Ireland Day 9: Strangers on foreign isles.
Ooooh. Your wedding! It'll be the best day of your life!
I roll my eyes at that rote saying. When I was a fiancee, I would reply, hopefully politely enough my mother didn't pinch me under the table as I spoke to my great-aunts, We're really looking forward to it. I know it will be lovely. But, if it's the best day of my life, that would be kind of sad, as it would be all downhill from there.
I swear, the castle staff was trying to kill me with their slippers. Turn down service, they'd close the curtains, fluff the bed, turn down the covers, leave the mint on the pillow (actually truffles in a fancy box). Then, a small rug was placed just next to the bed, where your feet would hit the ground, and plastic wrapped slippers matching the fluffy robes in the bathroom were laid out waiting.
I can dress myself up and take myself anywhere, but I am a barefoot girl at heart. The lovely slippers tripped me up ever night. Literally 'slip'-'her.'
It was hard to top our anniversary day, so we didn't try. We savored. We snuggled late in bed and skipped the luxurious breakfast in favor of a lie-in and a long walk to the village of Cong. Now, we took the time to ramble the town and Abbey we'd whizzed through on wheels biking two days ago. If you're ever in Cong, stop at the Hungry Monk Cafe. Amazing fresh and local cuisine. Hover or take a couple turns around the block till a table pops open.
We did pop into "The Quiet Man" museum, a very small affair, a replica of the cottage from the movie with replica movie props and old news stories framed. A very worn out video tape loops showing you the then setting from the film and the view today. (Well, not that recent a today as I did say video tape.) A slow walk about the town and river; everything is so scenic it's hard to stop taking pictures. My favorite is the cottage just next to the river Cong on the road to the castle. It was used as the vicar's cottage in the film, and we posed just at the spot where the tandem bike was leaning from John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara to make their madcap escape from the courting chaperone, a corner draped with ivy and red roses.
Ivy means fidelity, or it did in the overly complex Victorian language of flowers tradition. Ivy and white roses were our wedding flowers and the picture frames up so the red roses look like cartoon hearts popping over our heads. Not bad for a camera braced on the bridge wall, a bridge just handy for playing Poohsticks and perhaps a bit of necking before we walked back to the castle to catch the river cruise.
Oh, and a grand and random piper. I haven't an earthly why a bagpiper in full highland kilt and sporran was by the docks piping to the ship as it cruised to the pier - Ireland, not Scotland - but it was a moment of random enchantment, swans on the lake and pipes sounding over the Loch. I grinned as we waited in the next tour line while the passengers disembarked.
Of course, we went straight for the top deck, front row, where the wind whipped off the water and across the bow chilling you enough to snuggle tight with your sweetie as the boat motored across Loch Corrib. Our once Avalon still waters were choppy today, a stiff breeze stirred up the foam. Our captain's family has been sailing these waters for decades, and he brought along a first mate - who mostly served drinks downstairs for those shivering out of the air, and an accordion player who tucked himself behind the sheltered wheelhouse, showed us his stills of being on set for "The Quiet Man" (he was an extra) and played haunting and unadorned tunes. He sang "Danny Boy" just as we docked at the island. Danny Boy goes one of two ways - it either makes you weep or sinks into overly familiar background music. I was teary and the Captain was sighing: Och, what are you doing to me, boyo? They'll listen to nothing I say now.
But, the Captain was wrong. Inchagoill - Gaelic of Isle of the Foreigner - is a layered place. You can feel the centuries lightly woven together. St. Patrick was exiled to this island, mewed up by the local druids out of the way, and the remains of his 5th century church - Teampall Phaidrig - stand today. We all know the legend, how St. Patrick converted all of Ireland, so he eventually moved on from this place but his navigator stayed, tending the small sanctuary and eventually being laid to rest under a unique gravestone in the shape of a ship's rudder. From the 5th century on, this was a place of Christian retreat. On the mainland, Cong Abbey became one of the 'universities' of renown, in the years with the Irish Saved Civilization, and study took place in the church's houses of learning, but the faithful would retreat to Inchagoill for reflection. Just down the path from St. Patrick's is a 12th century church Teampall na Neave.
You can feel the deep and dappled peace of the place, which somehow sits lightly on the visitor despite the centuries. Another turn in the path and you'll find one of the ruined cottages of the local families. There were families on the island until middle of the twentieth century. It was an isolated life, especially before motorboats, when it's a food ten mile row out to Inchagoill from the Cong dock. Eventually, all the families moved away, but The Guinnesses - owners of Ashford castle in that era - established a caretaker, a World War II vet and bachelor who enjoyed the isolation. Beloved patrons, the Guinnesses supplied him with the first wireless in the county so he wouldn't be lonely.
There's a local story that hundreds of people rowed out to the island to crowd around his tiny cottage and listen to the championship football match over that radio. And, to this day, on the feast of St. Patrick, all the locals row out to the island for mass. The last child born on the island grew up to be a priest, and even though he was posted to Australia, each year he made the long trek home to say that yearly mass at Teampall Phaidrig.
On the sail home, the Captain told us of new adventures into antiquity of Loch Corrib. Recent sounding had found Viking era ships on the bottom of the Loch, cause for much excitement. Someday, we'll have to go back and find out what was discovered. But today was enough to watch the clouds chase sky across the water as we sailed back to the castle docks. Chilled and happy, we tucked into the warm lounge and wallowed while Thomas fetched us drinks. For dinner, we tried the third of the Castle restaurants "The Dungeons" which was hilariously kitschy, a bit like a dignified medieval times in decor, but the food was spot on and the service superb.
They have live music nightly in the lounge, so after dinner we curled back up to watch the sunset and listen to the singing before drifting off to bed.
