The bus
to Wexford takes us along some country roads with views of the green, pastoral
countryside. I call out “SHEEEEEEEP” at the sight of my little wooly friends.
Bob says, “This is Ireland.
There are going to be lots of sheep.” Doesn’t stop me.
At times,
the roads are alarmingly narrow, with tree branches and brambles brushing the
sides of the bus, and occasional pauses to let a truck or tractor rumble past a
virtual one lane section.
Wexford
is a nice little seaside town, and our apartment is right next to a very small
harbor, just a ten minute walk
from the center of town. We walk
in and check out the harborfront. There are three or so big fishing boats tied
up, and an open area with benches, but not a lot of waterfront activity. The
life of the town is a block in from the water, where the main street is lined with shops,
cafes and restaurants. This old fashioned lifestyle is part of what makes Ireland, and most of Europe
actually, so interesting. We see several family butcher shops, boutiques,
bookstores, bakeries, cheese shops, all kinds of individual commerce. The
street is full of shoppers too.
We have a
dinner of fish and chips at a pub, sitting in an outdoor courtyard. We stroll
around for a while, then stop in another couple of pubs to enjoy the “Trad
Night,” amateur musicians gathering to play traditional songs. It’s a popular
thing in Wexford. There are oldsters and youngsters, singing and playing.
Guitar, banjo, accordion, drum and flute are all represented. A few of the
singers are very good. Sometimes someone in the audience hops up and starts
dancing. It’s a really nice way to spend an evening.
There’s a
little bit of a historical walk through the town, of course. There’s an old
abbey, remnants of the city wall, and a 16th century St. Patrick’s
church and graveyard, surprisingly in ruins, sitting in the middle of a
residential neighborhood.
After we
walk around for a few hours, Bob decides he really wants to try some fishing.
We stop at a little shop and buy a pole and tackle, and pick up a couple camp
chairs. As we drop into the local pub for an end of the day pint, everyone
perks up. “Fishing, are ye?” “Goin’ fishing, are ye?” “Good luck to ye!”
So, next
day, provisioned with sandwiches and a big bottle of Irish cider, we set up at
the seawall in front of our apartment and spend a gorgeous sunny, breezy day
not catching any fish. We do get a visit from a harbor seal, which is quite
exciting. But as they say in Ireland, “no joy.”
Next,
it’s a cold and drizzly day, just right for a day trip. We take a bus for an
hour’s ride to Waterford,
a larger city and home to the Waterford Glass Factory. The city is attractive
and bustling, more people, more businesses. It has a nice waterfront walkway
and a happy vibe.
The Waterford tour is very
interesting. We learn the history: founded by a British man in the 1700’s to
avoid English taxes, then out of business for nearly 100 years. Two men from Czechoslovakia,
a country with a long tradition of glasscutting, reopened the factory in 1947.
It’s not Irish at all! The tour takes us right into the glassworks, where the
artisans are blowing and cutting and etching and polishing amazing glass
pieces. It’s the sort of behind the scenes tour that we really like.
On the
weekend, we have a small street fest going on. Several bands play through the afternoon.
Everyone sits back with a pint or two and enjoys the show. The music is a
little passé for us, lots of 70’s and 80’s oldies. We liked the Trad night
better, but it’s a fine way to spend a sunny afternoon.
We booked
our flight from Madrid to Dublin with Ryan Air. It is a good
price, but we also have to pay $50 apiece for our backpacks since they're to big for a carry-on. As we wait, we
see dozens of people standing in line at their gate. We don’t understand this,
since we have assigned seats, and people are waiting for more than an hour
before boarding. We’re almost the last ones in, and then we see that the first
ninety or so carry-ons are guaranteed an overhead spot, but after the overheads are full,
your roller bag may have to be checked. As we board, we pass a great big pile
of the luggage that didn’t make it, hence the line-up at the gate. Not overly
efficient, perhaps. The flight is fine, no frills, no dry pretzels. The seats
don’t even recline. But all goes smoothly.
The name on our taxi driver license is "Patrick
O’Neill", so we know we've landed in the right country. The address of our apartment is Addison Park. “Is that all they give yas?” He
says, with indignant disbelief. “That’s it?” “Well,” says Bob, “it’s supposed
to be about half way between the airport and the city…”
“Oh, I know where it is,” He says - he’s a taxi driver, ya dope. “Oh, ok then…”
Addison Park is a very nice apartment complex,
a mix of loft-style buildings and rows of townhouses. The grounds are nicely
landscaped and well-groomed. There’s a view of Glasnevin Cemetery
in the hills behind the park. No one is waiting for us at the address. We nose
around for a few minutes, then Bob knocks at the house across the street where
Sinead’s (our host) sister lives. No answer. Finally a man comes out, on his
phone. He’s Sinead’s brother-in-law, and he’s calling her to come down from her
other sister’s, in another apartment in the park. He tells us she’s all upset
because her visa to the US
was cancelled at the last minute, just yesterday, as she was planning to leave
for a six week vacation, during which time she was renting out her flat. So
it’s a little awkward when she arrives to let us in. She’s going to stay with
her sister, but she’s still quite upset, although she’s very nice to us despite
her trouble.
