"And watch the sun go down on Galway Bay" ... "My wild Irish rose, the sweetest flower that grows" ... "Rose of Tralee" ... "Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling" ...
The songs come back to us even if we're not Irish, and even if we've been wearied over the years of all the Irish braggadocio. We went to Ireland somewhat more than 20 years ago, hoping to see an Emerald Isle, but it being March we saw mainly a lot of gray and a lot of brown.
In 1979 we decided to go to Ireland while we were in England. We went to Ryan's Tours, and Ireland, to put it simply, was on strike, a general strike that continued in part through our visit.
But we made it, flying to Dublin, renting a rather jumpy Ford Escort and driving into Dublin on what seemed the wrong side of the road. But I managed, even on some narrow Irish highways. There seemed to be ravens much of the time. And we saw a sign, 'Drive slowly. Geese crossing." We laughed at the joke, drove around the corner, and, what do you know, a gaggle of geese crossing the highway.
Back to Dublin. Our tour people had put us in the Gresham Hotel, about as lovely a hotel as we've ever stayed in. We got out and did some tramping around, to Trinity College, the Bank of Ireland for money, tea at a British Home Store and a walk through St. Patrick's Cathedral, which seemed gray and grim.
Dublin was a letdown. At night all the shops and restaurants had iron bars in front of them. There must have been fear of crime. I tried to call a friend and realized that the telephone directory, about the size of a city directory in America, was for all of Ireland.
We drove next through the Boyne Valley, to visit Drogheda. When I asked in a shop for directions back to the highway I was told to go "pawst five cawstles." We saw "cawstles" all over the island. Traffic was light as we headed across to the west coast. Sheep, ravens, wind, and though not very green yet, a beautiful land to look at. I could see why Ireland had had so many bards and orators and playwrights. I can get out my Dennis Day album and hear the songs or the tape I made a while back of the Irish Tenors.
Sligo was an early destination, at the Yeats County Ryan Hotel. There was a fireplace, and we welcomed it. The sun was out and we watched the sun go down on Sligo Bay. Galway, the city with the romantic name, was next, and it was our base for a stay longer than the one in Sligo. Now we saw the peat bogs, and the rock walls, and the thatched roofs, and some mountains. We stopped at a pub in Westport, and instead of "Danny Boy" we were greeted by Glenn Miller's "In the Mood."
The Galway Cathedral was there to visit. There were signs in Gaelic. We saw a lot of swans and geese. We didn't talk to many Irish, but that changed at our next stop, Limerick. Another Ryan hotel, and memories of this city are vivid. The River Shannon was flowing there, and we drove out to the Cliffs of Moher, a sight you shouldn't pass up. I stood there shivering, hat between my knees, camera in my hands, fearing the wind would blow me right into the water. A fabulous sight!
We stopped at the Bunratty Castle, toured the Folk Museum, went into a hut heated by peat. We made reservations for the medieval banquet, and it was St. Patrick's Day. We drank mead and wine throughout dinner, and we had no forks or spoons. I did fear that middle-of-the-night drive back to Limerick.
At the desk there were shamrocks. The young woman at the cash register said "You Americans make more of St. Patrick's Day than we do." We talked with children from Texarkana, Ark., who had marched in the parade in Dublin, in heavy snow.
Next, Killarney, with a side trip to Tralee, but no John McCormack to sing about the rose. Not very pretty towns. We took the Ring of Kerry drive, snow on the highway. Donkeys, forests, gorse, rhododendrons.
We went to Cork, to the Blarney Castle, did not kiss the stone. The strike had closed the Waterford crystal factory. And we stayed in a town near a beautiful forest named for John F. Kennedy, that Irish-American.
Everything was closed in Dublin. We drove to the Malahide Castle, found at the airport that we could go back to London on the next flight, stood there, identifying our bags. Fine system. A memorable visit to Ireland. I'd like to see it in the summer.
Calder Pickett is a professor emeritus of journalism at Kansas University. His column appears Sundays in the Journal-World.
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