It's Not Easy Being Green

Day One: In which I travel to Ireland, do a “bit o' pinning”, meet many Murphys, and rendezvous with Son in Killarney.

After the fifth call from Son asking me if I’m planning to rendezvous with the Guilford College Choir’s concert tour of Ireland, it begins to dawn on me: he really does want me to come. I held off making any definitive plans, however. My procrastination turned out to be a good thing; half of the choir group was delayed in the US by Delta Airline’s admission that the plane they were supposed to be on had a flat tire. They were flown from Raleigh, NC, to Atlanta, GA, to await the next day’s flight to Dublin. I learned of this late Sunday night, at a time when I was assuming they were in the air over the Atlantic. When the phone ring and it was Son, I became a little alarmed until I heard the whole story.

Son told me the entire itinerary wouldl be pushed back by a day. I was skeptical of this because of the hotel logistics, but after consultation with Hubster, I decided to make flight arrangements. It cost only 39 Euros to fly from London’s Heathrow to Cork. At this point, I was assuming that I would rendezvous with the group at Blarney Castle on the following Sunday, after they toured and perform in Dublin and Waterford. If I were to fly to Cork on Saturday, and then back from Shannon in western Ireland on Tuesday, my return fare will be zero Euros. Yes, that’s right, Zero. This does not include taxes and fees, which come to about thirty Euros. If I wanted to check a bag, that would be another twenty Euros. Seat assignments cost two Euros if you choose to sit in the middle of the plane, seven Euros if you want one of the seats in the front, or in an exit row. I decided to travel light and sit in steerage, which is what I imagine my great-grandmother Katherine Kirwan (Bahlke) did when she fled the Irish Potato Famine and arrived in the US with her brother at the age of 16.

In planning my itinerary, I allowed only a short transfer time between landing at Cork airport and departing Cork by train on my way to Killarney. In the interim between buying the plane ticket and actually leaving for Ireland, I have discovered that the group will be at Blarney Castle on Saturday instead of Sunday, and that there probably will be no time for me to meet them there. I figure it’s OK if I don’t kiss the Blarney Stone, as I already have the gift of gab, perhaps thanks to “Nana” Katherine Kirwan Bahlke. Fortunately, everything went according to plan. I left A Flat on Abbey Road at about 9 am, and headed out to Circus Road and the #46 bus to Paddington. The Heathrow Express train that was boarding at the platform closed its doors just as I passed through the barrier; so I got to take my time getting on the train across the platform and stowing my luggage. Fifteen minutes after departing Paddington Station I arrived at the connection to Terminal One at Heathrow, home of Aer Lingus.

Once at the Heathrow stop, I ran like a rat in a maze as I made my way down a very long tunnel in the general direction of Terminal 1. I passed through security, at which there was NO LINE, and had so much extra time that I decide to sign up for IRIS, the eyeball identification system that is supposed to help speed one through Immigration on the way back into the UK from international destinations. The last time I tried to sign up on my way out of Heathrow, I was told that even though I am a resident of the UK, I did not have enough qualifying flights in my passport to be allowed to use the system, and anyway, that TeenE would not be able to use the service. They didn’t seem to believe me at that time that I don’t always travel with TeenE, but this did not deter me from trying again This time it worked! They took digital images of my irises both without and with my glasses on, gave me a piece of paper, and I was off. Once again, there was no wait. I now had over an hour to kill in the departure lounge before my 12:15 pm flight.

In the Heathrow system, everyone for all the flights congregates in a general waiting area replete with duty-free shops and snack and coffee emporia. Never one to assume that there will be food on a flight, I loaded up with provisions: I figured a sandwich, a bottle of water, and a grande latte would tide me over on the one-hour flight into the unknown. Of course, I had already packed granola bars and chocolate bars in my bag, so there was no danger of starvation. I suspected that I would not have time in Cork to get lunch as I tried to make a 2:25 pm train. After stocking up, I then repaired to the seats to await the posting of my gate. Departure gates are not announced until about a half hour before boarding is to begin. Once I was informed of my departure gate by both the monitor and the disembodied voice, I went on the most amazing journey. I was upgraded from a rat in a maze to a hamster in a HabiTrail cage. Moving walkways helped shorten the travel time on the straight-aways, but it took at least fifteen minutes to navigate the semicircular glass tunnels that connected the different “pods” of gates. It was a mixed crowd of tourists, business people, and Irish returning home at the gate.
The Aer Lingus flight was efficient and non-eventful. All announcements were made first in Gaelic, then in English. I hadn’t expected that; I just never even gave it a thought. I had scored a window seat so that I could watch the takeoff and landing, but the cloud cover obscured everything. All I saw was the wing.

