Chapter 2 …By the time we pick up our luggage and step outside Dublin Airport it’s 9 in the morning and it is pouring. We’ve been up for 24 hours at this point and our collective mood is just south of sour. As luck would have it and despite the deluge, Dehlia falls asleep the second we duck into a purple cab. “I wanna go to Ireland.” are her last words as she dips off. Sitting on the left side of a car, with no wheel or pedals, and a weird perspective, I make small talk with Eamon, our driver. He tells me he lives on 315 Dawson Street in Dublin, and I nod like I understand. We’re staying north of Dublin in an ocean-town called Malahide. I can’t help but think of the freak-boy from Stephen King’s ‘Children of the Corn’, Malaki, or something like that, but out of fear of unsettling the first actual Irish- person I’ve come across, I decide to keep this to myself. We pass neat rows of shops and as the rain slows to a patter, Eamon spins us into our Hotel driveway. He is moving like a middle infielder, grabbing bags from our hands, carrying Dehlia (who’s locked and loaded into her car seat), and scurrying like a man on the trail of 20 Euro’s worth of tip. Given my light understanding of the newish European currency, it’s probably exactly what he got, maybe more—I know it was a lot of heavy coins. The Island View Hotel is peppered with nautically themed bric-a-brac and noveltia. On the entryway wall a script tells the story of St. Brendan the Navigator. He was born in Co. Kerry around 486 AD. He became a monk and later the Abbot of Ardfert and founded a monastery in Galway in 561. The epic voyage of St. Brendan amazed the medieval world, and is chronicled in the 10 th century account, The Navigation of St. Brendan, in which he set sail with 12 disciples in search of an earthly paradise in the Atlantic Ocean. The journey lasted over seven years and it has been suggested that his account of ‘crystal columns’ (icebergs?), and ‘curdled seas’ (the Sargasso?), may pinpoint him as the first to cross the Atlantic. In 1976, and in a putative repetition of the supposed Voyage, Tim Severin sailed across the Atlantic in a leather-covered boat called the Brendan. In 1980, apparently tired of the rigors of leather-sailing, Tim built The Island View. We’re too early for lunch and too late for breakfast so we finish off the sleeping Dehlia’s peanut-butter crackers and collapse in our room for 90 minutes, almost exactly. Our bed is fitted with one of those vile plastic under sheets, originally designed to make life easier for carers of the terminally incontinent. These things draw sweat from your pores like suction pumps. My dreams of drowning in lukewarm brine are interrupted by an older woman setting down a tray of tea, some biscuits and a few plastic shot glasses of what appears to be cream. “There isn’t any food ready yet, is there?” I say. Apparently blind to the fact that this lady has magically appeared in the middle of our room “There is.” Says our tea-bringer—“Head downstairs after you’ve gotten yerself together, and git yerself a bite. Oh look at herself there in the crib, isn’t she a wee-love.” Dehlia is just getting herself together, sitting upright in her Pac N Play and resembles nothing particularly wee or lovey. She offers a popular scowl that says, ‘I appreciate the biscuits lady, but you’re going to have to give me a minute.” Downstairs in Oscar Taylor’s Pub they’re just setting up the Carvery—a sectioned off area dedicated to preparing heaping portions of mashed potatoes, sliced meat, and gravy- soft vegetables. The tea-bringer has deftly turned into the meat-slicer and offers my wife a plate. The Pub is late-night dark here at 11:30am, and there’s some sort of music being pumped through invisible speakers. I drink my first pint of stout and am just starting to percolate when the rest of our traveling brood arrives. Brooke’s parents, her aunt, her sister and the Hausman’s—long-time family friends of my in-laws who, in a previous life, led forced-march military expeditions through Macedonia and trained briefly with the Huns. Linda, the matriarch, has assembled enough in the way of Irish maps and guidebooks to actually lead tours, which it is clear she’s going to at least try. Russell, by long-measure the more reserved of the two, possesses a comic’s timing and air of quiet command. After hugs and backslaps, attack plans begin to form. The Hausman’s are hungry, my father-in-law Brendan is about to set out on a vision quest to secure his parents marriage certificate and ultimately his own citizenship, and Aunt Carol has begun to needle my mother-in-law Loretta with questions like, ‘Rhetta-is there a batroom in here-Rhetta?” and “Rhetta-don’t you think I should go to the batroom now-Rhetta?” Ti-Ti Carol, a 50-ish woman with thick curly hair and the survival instinct of an Army Air Borne Ranger, is my wife’s Aunt. At birth, she spent a few precarious moments with her umbilical cord around her neck that caused some irreversible damage. She has the tendency to begin and end sentences with the name of the person she’s speaking to; an attempt, I think, at hammering her point home with unfailing precision. ‘Rhetta, you better listen to me now, I haveta go to the batroom Rhetta.” It’s worth noting that my mother-in-law has spent the better part of 20 years caring for her sister and is the senior- receiver of Ti-Ti’s commands, edicts and epistles. Absent anything inspiring on the flesh-heavy Carvery menu, I finish a second and third stout as Brendan, not unlike his saintly namesake, begins his Voyage. The rest of us, armed with a plan as loosely knit as the scrap of cloth Dehlia will drag across the lower half of the country, stroll to the train station about a mile and a half away. If you had decided to take a stroll across a sunlit meadow in central Ireland about 14,000 years ago, you would have needed more than a sweater to keep you snug. The place was covered with ice, When the glacial sheet withdrew about a thousand years later, it left behind a land that was, for the most part, a lot of soggy bogs and barren tundra. But, over the course of the next 3,000 years, the climate took a turn for the better. Although not quite balmy, it was warm enough for a few bushes to spring up here and there. By 10,000 BC you could have taken that stroll through an actual green meadow, though the sweater would still have been strongly recommended. The channel between Scotland and Ireland was, at one time, only a few miles across and a land bridge encouraged adventurous horses and Megaceros (giant deer standing nearly 7 feet high with antlers topping out at over 11 feet) to make the trek across the divide. They were rewarded with vast green meadows stretching into the horizon. With water now everywhere (lakes and rivers were left by the ice) fertile soil, and a climate tempered by the oceans and seas surrounding the island, the vegetation thrived. Meadowlands gave way to trees, which multiplied into dense woods until the island was covered with mighty forests. The enormous herds of horses and giant deer dwindled as their grazing plains matured into woodland. The first wave of Ireland’s many invasions, far and away the gentlest, had come and gone. We’re now standing at the ticket counter at the DART station in Malahide. The DART (Dublin Area Rapid Transit) is the primary system of public transportation in and around Dublin. The ticket signs are written in Gaelic and I ask who appears to be a quiet, gruntish man what the price would be for a 3 yr old, straight into the city. “Sure’n it’s free for yer tree-yr old, man.” Says the gent, “Now if she was tree-and-a-half, that’d be a different story.” The Malahide DART station is impossibly tidy. Enormous hanging baskets of Geraniums, Petunias, Licorice and creeping vine hang from long poles, and a dozen sturdy wrought-iron benches support those waiting for the train. I immediately make quiet mental comparisons to Boston’s MBTA system—specifically the Blue line, a stretch from Boston’s North Shore into the city, with which I’m most familiar. Absent from this scene are the spoon- and-dribble musicians, the panhandlers and the general sense of filth that pervades the Wonderland stop in Revere, Ma. The acrid scent-mix of urine and burning electricity is replaced, here, with something decidedly better, though for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is. Kids in varying shades of green school uniform are milling around to the left of me, and Ti-Ti Carol is working, cloak-and-dagger-like, on her Kit-Kat to the right of me, as the train begins pulling into the station. The Hausman’s are covertly pouring through relief and topographical maps of Dublin. Loretta is sitting with her eyes closed, enjoying the oddly tranquil setting and trying to beg her headache away. My wife and her sister are talking and I’m writing it all down on a notepad pilfered from the Hotel lobby. Dehlia is sitting on my lap, shrieking. She’s directing her volume at a lady on the bench across from us who’s knitting something that looks remarkably like her blankie that, incidentally, we decided to leave back at the Hotel. The lady gives a good-natured glare back at us while thinking, I have to believe, that Americans are loud, noisy creatures—especially the short ones. Lack of sleep, 3 stouts and Dehlia’s increasing pitch are bringing on a headache, and my thoughts turn to Brendan and his voyage. I’m starting to lose faith in his original story. I’m picturing him slinging stouts and singing songs in one of Dublin’s damp corners when the train slides to a stop, the doors open and an Irish voice whispers, “14 miles to the City, next stop Kilbarrack.” On the sign it’s listed as ‘Cill Bharrog.’ I duck into the train and the doors slide shut behind me.

