We gathered at the kitchen table downstairs for breakfast, talking with the hosts as they made it. The home made scones were the best yet. After hugs all around, we headed out.
So we zipped up the M8 to Cashel, to see the Rock of Cashel. A few notes here: First, I did not suddenly develop a lisp or have too much to drink. Second, it is not a rock. Third, it is a Castle built on a rocky outcrop, started about 300AD which then turned into a cathedral about 1100. It was abandoned about 1700 and what you see now are the partially restored ruins. Using your imagination to put it back together, it must have been quite imposing. The St. Patrick's Cross in front is from the 12th century, the crosses in the graveyard are only 200-300 years old. The tallest, most ostentatious one was hit by a lightning bolt and is now an ugly stub. There is a lesson there. Here is an interesting fact: The St. Patrick's Irish cross has the circle around the top to help support the arms and to remind you of the sun, thus appeasing the Celts who worshipped the sun.
We sped down side roads to Kilkenny. It is a cloudy but 22 degree day, so it is rather muggy and heavy feeling. We had a lunch of soup and wine at the Left Bank Pub, under the Kilkenny Castle, along the Parade. The Parade is the wide, main road-entry to the castle grounds. The pub is a huge, block long old building, with high ceilings, dark wood and brick walls, wood floored interior, and room after room of bars: a TV room bar, an intimate bar, lunch bar, dark smoking bar, whiskey bar and so on. The interior is like a maze. Kilkenny is a medium sized city, easy to get in and out of, with two main streets both leading up to the Kilkenny Castle, which is about 500 years old. The castle is in a U shape because one side was destroyed in a battle; now it opens to a fantastic huge grassy lawn.
After a couple hours, we drove on listening to the radio. The big news is Kate, Princess Kate, is in the hospital in London having the new third-in-line to the throne. Did you know that when she gives birth, a royal scribe will write it on parchment, dash out of the hospital, give it to a driver who, with full police escort will rush to the palace to hand it to someone who will take it in to the Queen. Now, talk about a waste of taxpayer money... What's wrong with sending a text message, or just making a call?
"Hello, Queen Mum? It's me, Billy. It's a boy, we've named him Tad. Prince Tad. OK, thanks, mum. Let the world know, OK?"
So every hour now we get a birth update. I can't wait for the ceremony announcing his first poop. But, I don't think the British are all that nutty, after all we have the Kardashians.
We finally arrived down a dirt road, to our home for the night, Glendalough, in the Wicklow Mountains just south of Dublin. We are staying in a five room guesthouse, along a river in a heavily pine-forrested valley, near the fantastic ruins of a monastery. The monastery was founded around 500AD, raided by the Vikings, then destroyed by the English about 1400. There is a 100 foot tall round tower, with the door about twelve feet up. They used it as a bell tower and safehouse for their valuables. It is really cool wandering among the hundreds of graves, looking at half ruined buildings and wondering how it looked when it was all still intact. Many of the gravestones are blank now, the names weathered off or so covered by moss and lichens they are impossible to read. Others lie in shattered pieces. I hope the relatives who treasured these memorials to their loved ones are gone now; I am sure they would be heartbroken to know time erases all.
Not many places to eat out here, so we end up at the Wicklow Heather, and have a decent meal of crayfish and prawns to start, then a "Supreme of Irish chicken" with crispy Parma ham, wild mushrooms and spinach. Gail has a nice selection of vegetables and a side salad. For some reason my credit card doesn't work, so I pay cash and we head back to turn in early. Tomorrow we catch a flight to Paris.