Monday, 2nd April. My hostess picks me up at the new airport. We follow the road along a little, and the whole city is there on a lower hill, spreading up the calley: Cork. Greetings, then dinner at the big kitchen table: lamb, with a dessert of rhubarb and custard. And then out in the car again, along the roads with which I will become joyfully familiar, until we park up by St. Finbarr’s and walk up to Tom Barry’s. A pint of Murphy’s, and then a walk out into the night. How long as it been? Several years. Several years years since I was walked along these same streets, but in the other direction, by my hostess. Then back to the farmhouse and I sleep in my big, cool room in the basement.
Tuesday. My hostess comes down to wake me. What time is it? Really!? That late! Up to the kitchen and I am cooked griddle cakes, which I’ve never had before, with maple syrup and bacon. Then to town, walking up from Leigh street to Tom Barry’s, to retrieve a lost phone, and then to the English Market to meet friends of my hostess. We lunch at Liberty Grill and my hostess and I drink a glass of Cava.
Then up by ourselves to the North side, to Chapel Hill and to ‘Jandek street’: the road that featured on one of his album covers. I take photos: yes, this is the street. Jandek was here! Imagine! To Tom Barry’s again – still closed – and I drink a pint of Beamish at the Abbey – thick and creamy; what happiness!, before we at last retrieve the phone. It is like cream, very thick, substantial, but not sweet. And then, in the evening, to my hostess’s friends for dinner. Beef again, curried this time: excellent. Saki-based cocktails to start, then papadums and dips; ice-cream to finish. And are they really Fall fans? They are; ‘Chiseler’ with dessert.
Wednesday. In the morning, to the English market again to buy food for our picnic. Then driving out towards Galway, through Limerick and Ennis in the blazing sun. We eat lunch at the Cliffs of Mohar, the three Isles of Arran spreading before us in the brilliant water, our happiness spoiled somewhat by the expensive car parking (8 Euro!), and the built up, touristy feel to the area.
Through County Clare, the countryside often rocky and barren, but beautiful too along the bendy shoreline, lakes and the sea. We stop for a pint in the sunshine, and drive on to reach Galway, and our hotel, by 7.30. Neachtains, next, and Irish whisky – I try Connemara and then Midleton on the barman’s recommendation and we watch a Polish band playing folk tunes from central Europe, and then songs of the late 60s, when Dylan lived with The Band in Big Pink.
Thursday. Breakfast at Ard Bia. I have chowder, thick and creamy in a big plate. To the bookshop, Charlie Byrne’s and then a stroll out through town to Salthill. We sit and watch dogs play on the rocky shore. The sea, brilliant in the sunlight. Later, more whisky: Green Spot and Bushmills 16 (Beckett’s tipple – that and Jameson’s); my hostess sticks to Hoegaarden. And then to Oscar’s for dinner. Hake for me, with rocket and sun dried tomatoes, lamb for my hostess; Fleurie wine.
Friday. Good Friday, when alcohol is banned from sale in Ireland (though we would see it sold in hotel bars, bouncers outside to keep the locals out …) To Sherridan’s for our picnic – venisson from West Cork – and then we drive out to Connemara, for which you can never be prepared. Twelve rocky crags, and a rock plain all around them. Are we in the extreme North? The deserts of Africa? We could be anywhere. We listen to Diamanda Galas’s The Singer. ‘Devil, devil, devil …’ Perfect. And at Roundstone disembark to climb a hill to see the rock plain and its lakes, and the sea all around us.
Saturday. Ard Bia for breakfast for the third time, but I’d had enough of chowder. We visit the aquarium, where my hostess wears a constant look of horror. Fishes in pipes, starfish feeding on mussels in the touchpool, spider crabs … It is only the Brazilian seahorses, bred for export in nearby Carna, and the tagpole fish, wide mouthed in its hiding place that redeem the ‘Atlantiquarium’ for her.
Then back to Cork, Nina Simone playing in the car (Jazz as Played … and … and Piano). We follow the shortest route this time, with no distractions, passing a sign to Yeats’ tower, and then one to Coole Park, where Lady Gregory lived. Along the road, jovial billboards of Bertie Ahern joshing with folks young and old.
We eat out, 12 of us, at the Ivory Tower, after cocktails at Long Island. We listen to Pussycat Dolls and Clipse on the way in the car to get us in a party mood. My hostess gets a slab of steak, done perfectly, she says. I opt for fish. Wine and jollity. Then out to the Crane Lane to try out our moves at the rock disco. But why is no one else dancing? And why is the music so bad?
Sunday. A long walk to walk off our lunch, being dropped off halfway up the Straight Road to walk through Fitzgerald’s Park. And then dinner again; we’re cooked bloody beef which we drink with Chablis and bad cider. The taxi ride back is frightening: we plunge too quickly into the dark; it’s a fairground ride. But the roads are familiar to me now; I know where we’re going.
Monday. Our second excursion, to West Cork this time. We stop on the Warren Beach to skim stones. And then, stopping for a Murphy’s and a sandwich, we arrive at the hotel at Baltimore, which is next to a building site. We eat dinner at La Jolie Brise – haddock for me, and pizza for my host. We finish two bottles of wine!
Tuesday. Breakfast La Jolie Brise, and then to a marvellously still loch, before taking green tea at The Plaza in Skiberee. We drive out along the penninsula through Ballydehob and to Schull, where we lunch at the Gourmet, my hostess buying various West Cork salamis for me to give to my friends on my return. Then through Goleen to Corkhaven, where I drink Beamish outside O’Sullivans by the sea in the brilliant sun, and my hostess fails to find gossip magazines for us both to read. Later, back to the famous Levis at Ballydehob for a drink before dinner; at Annie’s, brill for me, monkfish for my hostess and I have to take a walk after I am so full. Lucinda Williams accompanied us all day – West, twice, in the car, and then most of Sweet Old World.
Wednesday. Kinsale, listening to Justin Timberlake on the way. The new album’s much better than the first one, we decide; but we’ve only reached track 7 by the time we park and wander out to Fishy Fishy. I eat a half lobster – the first in my life; my hostess opts for a salad of fish. We drink cool white wine in the sun. And then, later, to the beach at Garettstown, where we spend the whole day, skimming stones, trying our moves and larking about.
Jim Edward’s for dinner – crab salad for me, salmon for my host. My last pint of Beamish. Then we drive home along the same route we walked several years ago. Memories! Up past St. Finbarr’s, then right past the Abbey, then another right along the path, and then out to the street that runs along the university. And then back to the house to talk around the fire.
Thursday. Up in the morning early, tired, we drove out to the airport. My hostess congratulates herself on her good work: I am tanned and well-looking, she says. And drops me off so I can go and catch my plane.
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