Chapter 3 It’s approaching 3 in the afternoon when we roll into the Rath Eanaigh stop on the Dart line into Dublin. The oldish lady that Dehlia had been focusing on at the Malahide station is sitting across from us and is knitting furiously, barely looking up from her work even when Dehlia chirps, “You can’t touch my blankie.” Although daughter is relatively calm, I can tell there’s a storm brewing. She is grinding her teeth as she continues to stare at the old gal and she’s digging her left hand into my forearm like a Puma. This gal might get off the train with her crochet work intact, but I have a feeling it won’t be without incident. A collection of what appears to be privately schooled kids burst in taking up seats to the left and right of Dehlia and I. They are wearing green skirts and shorts (separately), with off-green shirts, lime green knee socks and light green neckties and scarves. They look like they’ve been ripped directly from the pages of “A Stereotyper’s Guide To Ireland.” Green may be the unofficial color of Eire but as the countryside goes ripping by through the windows, I see none of it. I’m tired and the cadenced rattling and rumbling of the train is conspiring against my best efforts to stay awake. I decide to pull out my trusty ‘Dumbass Guide To Irish Culture’, and read about the Celts. Of all the peoples who had invaded, conquered, and inhabited ancient Ireland, the one group whose influence had the most lasting effect on the Irish of today was the Celts. They were a colorful bunch, both figuratively and literally. They proudly sported elaborate tattoos, and sometimes painted their nude bodies bright blue before going to war, a sight that probably scared their enemies witless, or at least confused them into sprinting in the other direction. Gregarious, rambunctious, fiercely proud and boastful, the Celts loved a good story, a rousing song, plenty of food and flowing drink, but warring and pillaging were by far their favorite pastimes. If you go back far enough into the mists of distant history you find the Celts on the plains of western Russia. As hunters who later became stock-keepers, the Celts were among the first to domesticate the horse, around 3000 B.C. This skill, along with their deft use of iron as weaponry, gave them a tremendous advantage over their fellow humans who, at the time, were limited to name-calling, stone throwing and a terse glare or two. The Celts were a people filled with wanderlust and a love of war so they decided to invade Europe around 500 B.C. and did so as hordes of fierce, shrieking, naked warriors thundering over their hapless victims on horseback. It’s easy to imagine why some believe that this horrible vision of the nude warriors on their horses inspired the myth of the centaur. I’m just starting to get into the part about the Celts stiffening their hair with lime and painting themselves blue before battle, when the conductor blurts “Dublin City, mind the doors.” I’m standing and holding a dozing Dehlia. Rhetta, Carol, my wife and her sister Erin, and the Hausman’s get up to leave and almost forget Mema, my Mother-In-Law’s friend who is also part of the march-on-Ireland. Mema is a retired teacher, 50ish, single and would win national awards for being accommodating, agreeable, and non- confrontational if they gave out national awards for these sorts of things. She makes the fatal mistake of saying to Dehlia, “Doesn’t that look like your blanket honey?” In an unprecedented and landmark maneuver, Dehlia lunges for the near-finished blanket without opening her eyes. I tug her away from the clearly frightened woman and she’s smiling, though wailing, as I tug her through the doors of the train. We stand, the nine of us, against a wall at the Dart platform in Dublin, and begin planning our next steps. Brooke is interested in purchasing a stroller to push daughter around in. “Just something cheap to push her around the city in, unless of course you want to carry her the whole way” I think is how she phrases it. Playing the role of fool, I ask why we didn’t bring the stroller from home. “Um, because you insisted we wouldn’t need it.” I feel dumb in a way that only a dumb husband can feel. Linda has her Dublin guidebook open and is pointing in various directions without taking her nose out of the centerfold. Ti-Ti Carol is hungry and has to go to the bathroom—a combination that will re-appear with shocking regularity, and Erin has put her sunglasses on trying to hide the fact that she is, in fact, asleep. I have been awake for 27 consecutive hours at this point—save a few restless minutes back at the Hotel. Dehlia and her 34 pounds are perched on my throbbing neck and I feel my morale start to drip in the form of perspiration beads. And there’s still the matter of finding Brendan. Frau Hasumann actually comes to the rescue. “Ok folks, we need to rally, follow me.” It’s clear she doesn’t have a blessed idea about where she’s headed but we collectively admire her spunk. Absent any other plan, we fall in line behind her. We’re headed toward the Temple Bar section of Dublin. In the 18 th century, the area was known for many insalubrious characters that lived in and around the Fownes Street; an area also known for its many brothels. Along with the riff and raff, skilled craftsmen, artisans and printers lived and worked around Temple Bar until post-war industrialization led to a decline in the area’s fortunes. In the 1970’s, the CIE (National Transit Authority) bought up parcels of land in this area to build a major bus depot. While waiting to acquire the land and buildings needed, the CIE rented out, on the cheap, some of the old retail and warehouse property to young artists. Soon thereafter, record stores, bookshops, coffee houses and clothing stores began to spring up. The area developed an ‘alternative’ identity and more cynical Dubliners began to refer to it as the “officially designated arts zone.” While the new investment and planning may have added a slight air of contrivance, it was a welcome sight to us. Rows of shops and restaurants, live street music and performers, the smell of stout and Dehlia’s revived willingness to walk on her own are working in concert to boost my spirits. We stand for a while, as a group, watching and videoing a street comedian ridicule different members of a large crowd until he turns his flame on me making fun of my shoes, shorts, and jacket tied together nicely with a ribbon of obscenities. I’m thinking about liming-up my hair, painting myself blue and rushing him with a scrap of iron but being that it’s only day one of our vacation (and that he weighs a metric ton) I decide to follow the rest of the group toward The Duke’s Pub; home of The Jameson’s Literary Pub Crawl and our pre-determined Brendan meeting place. It’s 7:30pm when we meet Brendan inside The Duke. At its base, the Duke’s wooden façade is painted in black with gold trim and lettering and a humble wooden sign—presumably with a depiction of the Duke of Grafton above it. The building is over 200 years old, serving its time as a pub for the past 163, consecutive. There’s a sign out front advertising both the starting point for the Crawl and ‘Mighty Craic Nightly’. Brendan not only