Day 8 (Part I): A Relatively Excellent Meal

This is one of a series of entries from my travel journal chronicling my recent trip to Europe. You can click here for the archived entries.

Day 7 | Day 8 (Part II)

Ireland Photo Gallery

Cork Airport, Cork City, Co. Cork, Rep. of Ireland 13/06/08

I'm currently waiting to board my flight from Cork to Dublin after a very easy and successful drive here. I bid farewell to Mom, who dropped me off and has another day in the Old Country before she flies out on Saturday. I made sure to give myself plenty of time to get here so I have some time to kill. Seems like the perfect opportunity to recount yesterday's events.

All week I had been yearning to try the fabled Irish breakfast, specifically black pudding (blood sausage). I awoke bright and early and headed over to La Jolie Brise to order their Full Irish Breakfast, consisting of both black and white pudding, bacon, sausage, egg, and tomato - all pan-fried. Coffee, OJ, and toast were included at €7.50 - not bad at all in this land of culinary highway robbery.

It was a great meal, although I've never been more thirsty - shockingly salty, especially the bacon. I was pleasantly surprised with the pudding as well. Black pudding is a mixture of pork, oats, herbs, spices, and of course pig's blood. (I noticed that the grocery store versions contained about 18% of it.) It's actually far less meaty than typical pork sausage and has a slightly bready texture and spicy taste, with a bit of sweetness due to the blood (the white pudding is the same sans blood of course, so lacks this level of sweetness and depth of flavor). I liked the black pudding quite a bit and preferred it to the white.

After breakfast Mom and I headed out to Rosscarbery, the main town in the general area from which my great-grandparents on my Mom's maternal side came. We took the R597 out of Rosscarbery to the tiny village of Drombeg, where there is an impressive stone circle dating from 2000-500 BCE. This was far more impressive than the first stone circle we saw. The two tallest stones (the "portal" stones) were about 5' high, and the rest of the slightly shorter stones made a circle some 10' or so in diameter. During the winter solstice the sun shines through the portal stones and hits the axial, or recumbent, stone, lying horizontally directly opposite the portal stones. In the center of the circle was a small plot - presumably a more modern addition - filled with offerings of one sort or another - flowers, seashells, coins. I tossed in a few euro cents because it seemed like the thing to do.

On the same main site about 50 yards from the circle were a couple other Bronze Age sites - the remains of a couple huts (mere stone foundations/outlines) and a very interesting communal cooking area with a well, a trough, and a hearth. My hungry Celtic forebears would build a fire and heat up rocks until they were red hot, then roll them into the trough, filled with fresh water from the well. This would heat the water in the trough so that it could be used in cooking. Experiments have shown that it was possible to boil 70 liters of water in about 18 mins. using this method, and the water would remain hot for some three hours thereafter. [Ed: My numbers might be off here but that's the gist of it.] An amazing site, perched on a hillside, with a tremendous view of the surrounding hills and the sea off in the distance.

After Drombeg we headed back to Rosscarbery and walked around a bit. There was a very nice town center and a church up the hill hidden a bit from the main road. Very scenic. We then tried to find Barleyhill, back down the N71 toward Skibbereen. This proved a mite difficult as small town districts like this are on the maps but not necessarily marked with any signage. Also, although technically called a "town" district it might in actuality be nothing more than a handful of houses and farmland scattered over several square miles. After a couple back-and-forth attempts we took a turn onto what looked to be the correct turnoff into rolling farm country - serious hicksville (which for Ireland is saying something). I was fairly confident we were in the right area - there was not a house standing anymore, but we knew that my Nana's mother had come from the Barleyhill area. A friendly local farmer confirmed that we were indeed in Barleyhill, although we were in West Barleyhill rather than East Barleyhill and we possibly wanted East Barleyhill; or perhaps it was vice-versa. Either way we figured we had succeeded. We snapped a few shots of horses and cows and set off to meet the rest of my relatives in Castletownshend for lunch at the famous Mary Ann's.

