Home Sweet Anywhere

by Lynne Martin

  As Tim and I set out for Galway, about 125 miles away on the west coast, I was amazed to see the superhighway and the super traffic. Things had definitely changed since the Irish ascendancy in the mid-nineties. When I lived there in the early part of that decade, the road to Galway was two lanes wide. Traffic lights operated in the hamlets near their village greens, giving travelers a chance to pause and see a town’s pubs, church, shops, and tidy cottages. The trip from Dublin to Galway took half a day then; we covered it in less than three hours this time, even though hard rain and wind challenged our little black car to stay on the road. The landscape was as lush as ever, punctuated by the ruins of twelfth-century churches and tumbled-down monasteries, the moody remnants of Oliver Cromwell’s rampage in the mid-seventeenth century when he brutally decimated much of the country and certainly its churches and monasteries in the name of the Church of England. Although the road was efficient, I missed seeing the country towns since we sped and splashed directly across the middle of the island on the big highway.

  When we arrived in Galway, we settled into a modern, chic apartment hotel in the city center, which lacked charm but offered incredible views of the city and the sea, across the port. It was a good location for seeing the city and the surrounding area. Later that evening, when we were seated for dinner in a nearby pub, Tim leaned across the table and said, sotto voce, “I can’t believe it. What you’ve told me all these years is true. Everyone is speaking as if the KGB has bugs in all the saltshakers.”

  He had a point. Despite being full of diners, the buzz in the low-ceilinged, dark-paneled restaurant was even quieter than those famously refined tiny French bistros where everything, including the clink of cutlery, was muted. The Irish seemed conspiratorial to me, I had told Tim before we arrived, and their closely held conversation in pubs and restaurants had always fascinated me. The Irish are a superstitious lot, and native friends have confessed that a true Irishman is convinced that the fairies are always listening. Not all fairies are sweet like Tinker Bell, they tell me. They do have a vengeful side, especially toward those who brag about their good fortune. Of course, the cause could be something far less fanciful, such as leftover paranoia from the days when the IRA was a fact of everyday life.

  Yet another typical Irish dining peculiarity arrived with our dinner, which made me smile. Fluffy mashed potatoes accompanied our beautifully grilled fresh fish—right next to a big pile of crisp, oven-baked spuds. Double starch is standard fare in almost every restaurant in Ireland and Britain. For example, in many pubs, lasagna is served with mashed potatoes right alongside the pasta dish! I have no idea what the origins of this culinary oddity might be, but it certainly isn’t a slenderizing combo.

  We gave Tim a break from driving the next day by taking a bus tour along the Burren, one of the largest rock landscapes in Europe. We continued onto the Cliffs of Moher, Ireland’s most-visited, dramatic sight. The cliffs rise seven hundred feet above the crashing Atlantic waves. The wind and its chilly rain blasted us so furiously that we could hardly stagger up to the viewing point. Things only went downhill from there. The tour guide droned on, sharing too much information. At each stop, we waited in the car park for people too selfish to return to the bus on time. Those moments, along with the dull lunch spot into which we were herded, reminded us of all the reasons why we don’t take tours as a rule. But our reward consisted of views we will never forget, and Tim was able to enjoy the scenery for once. That evening, chilled and tired, we were very happy to return to Galway. We spent a pleasant evening in a convivial pub, eating two kinds of potatoes among diners who whispered their secrets to each other.

  The cold winds and icy rain of the Cliffs of Moher did not help a nasty little cold that had started to overtake me when we arrived in Ireland. It increased in intensity as we worked our way down the Irish coast. Tim booked a room at The Lodge, a charming B&B near the center of Kenmare, in County Kerry. The owner, Rosemary Quinn, an attractive young woman whose family lived in a large wing of the lovingly maintained old building, greeted us and showed us to our comfortable room. I snuffled and coughed, feeling miserable. “You’ll be needing a little help with that cold. Have a seat and I’ll be back in a minute with just the thing,” she said.