has found his parent’s wedding certificate, but also has purchased 8 tickets for the Pub Crawl, to go along with 4 pints of Guinness and 4 pints of Smithwicks for us-“A little variety.” He says. The Duke is bursting with people and the Pub Crawl, which is set to start in a few minutes, is completely sold out. While swilling our first pint at the Duke, two amateur actor-historians introduce the aim of the Crawl; the group would meander between some of Dublin’s oldest pubs and stop at other local points of historical interest like Trinity College and The Dublin Tourism Center. There would be a reading and an anecdotal performance outside each stop—focusing on Ireland’s literary heroes. The performances would be followed by 20 minutes inside each pub; about enough time to order a Stout, wait for it to settle and, if you’re particularly quick, scull it down before being whisked to the next stop. The evening would conclude back at The Duke where you’d be presented with the option of either sliding across the street for one more pint at Davy Byrnes, or passing out quietly in an authentically dark Irish alley. The entire group is finally firing on all cylinders when we order a second round of stouts at our first stop—O’Neill’s. This place has existed as a licensed drinking establishment since 1755 and before that (well before that), the land on which it stands was used as a ‘Thingmoot’—a Celtic ‘punishment mound’ which was the staging area for public executions and the odd beheading (the distinction between the two, to this day, remains a mystery to me). Even before that, history holds that the ground was used as a fulacht fiadh, or ancient cooking place. Stones were heated in a nearby fire, and then plunged into shallow water to cook deer and vegetables. Experiments suggest that seventy gallons could be boiled this way in eighteen minutes, and that water could be kept hot for three hours, which explains why Irish vegetables have never been served al dente. It is at O’Neill’s that Dehlia mails it in for the night and passes out, horizontally, in my wife’s arms. The eight of us are sitting down draining pints and passing daughter around like a loaf of hot bread, when Brooke falls on the grenade and takes a cab back to the Hotel with Dehlia. Ti-Ti Carol has ordered 3 consecutive Bud Light’s and, in total, has finished about 1/8 th of a glass. Erin asks why the hell she continues to order if she isn’t going to finish them. “Well, I thought I was thirsty Erin. You go ahead and worry ‘bout yourself.” Lack of sleep in Ti-Ti’s world, combined with the eating of greasy foods and a modicum of aerobic exercise, is generally a recipe for swift doom. I haven’t known Brooke’s Aunt Carol as well as most on the trip (I’m only slightly ahead of Dehlia in this department), but I know her well enough to spot the first signs of a meltdown and, if I’m not mistaken, one is just off on the horizon as we dip into pub 3, The Old Stand. According to the bartender holding court as I try and order a Bud Light and 8, 1/2 pints of Guinness (it’s worth noting here that if your height exceeds that of an average 6 year old it is preposterously difficult for a man to order a ‘half pint’ of anything.), The Old Stand started out life as a grocery store owned by John Cox. In 1885, and upon the realization that there was more money to be made in the selling of drink than in the selling of potatoes, Old John stopped selling groceries. The place oozes of literati, claiming that Brendan Behan (when he wasn’t drinking at nearby McCaids), spent a fair amount of time lying peacefully in the gutter out in front and that Oscar Wilde still owes over a $1,000 (absent any adjustment for inflation) on a tab from the 18 th century. After two more pints at a place I can’t remember, we congregate back in front of The Duke for a final quiz on the evening’s events. The tour leaders fire off questions about things discussed during the Crawl and those answering the loudest win t-shirts, bottles of whisky-flavored barbecue sauce, Trinity College headbands, and other such niceties. Rhetta barked out the only correct answer to the question of “Which Beatle had a penchant for Indian food in Dublin.” and subsequently scored a green (you were expecting, maybe, blue?) Jameson’s Literary Pub Crawl T-shirt. I could see Carol’s eyes light up in anticipation then drop as Rhetta handed the t-shirt to me. The storm that had settled upon Dehlia earlier in the day, was now hanging low over Ti-Ti. “You neva listen to me Rhetta, I’m the one that said John Lennon Rhetta. I wanna go home.” My Mother- in-law, fresh off of her victory, was in no mood for her sister’s antics. “Go ahead Carol, go home then, we’re going to Davy Byrnes.” “Go ahead yourself Rhetta, I’m not going to Davy Jones, you can go to Davy Jones, but I’m not.” Professed Ti-Ti. A Monkee’s fan, somewhere, beamed. The low light of the evening for me was our post-Crawl trip to Davy Byrne’s—home of Leopold Bloom’s Gorgonzola Cheese sandwich in Joyce’s Ulysses. Joyce was a regular at the pub and developed a special relationship with the friendly but abstemious Davy Byrne. Joyce’s Dubliners has mention of Davy Byrnes, but the Joycean character with which the premises is most associated is Mr. Bloom. I was expecting big things here—especially since I swallowed the Cliff Notes to Ulysses prior to visiting. The place looked plastic. Funky lighting, faux Irish bop that was more Sinead O’Connor than Stephen Cooney and blue linen tablecloths topped with leather-bound wine lists gave the place a feeling of insincerity. For kicks I give the menu a once-over. No stew, no soda bread, no cabbage—not even a cheese sandwich to be found—these staples being replaced with filet of Chicken with tomato-tequila coulis and marinated Feta balls with Tarragon. For the record, the Cliff Notes said nothing about Feta-balls. We finished our drinks and left quickly. I half hoped to salvage the experience by stepping over a gutter-rummy but the velvet-ropes kept out the urchins, and I went away feeling a little cheated. Walking back toward the train, the crew is in good Guinness- soaked spirits and we barely notice the gaining North Atlantic breeze. At the train station a group of hurling fans, dressed in Clare-blue hats, blue shirts and blue face-paint, are singing and carrying on, readying themselves for the forthcoming All-Ireland hurling finals against Kilkenny. They are slightly less intimidating than their nude, horsebacked, ancient brothers and seem more ready for late-night eats than oppressing a tiny hamlet, but the comparisons are certainly there. My personal nostalgia quest has me rooting for the barbarians after the Davy Byrne letdown. They are singing some inspired Gaelic fight song that I’m guessing, translated, goes something like ‘Stomp the foreheads of those Killkenny boys,’ or ‘Smack ‘em in the kidneys mates.’ They head off, impatiently and without episode, into the night looking for some war to wage, or possibly an all-night salmon and cabbage hut. I had hoped to see the wielding of iron or at the very least some indiscriminate pillaging, but at this late hour, they have probably already had their fill of carnage. At least, that’s what I want to believe.

