Ireland Day 4: So I got my bum smacked in a bar.
Roland: Well, I didn't get my ass grabbed at the pub tonight.
Me: I just wanted to ask where she bought those tights. And I didn't get assaulted by a guy with striped wrapping paper.
Let's back up.
Shola House is achingly restful. We had to set an alarm to be up for breakfast at 9 am. Forget worrying about mermaids stealing my husband; our hostess, Sharon, made Roland pancakes. That man is a sucker for pancakes. I had a full Irish breakfast of sausage, pudding, fried egg, potato cakes and bacon. The bacon is much more like country ham; the sausage is clear. I know that's an odd thing to say, but it tastes like pork, delicately spiced and not greasy, no filler. They save that for the pudding, which is much more like an American sausage patty.
I didn't bother eating until 2pm after all that and then only a snack bar after coming up the Causeway.
But, let's back up.
First, we went to Bushmills, the oldest licensed distillery in the world, granted license by King James in 1608. The tour was lovely - the guide well trained, but she clearly had a script. She kept mixing up the terms 'marry' and 'blending.' Trust me, as both a whisky geek connoisseur and an old, married woman, those are very different things. Happily, the barman at the end answered all our questions once I convinced him to stop treating me like I needed the term 'malt' defined.
It was bucketing and I was immensely grateful that, as I'd stood in REI last week considering two different jackets, I settled on the 'waterproof' not 'water resistant.' I looked like an ad for either Thompsons water seal or REI with the water beaded and shedding off my coat.
We made it to Giant's Causeway by noon, which is one of the coolest and eeriest things I've ever seen. Naturally formed columns of hexagonal stone of all types, all the same size, form a mad hopscotch board partway between Northern Ireland and Scotland's isle of Islay. Legend says that Finn MacCool built the causeway, caber tossing stones into the sea to form a bridge so he could attack the angry Scottish giant on the far shore. When he made it across, he realized the giant was 10 times his size and ran home where he dressed as a baby. The giant, seeing how huge the children of Ireland were, cowered away in fear and smashed the causeway bridge to keep the adult giants of Ireland from coming after him so now only the Irish end of the bridge remains.
Or maybe lava cooled and fractured into columns. Believe what you want. It's insanely, eerily beautiful.
We rambled all over the rock for two hours and nixed the longer hike because I was damp and Roland was getting soaked. (Water resistant pullover not the same as waterproof jacket.) ALso, I was tired from being up too late so we went back to our B&B for some quality time with dry socks, the soaking tub, teapot and rubber duckie. I had a long nap and a good workout before our host dropped us off in town for dinner at Jackman's and Pye. After a pile of local seafood, we wandered down to the Harbour Pub (#1 pub in Northern Ireland) which I give a thumbs up for the sign "No WiFi. Talk to Each Other." except it was so crowded you literally couldn't move, couldn't approach the bar and couldn't start a conversation with anyone. We wandered back up the street to the Kiwi bar - a local craft brewery - and had a lovely time chatting with the locals.
A remarkably drunk Irish man walked over and popped Roland on the shoulder with a roll of stripped wrapping paper he was carrying. It was either wrapping paper or the largest hard candy I've ever seen and the paper idea makes me much more comfortable than strange drunk men asking Roland if he wants to hold their candy.
We meet several of the Bushmills distillery crew. Under lies told to women in bars, one stillman tried to convince me he was the master distiller; however, I knew far too much. I think it was the intricate question about racking whisky and knowledge of the Jim Bean tornado tragedy that convinced them to wave off. It did, however, get the attention of the senior Bushmills rep for Europe, who remembered my name immediately (same as his ex-wife's) and is fascinated by the free tee shirt bribe Kentucky Bourbon uses to get tourist to hit all the distilleries.
Then, I slid a stool over to a shared table and this lovely blond smacked me on the bum to get my attention, which is how she learned I was from American and how I learned where to buy the fantastic tights she was wearing and that she was engaged to the band's lead guitarist; she introduced me to her former babysitter/drummer's girlfriend who shares a love of Johnny Cash and Glenn Miller. It was like an episode from Brigit Jones's diary, especially the bit where they refused to believe I'd been married twenty years. Are you fucking kidding me? What, are you from Utah? yells the blonde and I nearly fell off my stool laughing at the obscure Mormon joke.