The Cork airport was tiny, on a par with Tri-City airport in Johnson, Tennessee, or Asheville, North Carolina. There were two immigration agents, one for European Union passport holders (including the Irish) and one for Non-EU. I was third in the queue for the Non-EU, and was chomping at the bit to get through, given my tight train connection. It was now 45 minutes to train departure. Unfortunately, the couple at the head of the queue had not secured whatever paperwork they needed to enter, so they took ten minutes of processing. Meanwhile, the majority of our flight were EU, and they ALL passed through the other line by simply waving their passports at the man. When they were all through, that nice man beckoned to those of us in the sluggish queue to come on over. Two questions and an entry stamp later, I was in.
There was no queue at the taxi rank, and the kind Irish gentleman driver told me that he’d have me at the train station in under ten minutes, which was correct. He explained to me that all of the election posters that plastered the town (complete with larger-than life photos of the candidates) were for the upcoming European Union parliamentary elections. I don’t know much about EU politics, but I know that immigration to the UK is easier if one holds a passport from an EU country than one from the US of A. Just after I entered the train station, the skies opened and the rain began to fall.

My destination by train was Killarney, on Ireland’s west coast, in the county of Kerry. I had purchased the train ticket online, at a cost of twenty Euros, and just had to wave the ID number of my transaction at Miss Murphy behind the counter and I was presented with a full page itinerary with a peel-off ticket emblazoned with a holographic security strip. I was impressed by the high-tech ticket. Of course, the train on which I rode was just an ordinary train, but the scrolling LED announcement board presented the information first in Gaelic, then in English. The announcer did the same. I learned that “Corkaigh” is Cork and “Malla” is Mallow.
We passed through beautiful spring-time countryside. I have decided that the Irish invented the color green. There were so many shades of it interlocking and blending in the landscape that it was hard to tell where “mossy green” ended and “grassy green” began. I sat at a table and drank in the landscape, which consisted of undulating green hills, grey cloud-laden skies, small cream colored homes dotting the hills, and bright spots of mustard yellow provided by the blooms of the gorse bushes. Once in a while a grey stone wall would hem in some ecru sheep
We passed by Blarney Castle on our way to Mallow, where I had to change trains. Just in case the Guilford College Choir was out there somewhere, I waved.

At Mallow, two young fellows entered the train and decided to sit at my table, which was surrounded by four seats. The one nearest to me had breath heavy with whiskey (the “water of life”, in Gaelic). They were sports fans going to Killarney to watch a football match on TV as they must have been in a “Blackout” area for the match. Perhaps they were Scottish. I’ll never know. They kept complaining that “after all, they’re playing in our country” and seemed very bitter about the necessity of their journey. Whiskey-breath had an accent so heavy that even if I discounted the fact that he was slurring his speech, I could not understand him at all. I had pulled out my knitting and the complicated pattern for a drop-stitch scarf that required a lot of counting, so I hoped they wouldn’t try and engage me in conversation.

I’m sorry to report that this ploy failed. Whiskey-breath, who fancied himself a comedian, turned right to me and asked me a question. “Blah blah blah blah pinnin”. I ignored him. He came back with it again. This time I looked at him. He could have been Quentin Tarantino’s love child. I’m sure the look on my face must have been “Are you talking to me?” He tried to communicate with me two more times. Aha! He was making a comment about my knitting. He had been saying “I can see that this one likes a bit of pinning”. I guess that is what they call knitting in Ireland or wherever he was from. I tried to make it clear that I could not understand what he was saying. His friend, Stripe-Shirt, translated for him “She doesn’t understand what you are saying”. I told them that I was working on a complicated pattern, and that if they noticed that my lips were moving as I knitted, they’d know that I was counting and couldn’t really talk. After another stop or two they moved across the aisle, to my great relief.
I took another cab from the Killarney train station to the Best Western Eviston House Hotel, centrally located on “New” Street in the shopping district. The Guilford College Choir had not yet arrived, but their guide had phone from the coach and they were expected shortly. After being checked in to my room by a Ms. Murphy, I decided to go over to the Tourist Office around the corner and pick up some area information and maps. By the time I got back, the coach was parked and a horde of fresh young faces was disembarking. Son glimpsed me through the lobby window and I was greeted with a big bear hug.