Chapter 4 Sunday breaks damp with a gray wind and several loosely connected hangovers shared among the crew. Our hotel-room, which has a single four-paned window facing a brick wall, also has a metric thermostat that appears to be stuck on tropical. It is 7:15am and Dehlia has begun stirring in her Pac n’ Prison; a small 4 walled portable-crib that she refers to, in name only, as her bed. We dress and go to the restaurant across the hall from our room. It is here that I first make acquaintance with Black Pudding and the Irish breakfast. I am sitting next to Dehlia, with Brendan across from me. The lady who has checked us into the hotel only yesterday (and who has also worked the bar, the Carvery and dropped off coffee and cream to our room) places a plate in front me jammed with fried tomatoes, sausages, bacon, burned-black ham, fried eggs, enormous button mushrooms and a mix of White and Black Puddings all finished with a veneer of cooking shellaque. These pudding things look far from the blissful chocolate and butterscotch cups shared in Bill Cosby commercials, and appear to have strong ties to both the hockey puck and urinal cake families. Ti-Ti Carol is working steadily on hers—fork in her right hand and her left elbow positioned so that anyone trying to clip a sausage link or mushroom button would be summarily throttled. I sort of move things around on the plate like I’m playing a game of Risk placing my Pudding in a position to invade the area surrounding my greasy tomato. I ask Brendan what exactly Black Pudding is. “It’s a sausage made with oats, spices and pig’s blood squeezed into the lining of a sow’s intestine.” He tells me, smiling, and continues, “..And the white sausage is about the same, just no blood.” Dehlia has one eyebrow raised in a, “You’re kidding me, right Dad?” sort of way and pushes herself away from the table. She wanders over to where Brooke is sitting with Mema and Erin. “Did you eat all your breakfast Dehlia?” Brooke asks. “No Mom”, Says Dehlia, “breakfast is black.” One by one the rest of the group files in, fills up and splits back to the rooms to change and prepare for another day in Dublin. A plan is coming together. Brendan and Russell want to see the Dublin General Post Office--sight of the Easter Rising of 1916, and the Book of Kells at Trinity College. Brooke, Erin and I are looking toward getting inside The Guinness factory and Rhetta is prepared to simply go with the flow. Frau Linda doesn’t care so much where we end up as long as we’re in a constant state of motion and the now amped Ti-Ti Carol, fresh off her pudding-polishing, is ready for some excitement, or ‘citement’, as goes the translation. We board a twin-deck bus and begin the day at around 11am. The drive into the city is pleasant and Dehlia is enjoying riding on the upper level of the bus with her face mashed against the front window. The bus empties us almost directly in front of the Dublin GPO and the group breaks—Brendan, Russell, Erin and I head into the Post Office while the rest of the crew heads into Rochey’s Department store in search of the impalpable baby stroller. The Dublin General Post Office is enormous, cold and quiet as a crypt. Half a dozen Post office workers are vending stamps and weighing packages at half a dozen individual teller-windows. There is a sectioned off area inside and to the right that tells the story of the Easter Rising of 1916 through life-size murals and glass cases of gloomy memorabilia. On Easter Monday, April 24 th 1916 a force of Irishmen under arms, estimated at between 1,000 and 1,500 men and women, attempted to seize Dublin, with the ultimate intention of attaining political freedom and the establishment of an Irish Republic. Centuries of discontent marked by numerous rebellions, preceded the Uprising. The most recent crisis had begun to develop in September 1914, following the outbreak of World War 1, when the British government suspended the recently enacted Home Rule Bill which guaranteed a measure of political autonomy to Ireland. Suspension of the Bill had stimulated growth for a Citizen Army, an illegal force of Dublin citizens organized by socialist James Connolly of the Irish Volunteers and of the extremist group, The Sinn Fein and by educator Padhraic Pearse. Hostilities began at about noon on the 24 th , when 1,500 men led by Pearse seized control of the Dublin General Post Office and other strategic points within the city. Shortly after these initial successes, the leaders of the rebellion proclaimed the independence of Ireland and announced the establishment of a provisional government; the Irish Republic. Additional positions were occupied by the rebels during the night and by the morning of the 25 th they controlled a sizeable portion of Dublin. The counteroffensive by British forces began on Tuesday with the arrival of reinforcements. Martial law was proclaimed throughout Ireland. Bitter street fighting developed in Dublin during which the strengthened British forces steadily dislodged the Irish from their positions. By the morning of April 29 th . The post office building—site of the rebel headquarters—was under a violent and brutal attack and the building was within a few blocks of being burned to the ground. Pearse surrendered unconditionally in the afternoon of the 29 th and a group of 15, including Pearse and Connolly, were executed by firing squad in front of thousands of weeping onlookers. Four others, including the American born Eamon De Valera and patriot Michael Collins received death sentences that were later commuted to life imprisonment and eventually were granted amnesty after one year behind bars. All things being equal, many Irish consider the Easter Rising to be simultaneously one of the lightest and darkest days in Ireland’s history. I’m staring at an original portrait of the burning Post Office dating back nearly 90 years. It shows James Connolly, lame and hunkered on the floor, while attendants care for him amidst exploding mortar shells and raging fire. Given the preciseness with which the GPO has been rebuilt, I can see exactly where this scene would have unfolded. I walk over to the spot where Connolly laid staring up at the ceiling. Inscribed on a mural, some 100 feet above reads, “Irishmen and Irishwoman! In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives the old tradition of nationhood, Ireland summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom.” There are several hundred people inside the post office but it’s quiet enough to hear each of them thinking. The hair on the back of my neck is standing up. It may be because of the early September breeze blowing through the open windows, but I don’t think so. I buy a commemorative Michael Collins postcard, complete with postage paid stamp, and head out the front door greeted not by mortar shells, but by the bustle of a dwindling tourist season and an Ireland that the ghosts inside had fought and died for. I make my way over to Rochey’s and find an enthusiastic Ti-Ti Carol. “Ah, Brooke bought a carriage and I think it was the most ‘spensive carriage in the store.” I find the baby carriage section (the fact that they have an entire wing devoted to baby strollers is immediately unsettling), and begin pouring over sales tags. Lest you, dear reader, perceive the word sales to precurse any sort of bargain here, understand that it’s just an adjective—and in this case not a very good one. I find Brooke at the exit, pushing out a carriage the size of a Fiat loaded with our sleeping child. “Steven, don’t say a word. We needed a carriage with a rain cover, this is a carriage with a rain cover and I don’t want to hear anything about it.” Says she. The stroller (which for the record hasn’t logged more than an inch of roll time since being back on US soil) comes complete with an