I roll my eyes at that rote saying. When I was a fiancee, I would reply, hopefully politely enough my mother didn't pinch me under the table as I spoke to my great-aunts, We're really looking forward to it. I know it will be lovely. But, if it's the best day of my life, that would be kind of sad, as it would be all downhill from there.
I swear, the castle staff was trying to kill me with their slippers. Turn down service, they'd close the curtains, fluff the bed, turn down the covers, leave the mint on the pillow (actually truffles in a fancy box). Then, a small rug was placed just next to the bed, where your feet would hit the ground, and plastic wrapped slippers matching the fluffy robes in the bathroom were laid out waiting.
I can dress myself up and take myself anywhere, but I am a barefoot girl at heart. The lovely slippers tripped me up ever night. Literally 'slip'-'her.'
It was hard to top our anniversary day, so we didn't try. We savored. We snuggled late in bed and skipped the luxurious breakfast in favor of a lie-in and a long walk to the village of Cong. Now, we took the time to ramble the town and Abbey we'd whizzed through on wheels biking two days ago. If you're ever in Cong, stop at the Hungry Monk Cafe. Amazing fresh and local cuisine. Hover or take a couple turns around the block till a table pops open.
We did pop into "The Quiet Man" museum, a very small affair, a replica of the cottage from the movie with replica movie props and old news stories framed. A very worn out video tape loops showing you the then setting from the film and the view today. (Well, not that recent a today as I did say video tape.) A slow walk about the town and river; everything is so scenic it's hard to stop taking pictures. My favorite is the cottage just next to the river Cong on the road to the castle. It was used as the vicar's cottage in the film, and we posed just at the spot where the tandem bike was leaning from John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara to make their madcap escape from the courting chaperone, a corner draped with ivy and red roses.
Ivy means fidelity, or it did in the overly complex Victorian language of flowers tradition. Ivy and white roses were our wedding flowers and the picture frames up so the red roses look like cartoon hearts popping over our heads. Not bad for a camera braced on the bridge wall, a bridge just handy for playing Poohsticks and perhaps a bit of necking before we walked back to the castle to catch the river cruise.
Oh, and a grand and random piper. I haven't an earthly why a bagpiper in full highland kilt and sporran was by the docks piping to the ship as it cruised to the pier - Ireland, not Scotland - but it was a moment of random enchantment, swans on the lake and pipes sounding over the Loch. I grinned as we waited in the next tour line while the passengers disembarked.
Of course, we went straight for the top deck, front row, where the wind whipped off the water and across the bow chilling you enough to snuggle tight with your sweetie as the boat motored across Loch Corrib. Our once Avalon still waters were choppy today, a stiff breeze stirred up the foam. Our captain's family has been sailing these waters for decades, and he brought along a first mate - who mostly served drinks downstairs for those shivering out of the air, and an accordion player who tucked himself behind the sheltered wheelhouse, showed us his stills of being on set for "The Quiet Man" (he was an extra) and played haunting and unadorned tunes. He sang "Danny Boy" just as we docked at the island. Danny Boy goes one of two ways - it either makes you weep or sinks into overly familiar background music. I was teary and the Captain was sighing: Och, what are you doing to me, boyo? They'll listen to nothing I say now.
But, the Captain was wrong. Inchagoill - Gaelic of Isle of the Foreigner - is a layered place. You can feel the centuries lightly woven together. St. Patrick was exiled to this island, mewed up by the local druids out of the way, and the remains of his 5th century church - Teampall Phaidrig - stand today. We all know the legend, how St. Patrick converted all of Ireland, so he eventually moved on from this place but his navigator stayed, tending the small sanctuary and eventually being laid to rest under a unique gravestone in the shape of a ship's rudder. From the 5th century on, this was a place of Christian retreat. On the mainland, Cong Abbey became one of the 'universities' of renown, in the years with the Irish Saved Civilization, and study took place in the church's houses of learning, but the faithful would retreat to Inchagoill for reflection. Just down the path from St. Patrick's is a 12th century church Teampall na Neave.
You can feel the deep and dappled peace of the place, which somehow sits lightly on the visitor despite the centuries. Another turn in the path and you'll find one of the ruined cottages of the local families. There were families on the island until middle of the twentieth century. It was an isolated life, especially before motorboats, when it's a food ten mile row out to Inchagoill from the Cong dock. Eventually, all the families moved away, but The Guinnesses - owners of Ashford castle in that era - established a caretaker, a World War II vet and bachelor who enjoyed the isolation. Beloved patrons, the Guinnesses supplied him with the first wireless in the county so he wouldn't be lonely.
There's a local story that hundreds of people rowed out to the island to crowd around his tiny cottage and listen to the championship football match over that radio. And, to this day, on the feast of St. Patrick, all the locals row out to the island for mass. The last child born on the island grew up to be a priest, and even though he was posted to Australia, each year he made the long trek home to say that yearly mass at Teampall Phaidrig.
On the sail home, the Captain told us of new adventures into antiquity of Loch Corrib. Recent sounding had found Viking era ships on the bottom of the Loch, cause for much excitement. Someday, we'll have to go back and find out what was discovered. But today was enough to watch the clouds chase sky across the water as we sailed back to the castle docks. Chilled and happy, we tucked into the warm lounge and wallowed while Thomas fetched us drinks. For dinner, we tried the third of the Castle restaurants "The Dungeons" which was hilariously kitschy, a bit like a dignified medieval times in decor, but the food was spot on and the service superb.
They have live music nightly in the lounge, so after dinner we curled back up to watch the sunset and listen to the singing before drifting off to bed.