This is a restaurant with great distinction in Ireland, from what I understand. It began in the 1840's, has gone through several changes in ownership, has won many awards and is in countless guidebooks and recommendations as a top seafood restaurant. This was reason enough to check it out but we also had a tenuous family connection with the owner, Fergus O'Mahony. Fergus was related to one of my Nana's first cousins - therefore a cousin of some complicated degree of removal to me.

We had a fantastic lunch, one of the best I've ever had - long, leisurely, with fabulous food and company. I started off with the seafood chowder - not a complex broth but brimming with big pieces of fish and fresh vegetables. A simplified departure from my experience at the Fishy Fishy Cafe, but definitely a welcome one. I was able to sample some starters from around the table as well - delightful mussels in basil & cream; fried goat cheese with a sweet chili relish; smoked salmon as part of a cold seafood salad. All were delicious. For my main I chose the filet of plaice (a white fish similar to cod) stuffed with leeks and crabmeat in a creamy white wine sauce. Fabulous! I sampled the scallop special as well - seared scallops with an herb mushroom & crab risotto. Quite tasty, all. With our food the table got a big plate of yellow chips (fries), mixed veggies and a gigantic dish of mashed potatoes. We were served by a friendly if slightly hard-to-understand Polish young man. Nobody could resist ordering dessert given the ostentatious dishes we had seen going by to other tables as we ate. I chose the apple and rhubarb crumble which was simply delicious, served with creamy vanilla ice cream and surrounded in a sort of raspberry-vanilla sauce.

After dinner we introduced ourselves to Fergus and asked him for help with directions to the fourth and final destination on the Sullivan Family Tree Tour at Bawnishall Cross Roads. Fergus - a busy man and rather a big deal in Ireland's burgeoning gourmet dining industry - dropped everything he was doing and launched into a nonstop stream-of-consciousness speech:

"Oh yes we were in the States a few years ago - Trish, my wife, and I - but the last time was before that awful man was elected President. Ooooooh, how I hate those Republicans. Corrupt, all of 'em! We here love the Clintons. Love them." He indicated a photograph of Bill Clinton from a benefit in Dublin some years prior. "A most charming man. I don't think Obama's the man for the job. They'll shoot him before he gets to the White House. But yes now where are ye from? Boston - what part? Milton...is that on the North Shore? South Shore, right. Now [my relatives] lived in Chelsea. I remember Daniel had the big dog. You shoulda seen the food that man would feed it. Three dogs couldn't have eaten it! Thing was enormous. I used to take it out for a walk and it'd be panting for hours after we got back. That dog died of a heart attack. Dan killed him with kindness, he did. Now Jake's brothers were rebels. Our family was always Fianna Fail, always supported the cause. All three of them left Ireland and headed for America. Never came back. The Free State Army was after them. Never came back home. Aye, driving here can be tough. Stay to the left! A few years ago I was home for James' funeral - that would've been ninety-seven. Was playing golf in Florida and found meself a few times with a car comin' right at me. Forgot meself to drive on the right! At night it's especially tough. Lovely country, though, America. They just had a tornado in Iowa yesterday. Ran through a Scout camp it did. Killed nine children. Tragic, absolutely tragic. Here, follow me and I'll show you where me grandmother was born, it's just around the corner. That little house right there with the bay windows. Now me brother's house. My other brother lives next door there. How's the economy in Massachusetts? Real estate is just crazy over there. My brother bought a huge house in Florida for $200,000! Unbelievable. Around here houses start at €400,000! I'm on a diet now - lost 2 1/2 stone over the last few weeks. Smoked salmon and beef stroganoff is all I eat. You should've seen me five weeks ago! I looked like the fattened calf. Did'ye like our fresh homemade brown bread? Let me give you a loaf to take with you."

Fergus was incredible. Friendly, charming, hilarious, generous, and very helpful. After giving us a big loaf of his brown bread he wished us good luck and said, "Perhaps I'll see you in America!" Once Bush leaves office then Fergus will bring himself to come back to the US. In a poll I read in the Irish Times it said that only 7% of Irish would vote for McCain - Hillary had a few more percentage points of support over Obama. They love the Clintons over here.

We checked out the impressive church in Castletownshend (which is a small town with a nice harbor, the church, and only one other bar/restaurant aside from Mary Ann's from what we could tell) and then went off to find the Bawnishall Cross Roads.