advanced shock absorption system, rear wheel slip-differential and a crumple-resistant bumper. And it has one rocking rain cover. At this point in the trip, we’ve experienced nothing but sunshine and flotillas of unthreatening clouds. I did mention this to my wife, but she swiftly fired off one of her “You’ll regret any further discussion on this particular topic” looks, and I decide to close on the subject—at least for now. I’m desperately longing for a bite of food neither laced with pig’s blood nor stuffed into an intestinal stocking, but we’re close by to The Book of Kells, so I stay quiet and keep my eyes peeled for vending machines as we head toward Trinity College. En route, Dehlia wakes and asks to be lifted from the carriage so she can see the statue of Molly Malone. In front of the statue, an impish Irish fellow, reeking of breakfast, is playing the Bodrhan and trying to keep step to canned rover-music coming from his tape-deck. He extends his hand to Dehlia, inviting her to dance with him. My daughter has a highly over-developed sense of smell, a trait borrowed from her Mother, and wrinkles her nose at him after a few nervous wiggles around the statue. “I don’t like his smell.” She confides in me. “I want to go back in my carriage.” We take a lightning-fast tour of The Book of Kells that dumps us into the Trinity College Gift Shop. After loading up on postcards, souvenir pencils and introductory Tin whistle guides, we head out into a soaking rain—no doubt ordered up by Brooke who is carrying a look that I’ve seen several times before. Dehlia is tucked and sealed into her stroller, perfectly dry and pulling the eraser heads off of her new pencils as the group moves toward the Guinness Factory bus stop. The first bus rolls in right away, but it has room only for 5, maybe 6 of us and we let it pass.  We wait another 10 minutes but are a bit slow on the uptick and only three of us are welcomed aboard—we pass again.  This time, after another 7 or 8 minutes, the bus just rolls by without stopping.  By the time we board a bus, make the 6 mile trip to the factory and unload, the factory is closed and we all make a half-hearted sulk through yet another gift shop.  This time, Dehlia gets a rubber Guinness key-chain to gnaw on and an official bag of hops to poke.  By now I’m hungry enough to eat a pig’s ears, tail and squeal, not to mention its pudding and I’m begging that we stop for food.  The Hausmans are planning on crawling the evening streets of Dublin, again, and convince Brendan to go along with them—the rest of us head back toward the Hotel for dinner.  Along the way, we stop at an Irish-pizza shop of some repute and Carol reminds us that cheese gives her an ‘uhset stomach’, before throwing a mini-fit when told she would no longer be pushing Dehlia in mega-carriage. Back at the hotel, Rhetta has agreed to keep an eye on Dehlia while the rest of us get down to business in the hotel pub.  Erin, Brooke and I are drinking full-pints of Guinness while the cheese-less Ti Ti continues to bob and weave her way around a light beer.  “C’mon Carol, live a little, pound that thing.” Urges Erin.  “Oh no, I’m not getting drunk and I don’t wanna headache.  I don’t wanna headache in my stomach either.”  Says Ti-ti.  I’m eating lukewarm Hot Nuts at a fanatical clip when Brendan and the Hasumans pull in a short time later and take to drinking with us.  It’s our last night in Dublin before heading southwest to Dingle and we’re looking for the elusive mighty craic—given the right situation, at this point we’d probably be willing to expose some as well. We take seats against the back wall Erin, Brooke, Carol and I, along with Brendan and the Hausmans.  A group of a dozen locals have filled a long cherry banquet table in front of us and are singing songs and slinging pints.  The crew is clearly hammered, except for a few pre-teens who keep checking their watch-less wrists and rolling their eyes as their parents, uncles and aunts slobber through ‘She’s Always A Woman’, and ‘Only The Good Die Young’, by the almost un-green Billy Joel.  They’re not half bad.  Two of the them are vying for the entire pub’s attentions; a short fella that, not unlike Dehlia’s stewed dance partner earlier in the day, seems as if he may lose consciousness at any moment and the other a hulking cross between Johnny Cash and former Celtic forward Kevin McHale.  The group’s proclivity towards American standards is disappointing.  I’m looking for more Quiet Man and less (much less) Piano Man. Brendan, who until this point has been providing back up support, comes to the rescue with a rendition of ‘Rare Old Times’ and the local crew immediately begins to yelp, ‘Hold The Taxis!’—in both appreciation of his fine work and in hope of actually finding a way home that doesn’t involve driving headlong into an Irish lamp-post.  The crew leaves, but not before the man-in-black stands and offers an expressive rendition of ‘Funiculi-Funicula’.  Properly motivated, I get up to go to the bathroom and on the way notice that the sign ‘Mighty Craic nightly, open until 11pm’ sign has been turned over, showing nothing but blank gray slate.  I ask the bartender what time the place is supposed to close for the night and he says, “Just keep it up and we might not.” Back inside the bar another group has taken up space at the banquet table.  12-15 men, in town for the All-Ireland Hurling finals slated for the following afternoon, are standing, drinking and singing loudly.  Mr. Cash has stuck around and already formed a vocal-bond with the new group.  The lights are on him again and he’s hammering away on some Irish song that I don’t recognize.  I’m 6 or 7 pints deep at this point and trying my best to bleed into the wallpaper.  Brooke has gotten out our video camera and is busy confirming another American stereotype.  She’s egging them on and it’s working. Another little fella, Paddy, who has literally slept through the first twenty minutes of the group’s performance, springs to life courtesy of Brooke’s 400 watt camera light which is busy blinding the entire room.  He is barely coherent and has a certain whiff about him that suggests attendance at a week-long whisky camp.  He’s trying to get Ti-Ti Carol to dance with him and it’s not going well.  “C’mon and dance with me girl.” He says.  Ti-Ti is pale with horror and is screaming for him to get away.  Undaunted he moves onto Brooke who is more than happy to grant him a spin while continuing to roll tape. Linda and Russ call it quits after Brendan follows a  ‘New York, New York’, with an ‘I Left My Heart In San Francisco’.  I notice that all 3 bartenders have stayed on well past 2am and are cleaning glasses with much less of a scowl than one would imagine.  Per the Dumbass Guide, pubs in Ireland tend to stay open past the announced closing time, sometimes well past, when the craic is cracking.  This seems to be one of those times. I’m doing my best to ruin everything as I spiddle through a version of ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’ repeating the same 3 lines over and over (and over) again.  Paddy is dancing with Brendan now and Brooke runs out of tape and bids goodnight taking along Erin and Ti-Ti.  I think briefly about staying up for one more, but Mr. Johnny Cash is settling into a sentimental ‘Black Is The Colour’ by Christy Moore.  The song, contrary to my associating it with the morning’s pudding, describes the singer’s true love; a black-haired beauty with a sweet smile and gentle hands.  I decide to split before he follows it with an ‘Uptown Girl.’ On my way out I notice the front-desk/cleaning/delivery-lady setting up plates and saucers inside the restaurant.  Before my head hits the pillow, I scribble a mental note to sleep through breakfast.

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.