It’s a
brilliant, sunny, breezy day. The air feels fresh and cool. Everyone is
remarking on how gorgeous the day is. So, it must not be like this very often…
We walk a
few blocks to the commercial corner, which has everything you’d like. There are
a couple of restaurants, pubs, a pharmacy, grocery, butcher, bank, hair salon,
bakery, hardware store, newsstand and take-out joint. Very convenient. It does,
however, take a very long time to get anything done because we spend twenty or
thirty minutes chatting at each stop. “You’re on holidays, are ye? Where’r ye
from? Ah, New York!
I’d love to visit meself! And how are ye finding Ireland? Do ye have people here?
Did ye bring this weather with ye?” And on, like so. It’s really nice, people
are genuinely friendly.
We have a
bus stop at our corner, so our plan is to have a nice long walk into the city,
then grab a bus home when we’re done for the day. It’s very pleasant to walk
through the neighborhoods, past the Botanical Gardens, a canal walk and rows of
brick townhouses.
The big
draw in Dublin City is Temple Bar, which is not a bar,
but a district of several blocks, pedestrian streets, packed with pubs and
restaurants and shops. Every pub is so inviting, charming, and historical, with
musicians in the pubs and on the streets. It’s true, you can hear “Wild Rover” five
or six times in an afternoon, but you have to accept a tourist district for
what it is.
We stop
in one very nice pub with a single guitar player going, and tell the bartender
we’re having our first Guinness in Ireland. He takes a few minutes to
pull the pints, and gives us a full lesson and he sets them down. “Don’t touch
‘em! Let it rest.” The bubbles froth up in the glass turning light brown to
deep black as the action subsides. “OK, now,” after a couple minutes, “Hold
your elbow high, DON”T SIP IT! Take a big drink, keep your eyes up, look to the
sky!” Boy, this is complicated…but exceedingly delicious. “You want to drink it
so you keep the head all the way to the bottom.” I swirl my glass around a
little. “DON’T DO THAT!” Ok, jeez. So we are fully schooled, and venture on to
practice our craft.
Jonathan
Swift is buried in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, our next site to visit. The grey
sandstone of Ireland
looks a little dreary at first. But the buildings have a somber stillness to
them that is also very beautiful. The church is solid and quietly decorated,
without the flamboyance of the Italian cathedrals.
We walk
on to an exhibit called Dublinia, a history of the early founding and medieval
years of the city. It’s designed for children, and there are several school
groups running through, but it’s very interesting and well-designed overall, so
we enjoy several hours going through the exhibits, learning of the Viking
settlers and the Irish kings. We finish off the day with a pint in Temple Bar,
listening to some familiar songs once more. The clueless crowd needs
instructions to clap along to the”No, Nae, Never” refrain, which really should
be stomping and pounding the table, not clapping.
We have
our walk into the city next day, and everyone seems to be dressed for November,
jackets and scarves and hats. IT’S JULY, PEOPLE. We make a visit to Dublin Castle,
in the center of the city. We learn more about the history of Irish
independence, and visit the state apartments which are elegant, but not
grandiose. There’s a very interesting exhibit of glass art by David Chihuly,
incorporating themes from James Joyce’s Ulysses in beautiful gold-flecked glass
cylinders. Walking back through the city streets, we come upon an operatic
flash mob, performing a strange arrangement in homage to smoking. “Suck it in
suck it in suck it in” goes the chorus. “Blow it out blow it out blow it out…”
We talk a
walk to try to see what goes on at the harbor, just on the outskirts of the
city. It turns out to be fairly inaccessible, with nothing to see on the
streets that lead to the ferry ports. We pass the very large O2 performance
center, and cross the river to a modern neighborhood of apartment buildings and
technology companies. Along the river Liffe, there’s an old brick warehouse where we
find a film installation, five screens telling the story of the working harbor.
Unexpected and interesting. We have our day’s pint at the Palace in Temple Bar,
advertising itself as yet another “oldest pub in Dublin.”
