Chapter 5
I have the sheets and blankets pulled up over my head at 5:30am. At least it’s quiet, or
relatively so. I can hear the patter of feet outside of our door. Part of me thinks it may be
Paddy, the short boozie from the night before still haranguing the staff, but I figure it’s
more likely the blood sausage lady—possibly dancing after the cat with a cleaver.
We’re leaving for Dingle today. The route will take us Southwest through Limerick,
Kildare, Killarny and Adare into County Kerry. Past sheep, cows and disparaging gray
landscape. By all counts the trip should take about 6 or 7 hours though with Brooke
behind the wheel, I consider taking the under. We decide that she’ll chauffeur our stay in
Ireland, due to costly additional driver fees, her propensity to get car sick if anywhere but
behind the wheel and the fact that even thinking about driving on the other side of the
road makes my mouth go dry with fear.
I pack up our belongings while Brooke heads to the car agency with her Dad to pick up
our wheels. Dehlia is with Loretta and Ti-ti, waiting for me in the lobby. I’m walking out
of the hotel room with my bags when Mrs. Hausman storms into my room and begins
looking in closets, pouring through drawers and peeking under beds. “All clear.” She
signals, then goosesteps down to the lobby. My head is pounding too hard for me to be
anything more than minimally frustrated, but I make a note to annoy her later.
The entire lot of us is hanging around the lobby, breakfastless, and bobbing in and out of
consciousness—with the exception of Dehlia who, in my stead, is standing in front of
Mrs. Hausman screeching a verse of Itsy Bitsy Spider. The Hasuman’s are headed for
the airport and a 10:30am flight back to New York and Brooke’s parents, along with
Mema and Ti-Ti, are headed north towards Antrim before heading south to meet us in
Dingle.
Brooke returns from getting the car and buzzes into the parking lot like a badass. I am a
portrait of emasculation, standing on the corner with one gripping hand on Dehlia and the
other holding tight to my wife’s backpack. We had inked a thin plan prior to traveling
that included me keeping my mouth shut and refraining from back-seat comments about
her driving. I throw the bags into the car, secure Dehlia’s rented carseat and we’re off.
We have opted for some sort of Dodge Minivan—a purple one with a Latin name-- the
‘Exegis’ or something like that. Accurately translated, it reads, ‘man with twitching leg
cramps.’
Brooke’s Dad, Brendan, has provided us with an exhaustingly detailed map to get us the
300 miles to Dingle. He has approximated our mileage, calibrated the number of rest
stops required and managed to highlight any scenic point of interest within a full light
year of our final arrival point. He has also provided a backpack of authentic Irish music,
the first several chapters of his yet to be published, “Drinking Dingle, A Guzzler’s Guide
To Southwest Ireland’, and a fist full of $2 Euros. “You’ll need these if you want to take
a shower back at the apartment.” He said, “It’s coin-operated electricity, so make it fast.”
The first hour passes without incident. Dehlia is shading her fingernails with a
permanent marker, Erin and Brooke are talking in front and I’m in the back with my eyes
closed, willing the bile back down into my stomach and listening unintently to the All-
Ireland Hurling finals match between Kilkenny and Clare. The announcer has a brutally
strong accent and I can only really make out words he accentuates like ‘Christ’, and
‘spit’. The girls have the radio on search mode and it picks up the match for a second,
hisses its way around the dial, then spits out another few seconds of the match. “The
Clare boys just don’t have their sticks with them today, they’re fecking..” hiss……
We are all hungry, including Dehlia who has let us know on several occasions that she
was losing patience. “Daddy, if I don’t eat I’m going to start to be bad.” I appreciate her
being straight with me. We pull into a Stoicht gas station right off of the highway and
enter with desperately empty stomachs. Upon review, I have found that going into a
Stoicht gas station on a desperately empty stomach is not such a fabulous idea.
I am immediately struck by the enormity of the candy area. It accounts for 50% of the
store’s floor space and occupies a circular area in the middle of the shop. It is tightly
packed with traditional American favorites; Milky Ways, Snickers and Reese’s Peanut
Butter Cups are all well represented. Mingled in with the American standards are Irish
and English specialties that jocky for attention with tempting catch-phrases like,
‘brimming with hazelnuts’, ‘;a cacophony of raisins’ and ‘yummy oozing orange bits’.
The latter was in reference to my purchase—‘McVittes Jaffa Cakes’ With packaging that
forecasts, “light spongy cakes with plain chocolate and a smashing orange bit in the
middle”, I am powerless to refuse; I grab two of them. I also grab a ‘Picnic Bar’, a
‘Double-Decker by Cadbury, and a ‘Flake’ bar which, although advertised as ‘chocolate
flaky goodness’, tastes more like what I imagine dry wall may taste like if dipped in Irish
chocolate.
After another 15 minutes I trot to the counter 2 and one half chocolate bars, a turkey
sandwich with chopped egg and olives, a cup of coffee, a Red Bull, 2 packets of cashews,
and a bag of Buffalo-flavoured potato crisps. If you’ve never tried Buffalo-flavoured
potato crisps, let me say that you should go about your business with a perfectly clear
conscience.