Chapter 6 It’s just before 10pm and Dingle’s early September streets are wet and deserted. Driving into town, a brick seawall borders the western margin of the city and a series of narrow, mostly one-way streets are lined with seafood restaurants, souvenir shops and pubs—61 of them according to Brendan’s Guzzler’s Guide. We pass neat rows of fishing boats rising and falling in the harbor-their nets precisely draped and drying along the dock. The night air is almost winter-cold. Brooke crackly observes an open ice-cream shop and makes mention that I’ll be going to get her some after we unpack. Our digs are located directly above The Curtain Call, a curtain shop on Main Street—kiddy corner from the Small Bridge Pub—aptly named for the small bridge it abuts. The 4-bedroom apartment is immaculate. Polished-slick pine floors spread over three levels with 4 full bathrooms, a recently done kitchen with a marble-topped breakfast island and recessed lighting all combine to give the place a modern lilt here in Europe’s most western city. A set of French doors open onto a roof-deck off of the main living area—offering views down to the waterfront. Brooke and I have our own bedroom, a private bathroom and big windows looking onto the street. We set up an inflatable mattress with flannel sheets for Dehlia who has slept through the unpacking as well as several door slams and the brushing of her teeth. I feel a little guilt seeing her camped out on the floor to the side of our Queen bed, but not much. She considers it camping and I’m happy to go along. Main Street is broom-clean and lined with 10’ forged iron lamps. Almost every other shop is a pub or at minimum has a draught-pull behind the counter. In Dingle it is possible to drain a pint while visiting the dry cleaner, the fishmonger, even the cobbler. With only 61 pubs, or 8 for every single local, this kind of resourcefulness is critical. Signs in most of the windows, unlike those in Dublin that read ‘No War In Iraq’, and ‘Palestine Burns, Raytheon Earns’, advertise ‘Mighty Craic’, and ‘Traditional Music Nightly.’ In a weighing of options, Brooke has decided to fetch the ice cream while I put Dehlia to bed, or to floor as is the case. I read her ‘A Child’s Calendar’ by John Updike that offers a few lines of rhyme for each month of the year. Dehlia is completely asleep and lightly snoring by the time Updike explains that in March, “The mud smells happy on our shoes and we still wear mittens which we will lose”. I skim a copy of the Irish Independent, Dublin’s most popular liberal ink, and see stories with varying degrees of disdain toward Britain’s parliamentary rule, America’s militant mentality and something about Michael Jackson hiring an African Shaman (for $150,000) to put a curse on David Geffen and Steven Spielberg. Brooke and Erin tracked-back to the cheeky ice-cream parlor and have brought home several pints of expensive dessert. I take down half a container of Bailey’s ice cream without lifting my head, as the girls protect their bowls of Mint Chocolate Chip and Raspberry White Chocolate like German Shepards. I’m sunken into a comfortable couch at 11:30 pm, watching a news clip aimed at the pending 1 st year anniversary of September 11 th . The broadcast is filled with heavy images of fire and tragedy, as sound bites are delivered from a frosty host. There is no shortage of opinions on next moves and international positions. At least from what we’ve seen so far, Ireland’s public majority appears against any military action in Iraq. The broadcast finishes its clip with an interview of a WTC employee; a survivor who, a year after the devastation, goes to bed with his shades wide open in his New York City apartment. “I don’t draw them shut anymore.” He says, “I want to be able to see what’s coming next.” I switch off the television and stuff a last bite of ice cream into my mouth, feeling a mix of guilt and thankfulness that a tired year is grinding down. It’s now approaching midnight and Brooke’s parents, Aunt and the unflappable Mema are still unaccounted for. They’ve spent the day traveling north toward Armagh and Antrim, in search of rare archeological digs and fantastically old Celtic crosses before making the 7-hour skip back south to Dingle. Clearly driven by Brendan’s wanderlust, the remaining members of party-Brendan would have been just as happy to eat breakfast at the hotel meat-locker and then travel directly back to Dingle. “How many opportunities are you going to get to see a 2,000 year old Celtic High Cross? The Hills of Tara? The Battle of Boyne war site?” Said Brendan in his most motivational pitch. Ti-Ti Carol, in perpetual search for ‘citement’ and Mema, who could find joy in a tax-audit, were easy prey and fell immediate victim to Brendan’s salesmanship. Loretta, a veteran of endless walkabouts with Brendan was less optimistic but up for the adventure. North they went. Brooke is frantically pacing the hallways when Ti-Ti Carol explodes through the front door--a fury of verbs and broken sentences—at 1:30am. “We went to some Hills thing, and to da crosses and oh yer mudder, oh boy, she fell down and rolled down one of dem hills, oh she’s not too happy wid Brendan.” Next through was Mema who, true to form, found both the archeology of Northern Ireland and the 12 hours of angry silence in the overstuffed Peugeot, exhilarating. Loretta was next. She was loaded down with handbags, packages and luggage and not in what I’d consider a playful mood. Something was said about stuffing a High Cross somewhere on Brendan’s person but it wasn’t at all clear. She offered smiles and kisses to both Brooke and I, chatted for a few minutes and headed off to bed. Brendan received neither kisses nor smiles. Brooke’s Dad tip toed up the stairs with a grin and headed straight for the fridge. From it, he yanked a cooling bottle of Tullamore Dew whiskey. He poured himself a tall glass of Smithwick’s Ale while emptying the whisky into a highball glass. “How was your trip?” He asked. “We got here almost 4 hours ago Dad, where the hell have you been?” Brooke answered back both angry and relieved. “Well we’ve been to some high crosses, and the Hills of Tara, oh the Hills you should have seen them. Who wants some whisky?” Said Brendan who was now slicing cheddar cheese and cutting a green apple. “I think your mother may be a little upset with me. She took a tumble down one of those hills. I may have taken a wrong road somewhere too. All in all we were in the car for 12 hours. Who wants a beer?” He didn’t expect any takers. He was happy to sip alone, his nerves calming with each tug. I’m the last to bed, not yet acclimated to Irish time or the pace of a vacation. Dehlia is mumbling to herself and has rid the bed of everything—pillows, blankets and sheets—except for her blankie that she has wrapped around her head like a turban. Brooke has fallen asleep with her arm across my chest. I think about my family, my in- laws and my good fortunes for a few minutes before nodding off. Dehlia’s book is open and I read an Updike stanza about November: The ground is hard, As hard as stone. The Year is old, And birds have flown. I’m asleep by 2:30am. With the shades drawn tight, I dream about shadows and smoke.

Chapter 7 Dehlia is still sleeping when I wake at 4:30am. Brooke is in the exact same position she nodded off in—an indicator that sleep went well and that hours of it was still in front of her. I pop a few $2 Euros into the electricity box, brush my teeth, and stare into our bathroom mirror. I look like shit. The search for Mighty Craic in Dublin had gone fairly well, but it’s clear I’m paying the price. We’re 3 days into our trip and I’ve drained 22 pints. I’m not so much of a beer-drinker as I am a beer-holder, so 22 beers has the same affect on me as it would on, say, your average 11 year old. This is a sharp poke at the tolerance of 11-year old drinkers everywhere, I assure you. Along with an oversupply of beer and whisky, 3 days have passed since my last official meal. I may not be the pickiest eater in the world, but I’m number two or three with a bullet. I’ve eaten some candy, some stew, some gas station food and several Chicken Goujons. I’m still not exactly sure what those were, but I’d be happy enough not running into them again. I bang around the kitchen for a while looking for a coffeepot then walk out onto the back porch and into Dingle’s early morning drizzle. It feels good on my face and I stand there for a minute watching the clouds break before heading back inside. Besides the tick of an antique clock on the wall, the only recognizable sound is Ti-Ti Carol’s throaty snore from three floors away. In pitch, it most closely resembles a humid swarm of angry wasps. Carol has a room to herself with a double bed in it. Her room is all the way up on the third floor and has the heaviest door in the house. She did not land this spot by