We are
dealing with a non-functioning shower at home, using a plastic cup to rinse
off. Sinead’s had a couple tries to fix it, and another plumber is coming
today. We take a long walk along the canal path, with several working locks,
although no one seems to do any boating here. We pass throngs of people heading
to a game at Croake
Park, the big stadium
here. There’s a huge issue going on concerning Garth Brooks, who has sold out
five nights of performances, but has only received licenses for three shows. He
insists on five or nothing, and everyone is in a dither fighting for or against
him, and trying to figure out who to blame. Big mess. But today, everyone has
their team shirts on and is piling into the stadium. We stop at a ticket office
and very nearly buy seats to what we think is a soccer game, but we decide instead to
continue our walk back to the harbor neighborhood to see the “U2 graffiti wall”. We end up at Sweetman’s brewpub for a pint, and find out we missed a
'hurling' game, not soccer, at the stadium. It’s being broadcast on the tv, and
the bartender explains that it’s an indigenous Irish sport, like lacrosse with
a flat bat instead of a net stick, and the players are not professionals, they
all have regular jobs. It’s quite a game.
Everyone
comes to Dublin
to see the Book of Kells, an illustrated manuscript from 800 A.D. It’s in an
exhibition hall at Trinity
College, another site on
our list, so it’s two for one! We manage to get into the room before a big tour
group, and enjoy the historical displays and the actual pages of the book. We
did see an outstanding collection of illuminated manuscripts in Bologna last year, but this
is a singular piece of art and history, worth the visit.
The Irish Museum
of Modern Art is in a former 17th Century Royal Hospital, with a
beautiful building and parklike grounds. The collection is interesting and
well-presented, there aren’t many familiar artists, so it’s cool to see the
work and learn a little more about Irish artists. Also, it’s just a few blocks
from the Guinness Brewery!
Actually,
the Guinness Brewery is so massive, it’s a few blocks from anything in Dublin. The former Arthur
Guinness family brewery is now owned by Diageo, the world’s largest producer of
spirits, Smirnoff, Jonnie Walker, Bailey’s and Hennessy among them. The tour is
a slick production through the history and process, not through the actual
brewery of course, but it’s still fun and informative. The collection of
advertising is our second favorite part, because the best is, of course, the
fresh pint at the 360-degree view tower bar, with all of Dublin and the Wicklow mountains as our
entertainment. We’ve learned that there are a number of breweries around the
world, but all the kegs come from this brewery in Dublin. The Guinness we have in Dublin tastes like
nothing else.
Next day,
we take a walk back along the river to the historic Kilmainham Gaol, built in
1796 as a step to reform the horrible dungeon conditions of incarceration at
the time. It was still pretty horrible, with men, women and children locked up
together. Architecturally, it’s actually very cool to walk through the
corridors and cell blocks. In 1916, the seven leaders of the rebellion for
Irish independence were brought here. Their executions made them martyrs to the
cause, and rekindled the efforts that led to the 1920 uprising, culminating in
the treaty that created an independent Irish nation from 26 of the 32 counties,
creating Northern Ireland
and an unending controversy.
Having
completed our Guinness tour, next on the agenda is the Jameson Distillery. The
buildings have been almost completely lost to urban renewal, but a portion of
the original complex is still visible on the tour. We learn about the process
and history, and the difference in making Jameson. The barley is roasted
without contact with smoke, while Scotch whisky is given various degrees of
smokiness in the making. We see the barrels for aging, brought from the sherry
bodegas in Spain
that we saw just months ago. The final tasting is again the best part of the
tour.
Back
home, Sinead’s dad stops by to apologize for the shower troubles, which are now fixed, and asks if
we’d like a discount on the apartment rental to make up for it. He’s really
nice, chatting with us, obviously concerned about Sinead and wanting to keep us
happy. We’re pretty sure Sinead doesn’t know he’s talking with us. We say, no thanks,
things happen, we’re fine, we’re not fussy people. “Oh, that’s grand,” he says.
“Some people are fussy, you know. The Germans,
now, they’re fussy.”
Our
apartment is just around the corner from the Botanical Gardens and Glasnevin Cemetery, a huge, historical national
cemetery. “It’s our Arlington,”
says one local, even thought it’s not a military cemetery. We make our visit on
a lovely, fresh summer day. The cemetery museum is ok, sort
of generic exhibits on burial customs and famous burials. The grounds, however,
are very interesting and parklike. We don’t take the tour, since we’re really not
familiar enough with the dead celebrities to appreciate it. We just walk
around, looking at the monuments and markers. Eventually, we make our way over
to a gate that leads into the Botanical Gardens.
