant of their conversations and actions (Oh how much you were missing!). However, having now travelled with a people watcher of note I have slowly started to develop the requisite people watching skills. These new found skills meant that I was taking a great interest in our green-decked co-travellers (eavesdropping (Excuse me: “Active Listening”) is such a nasty word) and picked up on the following conversation:
Novelty glasses wearer 1: ‘Nothing like St. Paddy’s Day hey girls!’ (I really don’t think they said “Hey Girls!” at the end of their sentences)
Leprechaun hat wearer: ‘I know, each year we need to go one bigger than the last’
Novelty glasses wearer 2: ‘Last year, Dublin! Next year… New York!’
Countless thoughts raced through my mind. Where exactly was the ‘second best place’ that they were going to? Is Dublin really less Irish than New York? Can you really trust the statements of a couple of Glaswegian 40 year olds babbling on about St. Patricks Day hot spots at 5 in the morning? When you consider that they were in fact on a flight to Alicante, Spain to celebrate St. Patricks Day you quickly realise that the answer to all those questions is simply - No. In any event the bachelorette backlog had lifted and we safely made it through security (well I mean Kate made it safely through and I, being the shifty character that I am, go patted down—(In all seriousness it’s about time I wasn’t the one patted down.)) and boarded our flight to the third best St. Patricks Day venue in the world!
We touched down in Dublin, caught a taxi to our hotel and luckily were able to check in allowing us to wander off to soak up the excitement. Having both travelled to Dublin before, we had realised beforehand that the area we were staying in (Ballsbridge) was the same area we had previously stayed and on arriving at the hotel it was in fact the exact same hotel where Kate had stayed previously. Thus it was a little disconcerting that we still managed to get lost walking to the city centre! (I’m not quite sure five seconds of confusion over which way to turn constitutes as lost…) In any case we were eventually on the right track and decided to wander into the national gallery for a quick look (there is some extensive refurbishment underway so the artworks on display were slightly limited) before heading up to Grafton Street. It was here that the magnitude of the festivities hit us for the first time. Everywhere you looked there were Irish souvenirs for sale, multitudes of people wore green, Irish pub songs blared from shops, giant Leprechauns posed for photos. We both looked at each other and smiled. There are certain times when you just give into the commercialisation of a holiday and whilst I’m sure the locals despise it, being tourists we were ready to embrace it!
We had a walking tour scheduled for 2:30pm so in the interim we decided to wander around the area taking in the sites and atmosphere.
And of course, sampled the previously mentioned brew
We arrived for our walking tour slightly ahead of time and were met by just two other men already waiting. We were a bit nervous that there were so few of us, but as it would turn out we had feared the wrong thing. As 2:30 approached the hordes began to descend and we realised that this was going to be one popular walking tour! Fortunately a combination of forward planning by the tour company (there was more than one guide) and ourselves (we had pre-booked tickets) meant that we were able to depart with the earlier group leaving the unfortunates to scrap it out for the remaining tickets. Our tour guide then proceeded to kill all our dreams by stating that 1) St. Patricks colour was not green but blue (useless fact #6479) and 2). That St. Patrick had in fact never come down as far as Dublin, but had stayed mainly up in modern day Northern Ireland (maybe Belfast was then the second best St. Patrick’s destination!?) In any event despite these revelations the tour was really enjoyable, the guide was knowledgeable and humorous (he started up a rendition of the song ‘Kansas City’ every time he saw Kate) and we saw a number of interesting sites along the route. It was not however without incident although in order to maintain some sense of dignity and prevent this blog from descending into a rant I will merely say that if you are inclined to wear novelty St. Patricks day hats perhaps a cathedral is not the best play to exhibit them. (While the tour was wonderful, I will admit that immediately upon our release from the tour we launched into rants regarding the other participants, in addition to the comment regarding hat attire I will say this: It is Dublin, rain is to be expected, it is not the tour guide’s fault.)
Having done our cultural duty for the day we rushed back to the hotel before heading out to sample some of the Dublin nightlife and the legendary Irish craic. After a rather subdued start close to the hotel we decided to head to the famous (infamous?) Temple Bar area. After having been in the establishment for a short-time we realised that we were unlikely to hear Irish craic and more likely to hear American chat, Australian banter or German plaudern! To our left were groups of College students drinking Coors Light and chanting U-S-A, U-S-A! To our right Uni students drinking Fosters and talking about cricket (no – not the insect, the sport!). However, that great statement of everyone being Irish on St. Patricks Day does indeed hold true. As the band started up with ballads like ‘Galway Girl‘ and ‘Whiskey in the Jar‘ so the bar began to embrace their common (or in many cases imagined) Irish heritage and sang, as one, long into the night...(Apparently you didn’t notice, it was generally just us singing..)