coincidence. Sunrise is brightening the roofs on each of Dingle’s 61 pubs and despite the thin buzzing in my ears, I begin to consider the possibility of the day’s first glass of Guinness. In an act of discretion, I opt for the possibility of coffee and head out into the street. The drizzle is gone and is replaced by a cooling breeze blowing harmless looking clouds. There are muddy tire tracks, presumably from some large piece of farming equipment, running down the middle of Main Street. It is just before 7am and a small army of school kids, spit-polished and uniformed, is heading up the hill toward Dingle Academy. Nearly all of them are busy digging into bags of cheesy puffs and potato chips and pass by barely noticing me. A Guinness truck is pulled in front of the Small Bridge Pub and a middle- aged man is rolling full kegs down a metal plank and onto a 2-wheeler. Looking down a narrow, cobbled street, I see fishing boats returning to their slips. I’ve seen a good deal of Dingle’s early morning rituals and, unfortunately, they don’t appear to include coffee. I make a left onto Green Street and stumble upon Dick Mack’s; a turn of the century leather-shop with two Guinness taps. Should one need a stout at the same time one needs ones chaps repaired, this would be the spot. Mack’s logged its seminal moment, along with rest of Dingle Town, during the filming of Ryan’s Daughter—a 1970’s lovey-drama starring Robert Mitchum and Sarah Miles. Mitchum played the part of Charles Shaugnessy-a tweedy schoolmaster trying to reign in his wife; the wanderlusting Rosy Ryan played by Miles. When the Village idiot (played by Oscar winner John Mills) innocently uncovers evidence of indiscretion between Rosy and a British officer in charge of the occupying British army, Shaugnessy, mopes around the scenic Dingle oceanfront looking depressed. There’s also the matter of Rosy’s father turning coats on a local group of IRA insurgents waiting on a delivery of German arms—not a particularly bright thing to do in this neck of1916 Ireland. A week before heading to Ireland, and on the suggestion of my in-law’s, I rented the movie. It was so long it came on two separate videotapes—355 minutes in all. It was long and dewy, but the scenery was beautiful. I fell asleep after Mitchum tore off his shirt and ran crying along a windswept stretch of beach. I think that was around minute 114. I never made it to tape 2. While the movie brought in nearly twice its cost and garnered Academy award nominations for both Mills and Miles, it set to motion a bursting ripple of tourism in Dingle. The stars in front of Mack’s—the Groman’s Chinese Theatre type—sport the names of those celebrities that were taken in by the pub’s leathery charm. Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman share a star. Paul Simon has one. Former Bond-guy, (and Brit) Timothy Dalton owns the spot directly in front of the door. “Just to make sure we tapped our shoes on ‘im”, says James. James is the guy in charge here at a few minutes before 9:30am. He looks like he’s been here since before Ryan’s Daughter—or any other member of Ryan’s family for that matter—landed in town.. Certainly longer than Robert Mitchum-who’s own star is discolored and, appropriately, looks sort of sad. I ask James if he has any suggestions on where to grab a cup of coffee and he shrugs me off. “Aye, I’m not so sure..” He says. Given his snarl, it appears James could apparently do with a cup himself. He continues to sweep, readying the pub for a potential onslaught of 10am boozers. One of Mack’s walls is plastered with black and white pictures from the 1970’s—mostly of Robert Mitchum in various states of dress. One has him slouched against the bar, wearing a black suit and black tie, drinking something out of a tin cup. Another has him in a pair of khakis and white t-shirt, patting the head of some kid out in front of the church across the street. First place goes to one where he’s relieving himself against a wooden fence, shirtless, with both arms held above his head in a “look-no-hands” fashion. I swear to God it looks like he’s crying. Another wall has dozens of pairs of old, shelved shoes and boots—some with yellow tags, others in red. “What are the tags for?” I say, hoping to spark a conversation that would lead to glasses of morning beer, an improbable friendship with the craggy publican and, God help me, a cup of coffee. “Yellow means they’re finished, red means they ‘aren’t yet.” Says Jimmy. I want to ask what finished means, but I have a feeling he may strike me if I open my mouth again so I just stand there with my hands in my pockets. I’m feeling uncomfortable in a way only an American in an Irish leather-shop with 2 beer taps can feel, when the frost begins to melt, “He’s still got a pair of boots here you know. That Mitch fella.” Owes us 12 pounds—said he was going to send it to us. Here it is the autumn again and sure’n we haven’t seen a single pound.” I’m not exactly sure whom he’s talking to at this point, but he’s relaxed his grip on the broom handle to the point where the blood appears to be flowing back into his knuckles. I consider, only briefly, picking up the dead actor’s tab but I have only two Euro’s and something that looks like an American dime in my pocket and the absence of caffeine is starting to pound away at my head. On my way out, an over 35-ish couple dressed in starched (and pleated) shorts along with nearly matching blue windbreakers walk into the shop. They’re referring to their Lonely Planet’s Ireland Travel Guide. “This is the place.” Says Mr. “It’s just as small as the guide says.” Mrs. is snapping pictures of James, of Mr. standing next to James, and of the tagged leather boots. James has stopped sweeping and appears ready to wrap these two in his warmth. It’s now just a few minutes before 10am “Everything is just so, I dunno, authentic. Do you think those boots are, um, real? Can you smell the leather?” Mrs. Windbreaker asks me. I want to tell her to go out back and smell the fence but she’s already turned her attention to the wall of pictures and I head out into the street, stepping over Mitchum’s star on my way back to the apartment.

Chapter 8 Back at the apartment, plans are thin but suggestions are being liberally flung about the room. Brendan wants to tour the windswept Blasket Island Center-an homage to the last group of inhabitants on the most western island chain in Europe. Erin, bleary after a sleepless night courtesy of Ti-Ti’s ripsawing, is eyeing a rarely attempted early-morning nap. Brooke wants to explore the possibility of a 30-mile bike ride across the entire Dingle peninsula. And Despite a breakfast of digestive biscuits, scones and dense molasses sweetened bread-all of it buried under wads of Irish butter -Ti Carol is hungry and ready for lunch. “Nutin’ heavy. I dunno, maybe some steak or somethin?” Her tone doesn’t deserve the question mark. Absent the necessary votes for anything else (Brendan’s tour suggestion is reduced to rubble by Ti-Ti’s appetite), we slog off toward the Oven Door Pizzeria and its sign advertising, ‘Really Good Pizza…Honest”. We are greeted by my wife’s cousin Eoiffa (pronounced Eeefa, they tell me) who looks dizzy and a little horrified. She shows us to a table for 7 then looks around for a rock to crawl under. Along with the requisite uncomfortable kisses and hugs, Eoiffa is also forced to submit to the unfailingly descriptive memories of her Yank cousins. “Do you remember the last time we visited?” Brendan says, “You and Brooke shared a bed and in the middle of the night you had an accident and soaked everything, I mean everything.” I think I notice Eoiffa’s skin actually melting away from her body as Brendan continues. “Soaked right through to the mattress—we couldn’t believe it.” If this is Craic we’re experiencing, I’m guessing Eoiffa isn’t feeling it. After finishing lunch we go to meet Brooke at a small pottery store across the street—the first of several that we’ll march through this day—and she’s beaming. “They’ll put whatever names we want on these coffee mugs.”, She says, “I’ve got like 6 or 7 that I can think of already.” Brooke is wide-eyed and spooky. Pottery shops affect her much in the same way laboratory-mescaline effects test-mice. She moves around, a little disoriented, pawning things until she either buys something or promises to come back when she can ‘focus a little better’. It’s just before 2pm and after picking up staples at the grocery store, we stop into Flaherty’s Pub for several pints and some live music. In his travels, Brendan has developed a friendship with a local musician dressed in an alarming combination of patterns and fabrics. Gray, herringboned wool pants, a green suede vest, a chocolate colored tweed cap and what appears to be a rayon-influenced Irish soccer jersey complete Aiden’s outfit. Aiden makes his living roaming from Dingle pub to Dingle