The gardens are really lively, with different sections displaying types of
flowers or trees, and most everything is blooming at this time of year. There’s
a great Victorian glass greenhouse, ponds, rosebushes, and lots of people
walking around enjoying the place. A very relaxing Sunday for our last day in Dublin. When we get back
home, Sinead pops in to give us a bottle of Bailey’s to thanks us for being
such good guests and not freaking out over the shower.
Our host
in Valencia
has arranged for us to pick up our keys from the building concierge, who leaves
for his lunch break at 2pm. We have a very short window of time from our bus
arrival to find the metro and make it to the apartment in time, cut even
shorter when our bus turns up 45 minutes late. We make a dash through the hot
streets with our packs, Bob’s trying to navigate with his map, a wrong turn or
two, then we’re trotting up to the building where the concierge is standing at
the door looking for us. Come on! We’ve made it! He gives us a quick
introduction and the keys, and he’s off! The place is very
nice, at the top floor, all clean and modern and new, with a lovely, large
terrace and view to the mountains beyond the city.
We catch
a bus to check out the beach. It’s gorgeous, of course. What is interesting,
though, is the neighborhood around the beach. Instead of high-rise hotels or
apartments or condos, it’s a sort-of run down collection of two-story homes,
possible 1920’s or 30’s era, built of stucco and tile.It seems likely that there is a historical
district protected from demolition, much like South
Beach, Miami. It gives the beach a quiet, old
fashioned look. There’s a long promenade, and at intervals along it there are
buildings for restaurants, so that all the restaurants look the same. It does
give the beach a simplified, uncluttered look that does not distract from the
gorgeous view of the sand and sea. Again, we find the beach nearly deserted.
The restaurants are pretty quiet as well, so we have no trouble finding a table
outside with a perfect view of the water, for a dish of traditional paella. Mmm
Mmm!
There is
a huge complex called the City of Arts and
Science in Valencia, much
bigger than the one in Granada,
and incorporating an opera house and performing arts center, IMAX, aquarium and
arboretum, all in a setting of fantastic architecture and water pools. We walk
through the city for a visit.
The city
itself is not especially scenic, a nice enough, modern metropolis, seemingly
prosperous and busy, but no great sites or historical district really stand
out. It is interesting to see the inclusion of Valencian as an official
language along with Spanish. All the street signs, advertising and even product
labels include both. The Valencian is substantially different, perhaps closer
to Portuguese, with a ‘sh’ sound in the words where the Castilian has the
“th”After studying Latin American
Spanish, the Castilian Spanish still sounds a little awkward and lumpy to me
with the lispy emphasis on the s.
The City
of Arts and
Science is dramatic, filling acres covered with turquoise pools and buildings
rising up in organic shapes evoking whales and waves and sails. The surfaces
are covered with a mosaic of glossy white porcelain tiles. You can rent kayaks
at the pools, but a more popular activity is the giant plastic hamster balls,
“used by NASA to train astronauts for zero gravity” Right. People climb in,
then the ball is inflated with a hot hairdryer, and they are sent out onto the
water to roll and fumble around in the last person’s sweat. No thank you.
We arrive
just in time to see and IMAX movie on how people were mummified in ancient Egypt,
then head underground to the aquarium. Some of the fish tanks are gigantic,
with hundreds of fish species, including sharks and beluga whales. It’s very
pleasant to be out of the hot sun, wandering through the cool, dark exhibits.
We emerge to go to the stadium for the dolphin show, which is sort of cheesy,
with lots of audience participation gimmicks. The grounds are very nice, with
boardwalks winding through habitats for waterbirds and sea lions. At the end of
the day, we’re quite exhausted, and we’ve barely seen half of the City’s
offerings.
We buy a
glass of horchata from a street vendor. It’s similar to what you’d find in Mexico, but
instead of being a rice drink, the Valencian version is made with a local tiger
nut, whatever that is. It has a nice sort of wheaty flavor.
The city
does have a historic district, aka the place with the tourists. There’s a
remnant of the city gates with a stone tower that offers nice views. We lunch
on in-season local cherries from a little boutique grocery. One waits in line,
then points to one’s desired produce on the shelves, and the produce concierge
packages them for you. The cherries are unbelievably juicy and good. The rest
of the neighborhood has bistros full of tourists, street artists doing
caricatures and souvenir shops. It’s not nearly as crowded as some of the other
major cities, so it’s pleasant in a way, but not our favorite place.