Those warm fuzzy feelings had dampended slightly in the morning and as the a result your author awoke slightly later than planned. However, there was the pressing matter of the St. Patricks day parade to attend and so I gingerly began dressing in green for the big day.
We arrived on the main route of the parade to see that the crowds had already gathered. (Richard forgot to mention that before this he had never attended a parade! I must say quite the step up from my first parade. I’m sorry Old Shawnee Days Parade with your collection of Shriners riding around in small cars, you do not compare to Dublin’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade!)Fortunately we managed to find a prime-spot behind two mothers and their young (and most importantly short – for me at least, not sure if they were for Kate…) children (Rude). One (All) of these kids was the stereotypical Irish child; pale skin, big blue eyes. He was so Irish that even though he had blond hair he had sprayed painted it red/ginger (okay, so it might have had something to do with him being the orange part of a trio making up the Irish flag: Green, white and orange but you get the picture). It was this child who started our parade with a scream of “THEY’RE COMING!!!” The parade had a roughly even mix of marching bands and themed floats and performances. The marching bands came both from Ireland as well as America, with both schools and colleges performing (including the University of Missouri!—(Thank you for including this for my grandmother)). I use the term ‘themed’ to describe the floats and performances in the broadest possible sense. A person would emerge holding a banner such as ‘Where does electricity come from’ and what would follow was an extremely surreal interpretation of this. For example people with clamps for heads and people dressed as magnets! It sounds utterly bizarre, it was utterly bizarre but yet somehow it just worked and was really entertaining. (I am in love with this description of the parade…. Words truly can not describe how bizarre, yet entertaining, it all was)
Despite the entertainment the showstopper happened early on and, predominately, did not involve anyone who was actually part of the parade. At some stage a man dressed as Dracula emerged (probably in this surrealist parade as an accompaniment to the display ‘How is cheese made’ (This is still making me laugh). As Dracula made his way down the road, his coat billowing behind him, we heard a yelp in front of us and a terrified scream of ‘VAMPIRES!!!’ The previously mentioned child leapt off the railings and straight into his mother’s arms trying to use her as human shield from the blood thirsty fiend. He was eventually calmed down, told it was all an act and sent back to the front and the mocking looks of his siblings. As the parade continued and as terrors such as knife wielding fish and giant smoke billowing rhinoceroses (don’t ask…) paraded in front of him you could see the young boy looking forlornly at the safety of his mother’s embrace and weighing it up against the further potential abuse from his brothers that it would bring… The burden of being a youngest child is a heavy one…(Try the burden that is being the oldest child, it’s a much tougher cross to bear)
Following on from the parade we decided to escape the chaos which was the city centre and went back towards our hotel, stopping off at the Lansdowne Hotel in order to watch the Ireland vs. England rugby match which was being played in London. This pub, being away from the main area, had a significantly higher quantity of true Irishmen (and women) present. Inevitably as the rugby match slowly went against the Irish (they unfortunately ended up losing quite heavily) we began chatting with our fellow patrons and as a true testament of the friendliness of the Irish were invited to a man’s, who we had just met, 70th birthday party! (He was also named Paddy!)While I would love to say we attended, were the life and soul of the party and ‘River Danced’ (Well you are basically the next Michael Flatly) the night away we politely declined. However on leaving there is no doubt that both Kate and I were thinking; ‘New York, Spain – bah I’ll take Dublin any day!’
A slightly earlier night was called, due to another early flight home the next morning. And so the next day after boarding our plane we arrived back in Prestwick once again – only to be told that the rail line had been closed for engineering works and we had to catch a bus back to Glasgow! Once on the bus, just after I had stopped cursing Ryanair for flying out of the middle of nowhere and just before I drifted off to sleep I thought back to a conversation with a taxi driver the night before. Emboldened by a few Guinness and feeling slightly philosophical (yes, probably also due to those Guinnesses!) I asked how the mood was in Ireland, in light of all the economic problems and austerity measures currently in place, to which he replied: ‘Every day is a good day in Ireland’. After this weekend – I can definitely agree.
Richard, I have to hand it to you. After this impressive blog my readership will never want to return to my embrace of words lacking “u’s” again. I am now thinking that our book scheme might just have to become a reality. Just in case it hasn’t been stated enough our trip to Dublin was wonderful and everything we could hope for in a St. Patrick’s Day weekend. The Irish proved to be charming, kind, funny, entertaining and the marvellous hosts they are proclaimed to be. It is no wonder that the two of us have already begun talks of travelling back as soon as possible.
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