pub, playing for tips and sweating like a mechanic. He had been hammering on his squeeze box out in front of the grocery store when Brendan dropped several Euros into his hat. So begin friendships in Dingle. While each of us continue to swill our way through the Guinness, Dehlia takes off her coat and begins jumping about on alternating feet. She is doing something that closely resembles dancing absent any actual rhythm. She jumps, squats, freezes then repeats. Her movements are so erratic that people are giving her increasing amounts of space, eventually spotting her the entire run of the cold, cobblestone floor. When she realizes everyone’s watching, she stops and buries her face in my lap. I try to coax her on with another sip of Guinness but she’s ‘barassed’ as Ti-Ti Carol suggests and, much like myself, would do well with a long nap. Outside the pub we’re greeted with bright sunshine and the September gait of tourist season. Like any beach resort back home, September is the month locals begin taking their town back. While Dingle still carries an air of out-post Ireland, right down to the speaking of Irish as a first language for many and as a second for just about everyone, a revived Irish economy won’t be denied, even here. Traffic into Main Street shops is brisk, with Germans accounting for 50% of those looking for the perfect piece of Leprachaunalia. I watch a fat-kid crying outside of Murphy’s Ice Cream on Strand Street-his empty cup sitting in front of him not unlike Aiden’s empty hat. He’s either whining for more, or aching from too much already, I can’t really tell. Considering the pace at which he’s lapping at the praline-drizzle on his hand, I’m guessing it’s the former. His mother yanks him into a shop with fragile vases and clay pots out in front—past one of those ‘Please keep your kids, especially the praline-covered ones—under control’ signs. I don’t get the sense that sticky little Augustus is much of a sign-reader though. He topples an ornate looking planter on his way in and his mother gives him a whack, sending him into a bawling fit. It appears that Gus may be in for a long day. Erin and Ti-Ti Carol have had enough and head back to the apartment with a fading Dehlia in tow—choosing an afternoon of snacks and television over a trip along scenic Slea Head Drive with the pottery-hungry Brooke, Mema and Lori. Along the scenic 30 mile amble from Dingle to Ballydavid, pottery shops spring up like pox ; The Aisling Geal, The Banshee, An Tuirninlin, Penny’s. These shops vary broadly in size from petite to extra small and are mostly no larger than a single room with a window, a few shelves and several dozen pots, vases and urn-looking things. By afternoon, the sky is about as blue and cloudless as an afternoon sky gets in Dingle which is to say it’s partly cloudy. Between the clouds, though, are long reaches of deep blue that drop and blend into the equally blue North Atlantic. The uninterrupted horizon stretches on for hundreds of miles without land mass to break its pace. It sort of makes me dizzy to look at it when we stop for pictures with Brooke’s parents. I try and focus on a fishing boat crawling its way out toward open ocean to settle my perspective while Brooke fidgets with the camera and snaps off a few pictures of Brendan and Lori. Brendan is still singing stanzas of ‘Carrickferigus’, a heartfelt love song and ode to an emigrant’s lost home along Antrim’s Northeast coast. He has sung each of the songs several refrains and has a peaceful look about him—one of blue skies, fishing boats, Irish love songs and family close-by—that no pottery shop could muddy. One shop, however, is about to give it a go. As we drive west along the Slea Head Road we take in enormous views of Ventry Bay and the towering Skellig Michael . This massive rocky detachment is home to an 8 th century monastic settlement. Hermit monks lived here in obscure beehive huts—their main contact with the outside world being trading ships stopping between Spain and Scandinavia. Next to it is a smaller island, Little Skellig—a breeding ground for seagulls with 6-foot wingspans called Gannetts. In 1865 Western Union laid the first transatlantic cable from here to Newfoundland. It was in use until 1965. The 1,600’ Mount Eagle rises across from Little Skellig and marks, officially, the end of Ireland. From where we’re driving, and thanks to clear skies, we can almost make it out. About 15 miles into the Slea Head trip, we come across the grand-daddy of Irish potters—The Louis Mulchay Pottery Shop. The lot is only 1/4 full as we pull in just a few minutes before closing. Brooke and Lori have narrowed their focus and have limited their conversations to topics related to the purchasing of pottery. Mema also appears interested in checking things out but her curiosity level rises or falls to that of the collective, so it’s a little difficult to tell. She’s appears more concerned with a small white dog and a speckled cat tearing at each other out on the potter’s front lawn. Lori and Brooke don’t care so much about the pets. They head inside leaving me several yards behind and Brendan still in the front seat listening to music. “You go ahead” He says, I’ll catch up. By the time I look back, he’s already asleep. Inside the front building is a small room with pastel-colored walls lined with standard pots and vases. It seems like a small, manageable spot until I turn up a narrow flight of stairs and find the second floor. There’s another room brimming with tea-cups, platters and ceramic tiles that leads to another (and another and another) in depressing succession. Just when I think I’ve reached the final room (this being an appropriate name to give the space where I find small glazed tiles used as pet headstones), I find a passageway that leads to another. I finally stop at a small kid’s table and sit on a small chair to take a drink of water. A 6 year old is sitting next to me giving me a ‘Mister, end my pain” look before Mother rushes him away toward more browsing. In the end, the ladies spend a total of 90 minutes touching Louis’ pottery but buy nothing. ‘We were just exploring a little.” my wife says, “We’ll be back in a few days when Julie gets here.” Julie is Brooke’s older sister who’s scheduled to touch down in a few days. Equally obsessed with the stuff, I can’t imagine adding her into this mix. On the way out, past the sign that says, ‘Management reserves the right to lock your loose children in a damp closet until the authorities arrive”, we pass little Augustus and his parents who have apparently signed up for the same potter’s-crawl as we have. His eyes are red and he’s goose-stepping in line behind his mom and dad who have that extinguished patience look that defeated parents sometimes get. If Gussie breaks loose in this place, the closet will seem like a vacation compared to what his parents’ll have planned. It takes a few minutes for our eyes to adjust when we get outside. The day is still bright and the windowless pottery shop (Mr. Mulchay wants you to lose your sense of time and perspective much like casino’s do) has done nothing to prepare us for it. We find Brendan sitting, sleeping, upright in the mini-van with the white noise of Irish talk-radio as his backdrop. He stumbles awake when we unlatch the door, and fires off a series of rhetorical questions “. What an afternoon huh? Where’s the pottery? Where’s the next stop?”, knowing full well that several pottery shops could be found (in any direction) down the road in Ballyferriter, Dunquin, and Ventry. We pull out of the gravel lot and eventually wander back onto the Slea Head Road. On our way back to Dingle we pass by crowds of grazing sheep on one side of the road and 90 degree drops into the Atlantic on the other. We pass by gawking tourists, obviously deranged bikers and snapping photographers. We pass by archeological ruins and ghostly settlements untouched since the potato famine(s) of the mid 1800’s. Pottery shops are noticeably absent from our return trip. “Isn’t Ryan’s Pottery around here somewhere?” My wife says, referring back to one of her previous visits. Brendan draws our attention to The Lord Ventry Estate. As we drive by, we see palm trees, magnolias, fuchsia and other exotic looking flora introduced to Dingle by Lord Ventry in the early 1700’s. Because of the mild, gulf-stream cradled climate, Fuchsias line the roads all over the peninsula and redden the countryside from June through September. Brendan tells us that the country receives over 100 inches of rain a year, that there are actually 40 separate shades of green in Dingle and that the Ventry Estate is now home to an All-Gaelic school for 140 girls. Bored to near-sleep, the ladies completely miss the Ryan’s Pottery sign on the left-hand side of the road. In the rear-view mirror, Brendan gives a quick look back before returning his attention to the road. He’s smiling.