There
used to be a river running through Valencia, but it has been
“diverted”, and the riverbed is now a very nice green
space wrapping around the city. As we walk along a shady path, we see soccer
fields, bike paths, basketball courts, glades of trees, fountains and open
lawns. People are out walking dogs or children, some lively soccer games are going
on, summer camps for kids on outings, one field is taken over for water fights
for a pack of overexcited youngsters. At one point, there is a gigantic statue
of a Don Quixote knight, reclining on the ground, acting as a great, sprawling
playground. People are climbing up the legs and sliding down the cape, hiding
in the fingers, catching shade under the sword. It’s a very unusual sight.
We see mounted policemen riding through the
park on gorgeous white Andalucían horses. Nice job.
After a
couple hours, we arrive at the City of Arts
and Science once more, and this time we go into the Science building, a
gleaming white atrium with several floors of exhibitions. We have satellites
and sports science, arctic exploration, climate change, a forest of chromosomes
and a three-story DNA double helix. It makes for an interesting afternoon.
But, as
we come to the end of June, it’s starting to become hot, with blinding
sun and ninety degree days, July and August loom before us. Time to get out of Spain!
June 30
MADRID
We take a
high speed train from Valencia
to Madrid, a
fast and comfortable ride. We did not expect the airport-style security check
getting onto the train, though. My pack went through the scanner, and the guard
had me pull it aside, asking if it was a knife that I had. I dug through and
took out our nice chef’s knife that we had purchased in Sophia last year to
save us from the trauma of using horrible wobbly dollar-store cutlery in our
apartments. “No, you cannot take this,” he said, curtly confiscating it and
chucking it into a bin. Done. Alas.
We have a
hard time finding our little hotel. We know it’s on the block near the train
station, just across from the Prado, but we don’t see it. It’s very common for
hotels or hostels to occupy just one floor of a five or six story building.
Finally we check for our hotel name at the row of doorbells at one address, and
see our destination. We ring in, and make our way to the fourth floor. We have
a very simple room, but it’s clean and quiet and very convenient for our overnight stop. The neighborhood behind us is full of traditional
cafes and bistros, perfect for our dinner of house-specialty oxtail stew.
We are
met at the bus station in Gandia, a few hours up the coast, by Estaban, a
dapper gentleman with white hair and a pipe. We have a short ride through the
city with him and his wife, Francesca. Neither speaks much English, but we
manage. It’s Francesca who is in charge of the apartment, evidenced by the
assortment of brochures and instructions waiting for us, all very organized,
and which she talks us through with enthusiastic gestures and phrases. It’s a
very nice place, a real home, much like Alicante,
with heavy furniture and full sets of china and silverware.
Gandia is
two cities. We are in the old city, the commercial center where few tourists
venture. Then, the beach city, a collection of hotels and restaurants gathered
along a spectacular sandy beach. The two are connected by a strip of roadway
with a bike path and some neighborhoods of townhouse developments. We have a
bus stop right near the apartment, so we try out the bus ride to the beach. It turns out that they are red-flagged because of the waves, and
completely empty, which seems pretty strange. We’d expect to see people out on
the beach even if there’s no swimming. But the facilities are very nice, with
lounge rentals, snack stands, beach showers and restrooms. We stroll the
promenade a ways, passing a few packs of college kids coming in for a holiday.
All the girls are hauling gigantic suitcases. They’re also all wearing
flip-flops, tiny shorts and tank tops. They must also need a few hundred
outfits on hand. Farther along, we find a massive bonfire under construction.
There’s a festival Saturday, Solstice and all, so by then it should be really,
really big. Impressive.
Our
balcony overlooks a big city park with high trees and a water garden, and…a skateboard park! We can’t see anyone, but we can hear loud
smashing and banging noises, “like a construction site, where they throw boards around,” says Bob.
We take
an afternoon to visit the Ducal
Palace of the Borgias
(Yes, THEM), the city’s main tourist site - very elegant - but we spend most of
the week here at the beach. Conditions have improved and the water is lovely.
We see lots of very large fish swimming right at our feet. Bob can’t believe no
one is surf fishing here. The beach vendors tote bags of bikinis, cover-ups and sunglasses,
leather braided wrist bracelets and weird apple-shaped cutting boards that
splay into a basket, always handy to have at the beach. One young Spanish woman
has great success with a popular item, a silky, long vest-like garment that
comes in florescent rainbow of color choices. She’s wearing one, and
demonstrates for her customers the dozens of ways it can be worn with the use
of a little belt loop. “Like this, a halter dress! Like this, a wrap dress!
Like this, bandeau style!” She moves through several more styles, flipping the
fabric around, over her head, arms in, arms out, pulling it through the belt
loop. Her customers are mesmerized, and fork over the ten Euros, to spend the
rest of the day trying to figure out exactly how she did she do that???