Again, Bawnishall is a town district that is unmarked by signage, but Fergus had told us that once we reached the crossroads that had the sign for the Toe Head road, then that would be the right spot. We hit the crossroads as Fergus had described in our two-car caravan and talked to some locals to confirm that we were indeed in the correct area. They were, as is evidently the case in West Cork, wonderfully friendly people, willing to drop everything to help a stranger out. Now Bawnishall from what I could tell consisted of a couple farms and three or four houses in close proximity ("Oh! Boh-NEEE-shall you mean!") so everyone had at least heard of the Sheehans, the descendants of whom still lived somewhere in the area although nobody was sure where. This was the one place where we had relatively good intelligence that the original house in which my Mom's grandfather grew up was still standing. After much deliberation, talking amongst themselves, and conferring with all the local passersby, it was determined that the old Sheehan house was literally right in front of us at the crossroads. This was a very good thing - unfortunately the house had fallen into ruin for some time and was purchased by someone who knocked it down and was building a big, modern house on the old site. Fortunately the original outhouse stood on the side - a curious juxtaposition with the huge modern house in the midst of construction. Also, part of the original wall remained in the back and was seamlessly integrated with the new wall - an appropriate tribute to the old while making room for the new. Although we couldn't be 100% certain that this was in fact the correct house, everyone seemed pretty confident that this was "where the old Sheehan house was." An amazing feeling to be connected to a few stones, a small plot of land some thousands of miles across the Atlantic in a foreign land.

"You're standing on the same land where your great-grandfather once stood, dearie," said one of the local women who helped us (actually she was visiting from Cork City but she had friends in the area).

Indeed, an amazing feeling.

We headed down the road back to Baltimore and headed to Casey's for a final drink with everyone together. My aunt, uncle, and cousin were staying in Baltimore until Saturday, driving to Dublin, and staying through until Monday. Mom was heading up to Cashel to check out the Rock and the surrounding area and then staying over in Cork before catching her flight home on Saturday. And I, well, here I am at Dublin Airport now around 2PM, awaiting my 4:00 flight to Budapest, Hungary. (I finished my Cork-Dublin flight while writing this entry for those actually paying attention.)

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A few notes on Guinness:

To start, a poured pint here is different from all but the most legitimate Irish pubs in the States (the ones in which the bartender speaks with a brogue). The two-part pour is a process that should take no less than four or five minutes, and often seems to take longer. The first pour fills the pint glass about 3/4 of the way, and then the bartender lets it rest for a few minutes to let the head settle. Then he goes off to tend to other customers, tidy up behind the bar, or even come out from behind the bar to gab with the regulars for a bit. After this the pint is topped off with a perfect finishing pour - the head is a wonderful nitrogenated foam forming a perfect meniscus on the rim of the glass. Even then it's best for the patron to let the pint sit for a couple minutes to let the foam settle into the head properly. Whether all this actually makes it taste better, or even different, isn't something I can in good conscience comment on (only because I don't think it matters a whit after my very informal experimentation) but it's just the Way It's Done.

Because of all the time involved, the corollary to being prepared for this process is that when you order your next pint, be sure to order it well before you've finished your current one. Ideally you should have a fresh pint poured and waiting for you while you finish your current one. This means when you finish, you will have a properly poured pint that has already settled enough to be enjoyed. I found that a good rule of thumb is to order the next round when the level of stout has reached the curving-in point in the standard stout pint glass (this of course assumes a leisurely rate of consumption. Individual mileage may vary, especially on St. Patty's Day). I have arrived at this conclusion only after some rigorous, scientific testing this week.

Oh, and you know how everyone says that Guinness tastes better in Ireland? I disagree. I think a draught in Ireland tastes the exact same as that in the States (and presumably Honk Kong, Vladivostok, and Ulan Bator, for that matter). Not surprising considering that Guinness is a huge international brand that is quite effectively mass-marketed by its owning company (which isn't even Irish). However, the Guinness definitely feels better over here. It's a far more enjoyable, almost transcendent experience to have a drop of the black stuff on the Old Sod than anywhere else.

A small distinction, perhaps, but an important one.