  I felt so rotten that I obeyed and watched while Tim unpacked our essentials. Soon, Rosemary returned with a small silver tray. I knew immediately what she had in mind: a pot of hot water, a plate with a slice of clove-studded lemon, and a flowered china bowl holding dainty silver tongs and sugar cubes sat on the tray. The business end of this graceful presentation contained a man-size tumbler with a big slug of Jameson Irish Whiskey! She quickly combined two sugar cubes, the lemon slice with cloves, and the whiskey, and poured in hot water to the brim. “This will fix you right up,” she said. “You’ve lived in Ireland, so surely you’re familiar with good old-fashioned hot whiskey! Sláinte.” She handed me the potion.

  I certainly remembered that Ireland’s wild, wet weather made frequent stops for a hot whiskey a necessary part of any walking expedition. A pub was never hard to find. I’m not so sure about the concoction’s actual curative powers, but once the Jameson’s hit its target, I didn’t really care that I was sick. The Irish cure for cold weather and sniffles is much more fun than NyQuil.

  Now, where were we on the other side of my personal fog? Oh yes, Kenmare. This picturesque village sits close to the Ring of Kerry and the Ring of Beara, roads that trace the edges of massive peninsulas that protrude into the Atlantic, two of Ireland’s many natural wonders. Kenmare is also known for its gourmet food and live Irish music, but because I felt a little peaked, we limited our touring to a short driving trip to the Gap of Dunloe, a narrow pass between craggy peaks featuring five lakes and stunning scenery. Our drive through the gap and a plowman’s lunch in the local pub sapped my energy for the day, and Nurse Tim made sure to tuck away his patient after several doses of Rosemary’s magic brew that night.

  The next morning, we headed to Kinsale, a seaside town once the hub of Ireland’s fancy food movement. We chose a large modern hotel outside of the village, which offered spectacular views of emerald fields and dazzling lakes. People held wedding receptions and company banquets in hotels like these, so while it seemed short on warmth, it was long on dependable services. It was just what two bedraggled travelers needed: a big free parking lot, a huge bathroom, plenty of heat, great beds with fluffy duvets, a built-in clothesline in the shower, and a helpful staff. Sometimes, one must forsake charm for laundry facilities and easy parking!

  Meanwhile, my Wall Street Journal article was due to appear very soon, in the third week of October. I thought I had wrapped the project before we left England, but when I fired up my Mac, I found a request for additional photos. They wanted a shot of us with our suitcases. “Wow! This is going to be tricky,” I said, staring at the screen. “I mean, we don’t know a soul here. How will we take a picture of the two of us?”

  “Hang on a minute. I’ll be right back.” Tim disappeared.

  Ten minutes later he returned, smiling. “I asked the desk clerk if I could hire someone to help us, and of course she agreed. Come on, let’s go scout some locations.”

  We went looking for likely spots, clicking and checking them with our iPhone cameras. When we chose some options, we scampered upstairs to smarten ourselves up for our photo session.

  As we entered the room, I almost ran into Tim. He stopped dead in front of me and turned around, looking grim. “Hey, wait a minute, I just realized something. I’ll have to shave my goatee!” he said, pulling a sad face. Tim was very fond of the impressive pelt he grew in England. Not my favorite look, mind you, but I didn’t want to spoil his fun. “What do you mean, honey? It surely wouldn’t make any difference to anyone that you’d grown a beard. You look very handsome,” I said dutifully.

  “Think about it. In the other pictures we’ve sent the paper, I’m clean-shaven. I doubt they’d want you to have two different versions of me in your pictures—one bea
rded, one not,” he replied, looking a little glum. Before I could say anything, though, off he went to make the ultimate manly sacrifice for my budding career! He appeared a few minutes later with a face that matched his Parisian mug. I can’t say I wasn’t secretly pleased to see his great-looking face reemerge.

  The patient clerk shot a series of pictures: inside, outside, single, and double, all for a mere twenty euros. I received the photos I needed, plus a clean-shaven husband. Lucky me.

  ***

  Photo session complete, we looked around the little tourist village and enjoyed a pleasant lunch by the harbor. Then we headed back up the middle of the country toward Dublin. We were tired, damp, and ready to settle in after a week on the road. As we drove along, Tim said, “You know, we said we’d talk about the way we organize our travels after we got to Ireland, and I think we’ve learned what we need to know. I mean, look at us. You’re still half sick, and I’m awfully tired of driving and then dragging our entire luggage into a new place every couple of nights.”

