Despite
the rain overnight, this morning has bits of blue sky among the clouds and we
move at a leisurely pace with some tea, coffee and boiled eggs for breakfast.
An interesting fact is that in Europe, at the start of our trip, none of our
accommodation had egg cups. Sacre Bleu! You say. Oh nee! mein Gott - ketä kiinnostaa, really.
Well as they are Flashy’s favourite brekky, Lady P
found a nice ceramic egg cup in an opp shop in Europe to take with us to
England. Since our arrival in the Old Dart and the Emerald Isle, all of our
accommodation places have egg cups, some even have four! None however, have
vegemite.
And on the topic of things food, we have been
visited by two Sika deer each night here in Dunloe, feeding on the new leaves
on the trees five metres from our window. And to top it off, we had to come to a
screeching stop yesterday to allow two wild ducks to waddle off.
Last night’s beef and Guinness pies were very good.
Served with mashed carrot and parsnip and butter poached leeks.
The pastry here in Island is really good. Used
quite thinly, the shortcrust is made with half butter and half lard, giving it
a short but firm crumb (how Irish is that?). So far, in every village, town and
city we have visited, there are practically no ethnic restaurants other than
the very occasional Chinese and maybe a pizza shop. They probably do curry
prawns and rice. This is not a complaint, just an observation and quite
possibly due to the lack of immigration, say, as compared with the rich
cultural and gastronomic experience of Australia, since 1945.
And for an Irish comment, “Ireland is very Irish.”
We headed into Killarney today in sunshine but 10c
with a ‘feels like’ of 5c. Very cold compared to the last week. We found an
undercover parking place but the payment instructions were a bit Irish. The
payment kiosk? Where would that be? Of course! Inside the nearby office
building.
On our return, we smugly go to the machine, key in
our rego number and pay with a tap of the card. Good so far. “You are free to
exit. No payment required.” OK, so that means the barrier can read our
numberplate and let us out. No tickets issued, you see.
Now, a little Irish pixie in a very small car, was
at the exit trying to get out. She hadn’t found the kiosk, had she? So, said barrier did not rise.
Lady P was concerned that our time to get out might
expire, so was anxious for the old pixie (she was a small mature woman) to get
out of the way. Flashy wanders down to see what the problem was. “Are ye any good
at reversi’n,” she says. In an effort to get things moving, Flashy squeezes
himself into the tiny car, can’t find the seat leaver or reverse but in the end
manages to reverse the car up the ramp, missing a side wall by 2”. “Ah, you’re
such a gentleman, surely you are.”
By the time he returns, Lady P is at the barrier
and guess what, it won’t work. By this stage we had gathered a bit of an
audience. Luckily a young Irish lass says, “push the emergency button, sure’n
that’ll work.” A dial tone, then a ring tone, then a loverly Irish brogue asks
what’s the matter? It works and we get out and floor it down the lane.
Looking for a barber today, we saw a sign that said,
‘Turkish Barber’. Now I don’t know if you have ever had a hair cut by a Turk,
but it is an experience.
First of all, they have more stuff on their tables
than a Hollywood make up artist and secondly, they are really gentle for big,
hairy Turkish gentlemen. Flashy asks for a number two all over and the ritual
starts as per normal. A nice neck paper is affixed and a covering for the
clothes and the clippers start their work. My, that looks a bit short thinks
Flashy.
Not to worry, he is lulled into a trance by the cut
throat razor action on the side and back of the neck. Then Mustafa swaps to a
little clipper for the ear hair trim. “Eyebrows,” he says? OK. Shish! Straight
across with the clippers - eyebrows at
number one sir!
Out comes the powdered brush for the preliminary
dust off and a final trim. Flashy looks like he’s joining the Marines. Got to
be a number one. And for his final trick, Mustafa lights up a 12” skewer with a
little bit of burning fluff at the end and proceeds to singe any errant ear
hairs. Flashy smells burning flesh but feels no pain. “Trim you moostash sar?”
Er no, it’s OK mate, thanks. All this for €10. Be good now for at least six
weeks.
We have managed to buy some flowers and some
seawater infused gin and head to the local cemetery, where we locate Patrick
and Mary’s grave, place the flowers and take a photo for John Riordan back in the
UK. The gin is for tonight.
Back at our digs, we have the last of the smoked
salmon and bits and pieces from the fridge, as tomorrow we head for Ashford for
a week of pet sitting.
To the pub for dinner tonight and to listen to the
recommended Irish band. It’s like, a five minute walk. Good pub grub, well
actually, better than that. Roast turkey and ham and a goat’s cheese salad, a
couple of gins, malbec wine and a couple of snifters of Jamesons and an Irish
coffee.
Now, for the band. A three piece with two guitars
and a piano accordion booked for a bus full of Americans and Canadians from
the resort down the road. They were a very good audience in the special room.
The rest of us and the locals were close by but closer to the bar than the
band. What can you say? A very slick performance with well known Irish folk
songs and a couple of school girls dressed up and doing Irish dancing.
Kitch, you might say. But it was actually quite
nice. Not the table thumping, beer jug dancing, Bushwackers Band of the Polaris
Pub of the 70’s, to be sure but pleasant, nonetheless.
Here's a funny thing. The bloke who was the lead singer, with a beautiful voice and good rhythm guitar, looked a bit like John Esler. His name was Jacky. Afterwards I spoke to him and he said he was Jacky Esler!! Can you believe it? Almost a doppleganger!
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