And Roland shakes his head because I can talk to anyone.
Me: I just wanted to ask where she bought those tights. And I didn't get assaulted by a guy with striped wrapping paper.
Let's back up.
Shola House is achingly restful. We had to set an alarm to be up for breakfast at 9 am. Forget worrying about mermaids stealing my husband; our hostess, Sharon, made Roland pancakes. That man is a sucker for pancakes. I had a full Irish breakfast of sausage, pudding, fried egg, potato cakes and bacon. The bacon is much more like country ham; the sausage is clear. I know that's an odd thing to say, but it tastes like pork, delicately spiced and not greasy, no filler. They save that for the pudding, which is much more like an American sausage patty.
I didn't bother eating until 2pm after all that and then only a snack bar after coming up the Causeway.
But, let's back up.
First, we went to Bushmills, the oldest licensed distillery in the world, granted license by King James in 1608. The tour was lovely - the guide well trained, but she clearly had a script. She kept mixing up the terms 'marry' and 'blending.' Trust me, as both a whisky geek connoisseur and an old, married woman, those are very different things. Happily, the barman at the end answered all our questions once I convinced him to stop treating me like I needed the term 'malt' defined.
It was bucketing and I was immensely grateful that, as I'd stood in REI last week considering two different jackets, I settled on the 'waterproof' not 'water resistant.' I looked like an ad for either Thompsons water seal or REI with the water beaded and shedding off my coat.
We made it to Giant's Causeway by noon, which is one of the coolest and eeriest things I've ever seen. Naturally formed columns of hexagonal stone of all types, all the same size, form a mad hopscotch board partway between Northern Ireland and Scotland's isle of Islay. Legend says that Finn MacCool built the causeway, caber tossing stones into the sea to form a bridge so he could attack the angry Scottish giant on the far shore. When he made it across, he realized the giant was 10 times his size and ran home where he dressed as a baby. The giant, seeing how huge the children of Ireland were, cowered away in fear and smashed the causeway bridge to keep the adult giants of Ireland from coming after him so now only the Irish end of the bridge remains.
Or maybe lava cooled and fractured into columns. Believe what you want. It's insanely, eerily beautiful.
We rambled all over the rock for two hours and nixed the longer hike because I was damp and Roland was getting soaked. (Water resistant pullover not the same as waterproof jacket.) ALso, I was tired from being up too late so we went back to our B&B for some quality time with dry socks, the soaking tub, teapot and rubber duckie. I had a long nap and a good workout before our host dropped us off in town for dinner at Jackman's and Pye. After a pile of local seafood, we wandered down to the Harbour Pub (#1 pub in Northern Ireland) which I give a thumbs up for the sign "No WiFi. Talk to Each Other." except it was so crowded you literally couldn't move, couldn't approach the bar and couldn't start a conversation with anyone. We wandered back up the street to the Kiwi bar - a local craft brewery - and had a lovely time chatting with the locals.
A remarkably drunk Irish man walked over and popped Roland on the shoulder with a roll of stripped wrapping paper he was carrying. It was either wrapping paper or the largest hard candy I've ever seen and the paper idea makes me much more comfortable than strange drunk men asking Roland if he wants to hold their candy.
We meet several of the Bushmills distillery crew. Under lies told to women in bars, one stillman tried to convince me he was the master distiller; however, I knew far too much. I think it was the intricate question about racking whisky and knowledge of the Jim Bean tornado tragedy that convinced them to wave off. It did, however, get the attention of the senior Bushmills rep for Europe, who remembered my name immediately (same as his ex-wife's) and is fascinated by the free tee shirt bribe Kentucky Bourbon uses to get tourist to hit all the distilleries.
Then, I slid a stool over to a shared table and this lovely blond smacked me on the bum to get my attention, which is how she learned I was from American and how I learned where to buy the fantastic tights she was wearing and that she was engaged to the band's lead guitarist; she introduced me to her former babysitter/drummer's girlfriend who shares a love of Johnny Cash and Glenn Miller. It was like an episode from Brigit Jones's diary, especially the bit where they refused to believe I'd been married twenty years. Are you fucking kidding me? What, are you from Utah? yells the blonde and I nearly fell off my stool laughing at the obscure Mormon joke.
And Roland shakes his head because I can talk to anyone.