  “I’m afraid I have to agree with you,” I said while gazing at the ruin of an Irish castle perched on a high point in the middle of a farmer’s field. “I think that planning a driving trip when we arrive in a country sounded like a great plan, but in every case—Italy, England, and now here—we have arrived at our final destination exhausted and hauling a pile of dirty laundry! I hate saying this, but I think we’ve got to start considering our ages and give ourselves as many breaks as we can.”

  As we continued the conversation, we agreed that in the future, we’d head directly to our headquarters in whatever country we were visiting, establish our “home,” and then make short trips. By doing so, we would only haul a few days’ worth of clothes and other needs, and then come “home” to our roost, just as regular tourists do. Or residents when they take short holidays. Our new method would cost more because we’d be paying rent on a headquarters, plus hotel rooms on our mini excursions, but we decided that it would be worth economizing in other areas, like skipping a few lunches and dinners out, to alleviate stress and the danger of burning ourselves out. We had been blazing a homefree trail for almost eighteen months and were beginning to distill our experience into routines and planning capabilities that would make our future adventures far easier.

  We also began to realize we might now carry important knowledge and experiences to share with others. Almost everyone we had met along the way was fascinated with our lifestyle, and the Wall Street Journal assignment confirmed that we were on to something.

  As we approached Dublin, I recognized no landmarks from twenty years before. The freeways, interchanges, and slip roads (on-and off-ramps) could just as easily have been in Los Angeles or Buenos Aires. Our trusty GPS, Victoria, prattled on, giving her wild interpretation of Irish lingo (for instance, Victoria would have pronounced our apartment manager’s name, Siobhan, as “sigh-o-bahn,” but the Irish say “Shiv-on,” which sounds like “chiffon”). We enjoyed her phonetic antics as she led us to our new apartment in Bray, a beach community a quick twenty-minute train ride south of the city. The town looked dilapidated, as many beach towns do off-season, but when we turned and drove up a hill, we began to see impressive homes and estates. When we reached a splendid pair of black iron gates accented in gold, Victoria told us to stop.

  As the gates swung wide, we took our first look at Old Connaught House, the massive two-story Georgian mansion that would be our home for a month. (Yes, we were staying in a true mansion.) Tim discovered the place on VRBO.com, the site we use, along with HomeAway.com, for all of our rentals. I had suggested that we stay in one of the quiet beach communities so we wouldn’t have to fight Dublin traffic every day. The massive gray stone structure sat in the center of lavish lawns girdled by imposing stone walls. Tall paned windows shone in the afternoon sun. Behind the building, crops and horse pastures ran all the way down to the Irish Sea. What a thrill! We jumped out of the car, anxious to open the door (the property manager had already provided us with a key) and see what marvels awaited us inside.

  It didn’t take long. Imperial red carpet stretched across the lobby, which had once been the mansion’s reception hall, with gorgeous paintings on its walls and a grand staircase with a polished banister sweeping down, all befitting the era. Plunket, the Lord Chief Justice of Ireland, built Old Connaught House in the late eighteenth century. Many of the trees on the property were over three hundred years old. Millions of moviegoers saw the house as well, in Daniel Day Lewis’s Oscar-winning film My Left Foot.

  Old Connaught had been divided into ten apartments. The ones on the ends of the building had been combined to form larger units with views on three sides, two bathrooms, formal dining rooms, and larger kitchens. The middle units like ours were two bedrooms. All of them shared the entrance and lobby, with hallways leading to various units. They had each been sold as condominiums, so some, like ours, were vacation rentals, while others were occupied by their owners year-round.

  Our pleasure increased when we saw the modern elevator in the corner. It meant one thing above all others: Tim wouldn’t have to lug our heavy black duffels up all those carpeted stairs! The elevator opened almost at our apartment door on the second floor. Once inside our new home, we found a nice big entry hall, a large bedroom with a comfortable king-size bed, a smaller bedroom just right for luggage, and a generous combination living room-dining room-kitchen. Every room featured the twelve-foot-high ceilings and tall, elegant windows reflective of that era. The main rooms faced lush fields and provided views of the Irish Sea. We had to tear ourselves away from the windows to begin the sorting procedure, figure out how to operate another cranky washing machine, and decorate the apartment with socks and underwear before setting off to buy items to stock up the kitchen.