The choir had an hour and a half before they had to reboard the coach in concert dress for their Saturday evening performance. Sunday’s “gig” was to be at an Alzheimer’s unit of a “Care Home” affiliated with a church just outside of Killarney. When the parish priest heard that this was happening, he invited the choir to sing a Saturday night Mass. I asked the tour guide if it would be OK for me to ride with them to the service, and she introduced herself to me. Her name was Odile Murphy, and she is one of the nicest people ever. She said not only would it be all right on Saturday night, but that if I wanted to join them on their morning trip to a local scenic spot the next day, that would be fine, too.

Son and I scarfed down some sandwiches from the Subway across the street, and then sat in the lobby chatting before he had to go upstairs to change into his tux. All 60 of us boarded the coach and then the mist turned back to rain as we headed out of town toward Killcommon. Ms. Murphy came over the PA system with an announcement: “We’d like to welcome Doug’s Mom to the tour bus”. This was answered by a resounding chorus of “Hi, Doug’s Mom”. I stood and waved, and told them, my name. They all laughed and I replied with some witty banter. Son poked me with his elbow to get me to shut up so I did. Meanwhile, Ms. Murphy reminded us that “Kill” means “stream”, and I thought of the instances in New York State where it is used in the same way “Fishkill”, “Peekskill”, etc.

Killcommon was an uncommonly beautiful spot. It was now half past seven in the evening, and the sun was nowhere near setting. The rain stopped as we disembarked the coach. We entered a modern church built in the round, with the part behind the altar made of bentwood staves like the inside of a prow of a ship. Between the staves there was a gorgeous patchwork of colorful stained glass illustrating animals, people, and natural motifs from the Bible and from Ireland. Mass was packed; either a show of support for the choir (who had been added on with very short notice) or that is just what one does in Ireland on a Saturday night.

The choir sang with no instrumental accompaniment. Their sound was breathtaking in the perfect acoustics of that church, and I was moved to tears by the beauty of the whole experience. I remarked to someone later that it was the first time I had ever been to a mass that was not a wedding or a funeral. They sang about four selections during the service, and one could tell that the congregation was not used to such…lengthy… musical offerings. They were eager to be on their way after the hour was up.

I was wondering if they would all disappear, or if there would be a “coffee hour” at 8 pm. Fortunately for the choir, most of whom had not eaten anything, there was a generous spread of “tea” at the Rectory across the street. Several generous women stood by to refill our tea cups and pass around the plates of sandwiches and homemade sweets. We all felt warmly welcomed. At about half past eight I was ready to return to the coach and walked outside to take in the evening. It was chilly, so I boarded just as the mist returned.

We returned to the hotel and Son changed out of his tux. We found the last two seats in the pub just as the musical act was warming up. The pub, called Danny Mann’s, bills itself as Ireland’s Most Famous Pub. I’m not sure if it’s true, but they do offer live music most nights, and Saturday night’s group was The Molly Maguires. They played an entertaining mix of traditional Irish vocal music. Son and I enjoyed some Carlsburg (I know, it’s not Irish, but I hadn’t developed a taste for Guinness yet) and I chased it with a shot of Jameson whiskey, served neat, with water on the side, in honor of my Dad. God forbid that a bartender or waiter should pour the water into the whiskey glass! I decided to carry on the tradition, sans ice.
By a quarter to eleven pm, I was well and truly ready for bed. I knew that the “young people” would be up much later, so said my goodbyes. Son walked me to my room, and we agreed to meet up in the breakfast room the next day. I slept well, and was only awakened once by the sound of some merrymakers singing their way down the street. You could hear the sound getting fainter and fainter as they made their way out of town.

What a happy day!