It’s approaching 2pm and the landscape rushing by has begun to include cows and sheep,
large Spanish Chestnut, Wild Cherry, and Yew trees (which are old, old trees that
apparently Robin Hood used to whittle into long-bows), and a horse or two. A steady
drizzle begins to drop and wood-smoke is drifting from the clichéd stone chimneys of
small houses off in the distance. Dehlia has fallen asleep, the hissing hurling match has
been replaced by Christy Moore signing “The Cliffs of Dooneen” and my hangover is
just about gone. The most peaceful moment of our trip is upon me and I put my pen
down to appreciate the full of it.
We pass through Newbridge, Kilcullen and Kildare and are slack-jawed by the Wicklow
mountain range that dominates the eastern part of the county. To the west lies the great
raised Bog of Allen with its covering of black peat and mantles of Heather and Gorse.
The contrasts between the black bog-land, the bright green paddocks and the wooded
estates of livestock farms is unmistakable and eerie--even Dehlia remarks that, “It looks
scary out there.”
As we cruise through Limerick, Ireland’s 3rd oldest city, the graying light of dusk and a
steadier rain is beginning to settle in. Limerick is a medieval city, standing where the
river Shannon becomes tidal. To the south, the Galtee mountain range reaches into
County Limerick from nearby county Tipperary. Limerick has gained recent fame as the
setting for Frank McCourt’s now-controversial, ‘Anglea’s Ashes’, that depicts Irish
homelife of the 1930’s and 40’s, in an unfailingly bleak manner. I can’t speak for Irish
homelife, but this town is certainly gloomy. Maybe it’s the weather, but with a couple of
mangy clotheslines, a few old women smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and a stray dog or
two, this place would read, verbatim, from McCourt’s book. Pure workingman’s Ireland.
We pass through the perfectly manufactured charm of Adare and allow for a bathroom
stop and the chance for us to use mega-waterproof stroller 3000 to push it, and Dehlia,
through foot-deep puddles. When we get back to the car and settle into a driving groove
we agree to push on as far as Castlemaine before stopping for dinner. Along the way we
see a few ‘No Hitchhiking’ signs that feel out of place along this two-lane highway with
no shoulder. Given Brooke’s current pace, I’m sure it would take a several miles to come
to a full stop anyway.
We finally reach Castlemaine, birthplace of the Wild Colonial Boy. I say this without a
trace of who this Wild Boy is, much less a reason why one should know of his birthplace.
Erin tells me that it’s an Irish song about a criminal named Jack Duggan who was born in
Castlemaine and spent time in an Australian chain-gang. She and Brooke then break into
song while Dehlia provides choral support in the form of a high-pitched shrilly whine. I
am urgently looking for a place to eat and we settle on the first place we come across,
Toby’s. We’re enticed by the Guinness sign out front and posters taped to the window
advertising ‘real italian lasagna’, and ‘tasty, shredded-lamb sandwiches. Before heading
in, I frisk myself for candy.
Toby’s is little more than a pub with a griddle, deep fryer and a fridge. 8 tables and
chairs are scattered about the front room. None of them are occupied. Dehlia begs to sit
at a set-up in the corner that is noticeably smaller than the others. After a few minutes we
manage to jam our lower bodies into a tolerable position but not without some serious
effort. “I can move you over to a bigger table.” Says the waitress. “We’re fine.” Says I,
as a violent leg-spasm sends the entire table 6” off of the floor then down again.
There are exactly 8 things on the menu—ranging broadly from toasted-cheese
sandwiches to soup. I opt for the dinner salad and vegetable stew. Dehlia offers a furtive
glance toward her toasted cheese and the sister’s Begley, in a show of spirit, choose the
slightly unreal Chicken Curry here in the bosom of cabbage-country. The Curry, as does
every major and minor food-stuff in the country, comes with a heaping side of French
fries –‘chips’-that are smothered in a cool yellowish gravy. I’m not sure The Wild Colonial Boy spent much time at the short table in Toby’s eating real Italian lasagna, but
if he did, I now know why he opted for the chain gang.
Driving away from Castlemaine, we guess that Dingle is only 20 miles further west. The
scenery is starting change again and is beginning to include Rosa Ragusa, Beach Plum,
and Fuchsia. We get several peaks at the ocean and when we crack the windows can
smell salt in the air. Massive rock cliffs shoot straight up to the right of us with sheer
drop offs into the cold Atlantic to the left. The road continues to narrow and is beginning
to offer less and less in the way of actual pavement. I dig around the garbage bag in the
back looking for candy remnants and come across several of Brooke’s Wine Gums.
These are the American equivalent of Swedish Fish and seemed to be one of the more
popular items back at the gas station’s candy shrine. I pop a few in my mouth and Dehlia
immediately demands one. I give her what appears to be a Merlot. “Oh Daddy, this isn’t
candy.” She says. As we approach the dim lights of Dingle Town she passes out,
presumably with gobs of hardening sugar wedged into her small teeth and a smile that
only a dinner of candy and salt air could conjure.