  When we drove down to the sea to reconnoiter, we saw clear evidence the place was packed all summer. Even on a chilly October day, the boardwalk filled up with walkers, dogs and their owners, baby buggies, and kids. Pubs, ice cream stores, small hotels, and touristy shops lined the road, facing the water. Many were already closed for the season, giving the beach a moody, melancholy feeling.

  At the end of the beach we found the Harbour Bar, named The Best Bar in the World in 2010 by The Lonely Planet Guide. We needed to fortify ourselves before confronting a new grocery market experience. I celebrated my improved health with a perfectly drawn pint of Guinness stout.

  It was easy to see why the Harbour Bar won such an honor. We felt as though we were sailing on a wonderful old boat on a very quiet afternoon. The ceiling, floors, and walls gleamed with the patina of the pub’s one-hundred-forty-year history. Nautical antiques and prints decorated every surface, and a peat fire glowed in the tile-framed hearth, its singular aroma distinctly Irish. Yes, we were really here. We sat down in worn but comfortable leather chairs near the fire. Soon, we struck up a conversation with Mike, a slight man with fine features and astute blue eyes who sat at the next table. He wore a flat tweed cap like the one Tim donned daily since he bought it at Cliffs of Moher’s tourist store on our tour of the west coast. “I pick up the shopping for the wife every day and stop in here to have a pint with Joseph,” he said, gesturing at the barkeep.

  Our exchange drifted into politics, a conversational detour that happened often in Europe. It amazed us to realize how much Europeans knew about our government’s policies, as well as the way they followed American headline news. International media gives global coverage as a matter of course. The weather in Dubai, a riot in Brazil, or a strike in Paris are all mentioned in print and on TV, and we realize the paucity of that kind of information in our own country’s media vividly when we’ve been out in the world for a while. “So, how do ya tink it’ll go? I hear the Romney fella is gettin’ on purty well, but I tink Obama is the right man.” His view echoed the opinion of many Europeans to whom we’d talked about the subject. We discussed the coming election for a while, as well as the Irish economy. “Ah, it’s such a sad state of affairs that I prefe
r to just keep quiet about it all together,” said Mike. He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and mimicked a zipper closing his lips. His gesture was so completely Irish that all three of us exploded in laughter.

  As we dragged ourselves away from the warmth and comfort of the Harbour Bar, Tim spotted a well-used dartboard in the corner. He paused, picked up a handful of darts, and sank one into the bull’s-eye on his third go. His expertise tickled me. “I didn’t know you could do that!”

  He laughed. “I didn’t spend years in the music business hanging around bars in Santa Monica for nothing, you know.” He opened the door for me. The unlimited talents of my brilliant renaissance man never cease to amaze me.

  Over the next few days, the weather improved greatly. The winds calmed down and the pelting rains slowed to a drizzle. It gave me the opportunity to show Tim some of the places I remembered vividly from the years I lived there. One old favorite was Powerscourt, a grand Palladian sixty-eight-room house built in the 1700s in the Wicklow Mountains, twenty minutes south of Dublin. Its acres of woodland walks and gardens, exquisite any time of year, looked especially stunning in the colors of autumn. When I last saw the mansion, it had not been restored from a devastating fire in 1974 that left only a shell. I was delighted to find that the building now houses Irish design shops, restaurants, and a visitor center. As well as a Ritz-Carlton Hotel, of all things, new to the property.

  As we wandered through those gardens, it gave me great pleasure to see them in better repair than before. My gardener’s heart sang at the way the historic garden was cherished and properly tended. We stood at the top of the graceful stone staircase, absorbing the superb views of a two-and-a-half-century-old garden. We looked down the colorful terraced formal flower beds, across the man-made lake with its majestic fountain and abundant water lilies, and onto the Wicklow hills scored with dozens of small fields outlined with ancient handmade rock walls. “Well, just think, honey, we could be here looking at this glorious scene, or we could be at the Park Cinema in Paso Robles watching Bruce Willis blow something up. Tough call, huh?”