Toast & Tracy's Epic Ireland Adventure
August, 2006
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Day 
Three
The plan for Friday was for all the guys to participate in a golf tournament that Gordon had arranged to be played in Sligo.
I do not golf. And I do not subscribe to the "Oh, just go hack around, you don't have to be good at it, come on, it'll be fun!" school of thought. No no no. Some day, I may take up golf, and when I do I will rule at it and I will crush everyone who dares compete with me. Until that day, however, I will bide my time and decline all invites to golfing excursions. It's just how I am.
So, with the Friday agenda featuring something we were not interested in, Tracy and I decided that we would move on to Westport, where the wedding reception was being held, a day ahead of everyone else. My mother and my aunt Loretta signed on to the idea as well.
We packed our bags -- actually, re-packed or semi-packed as the lack of a dresser prevented us from truly unpacking in the full and complete fashion which Tracy prefers -- and departed from the West Dromore B & B. As we turned onto the main road, headed out along the coast towards Ballina, I turned to Tracy with my most serious demeanor and said "Remember: Driving on the left."
Actually, by this point in our trip, Tracy had settled in nicely to the whole driving on the left side of the narrow, shoulderless roads thing. I felt safe. Safer, in fact, than I did driving with her at home. The unfamiliarity of the terrain combined with the readily apparent mortal danger it presented had sufficiently tempered her normal NASCAR-driver instincts, allowing Tracy The World's Safest Driver to assert herself. This was a good thing.
The only thing that tripped us up was the damned fake traffic lights. We encountered one set of these in West Dromore and another in Castlebar, on the way to Westport. And when I say "encountered" what I mean is "nearly piled into the car in front of us which had suddenly stopped for no visibly discernible reason". Note to the Republic of Ireland Department of Transportation: Traffic signals, even temporary ones, really need to be taller than chest height to be both safe and functional.
But back to our journey.
As we drove west out of town, we passed by what looked for all the world like a couple of X-Mas tree farms. Just acres and acres of isosceles-shaped evergreens. These stood out because the Irish countryside, at least as compared with New England, is kinda short on forests. Lots of grass and bushes and singleton trees here and there, but not much in the way of densely forested areas.
Heading towards Westport, we passed first through the crowded, windy downtown streets of Ballina, where we saw fly fisherman wading in the river below us, angling for salmon. Next we came to our Official Favorite Cute Little Irish Town, Foxford. Just a perfect little postcard of a place. Castlebar, featuring more of a standard suburban landscape as well as the evil fake stop light, was next. And then, Westport.
The hotel where the reception was being held, and where we would spend the next three nights, was the Knockranny, pictured at right. Now, I don't want to harsh on the Dromore House or anything, but let's just say that the accommodations at the Knockranny were a tad more upscale. They had, you know, furniture and stuff. Oh, and they had a free internet terminal for registered guests. This would prove indispensable during our stay because, as we were arriving in Westport, the Yankees were arriving at Fenway for a critical five-game series with the Sox.
Everything about the Knockranny was four-star. Great restaurant. Luxurious bar. Comfortable lounging areas. Well-appointed rooms. And only a ten-minute walk to town. Trust me, if you're in Westport and you're looking for someplace to stay, shell out the extra Euros and get yourself a room here. You won't regret it.
After checking in, Tracy and I took our obligatory afternoon nap. The non-stop activity on this trip had easily overcome the usual difficulty I have napping during the day (a difficulty Tracy does not share) and so each day, for about 45 minutes or so, I would be out like a light, taking the edge off the previous night's hangover and generally charging my batteries. Never for too long, though. We were in Ireland, and the allure of the next pint -- er, next sightseeing opportunity -- was always there in the background, whispering to us to get our mahones in gear.
The Knockranny sits on a hill overlooking Westport and Westport Harbor. This was the scene that greeted Tracy and me as we headed downtown to see what Westport had to offer. To the southwest, you can barely make out the base of Croagh Patrick as it sits under the low-hanging clouds.
So we're walking down the driveway of the Knockranny, looking forward to seeing the town, when suddenly, AHHHHHHH! TRACY GETS ATTACKED BY A GIANT KILLER BUSH!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
Um, OK, so this picture came out kinda lame and unconvincing. You have to believe me when I say the bush looked much, much bigger in person. Really. And Tracy was, like, totally scared of it!
(sigh)
Allright, moving on...
Westport is a pretty little town. It's not dissimilar to the touristy coastal towns we have here in New England -- think Rockport, MA or Ogonquit, ME or, wait, Camden, ME, that's it -- except that, being in Ireland, 50% of the businesses are bars. Yeah, you laugh, but let me tell you, as you cross the bridge over the statutorily-mandated river that runs through the center of town and walk up Bridge Street, Westport's main drag, your eyes pop out of your head at the lush barscape. It's just one big blur of signs reading O'BuddyYou'reMcGonnaGetDrunk's. Really.
I immediately fell in love with the place.
Wandering up the street, we ran into my cousin Kristin -- the bride to be -- along with her sisters Kim and Kara and soon to be sister-in-law Mary, all of whom were in town to make last-minute wedding arrangements. They had just left my mother, my aunt Lorretta, and my pseudo-cousin Toni-Marie* at a bar up the street called Cosy Joe's. We ducked in, said our hellos, had the obligatory pint -- no, really, obligatory, like they held me down and forced it into me -- and then headed back out to do a little shopping.
(*My aunt Lorretta's niece on her side of the family. Functionally indistinguishable from a cousin.)
On the corner of Bridge Street and the appropriately-named Shop Street, we found a store jam-packed with Guinness gear where I picked up a sweet Guinness polo shirt for the low, low price of 13 Euros! I share this with you because, frankly, I'm still excited about it.
Down at the end of Shop Street we stopped to admire the statue of Saint Patrick. It was at this point in our trip that Tracy said to me "You know, not every picture has to have me in it."
No, honey, just the really pretty ones.
Exhausted and parched from 38 minutes of shopping and walking around, we repaired to the Clock Tower Pub, situated just west of the clock tower (shocker) that graces the intersection of Bridge and Shop. As you enter, the Clock Tower Pub is dimly lit. All around you are the rough-hewn rock walls and giant uneven wooden beams that, we were later informed, usually signify recent construction spurred by Ireland's tourist boom.
Blissfully unaware of and unconcerned with the whole "authenticity" thing, we enjoy a few pints.
Check out Tracy sporting a Guinness mustache. This particular one may have been by design, but the previous two dozen weren't. Tracy doesn't drink the foam off her beer, you see, instead choosing to burrow through it to get to the heart of the beverage beneath. With Guinness, such behavior yields entertaining results.
Why, yes, I do have a license for those guns. Thank you for asking.
(I actually noticed later in the evening that the shirt I'm wearing here is fraying along the edges in several spots. I don't care. I'm keeping it until it disintegrates. Damn I love that shirt.)
Re-fueled, we headed back out to see a little more.
I joke about the ubiquitous river-through-town thing, but it's actually a really pretty feature of the places we stayed. All towns should have rivers. Make it so, I say.
At 6:30 PM we returned to Cosy Joe's, where we had made an open-ended plan to meet back up with the others for dinner. "Open-ended" in the sense that, if any of us didn't show, no big deal. Well, as it later turned out, everyone else had headed back to the hotel for the night, so we were on our own. We did a quick recon of the area looking for dining options and decided that our meeting place was, in fact, the best-looking option within a 20-meter radius.
Cosy Joe's is a multi-tiered bar & restaurant. Nice atmosphere. Busy but not too loud or overwhelming. The food? Meh.
Now you see, prior to leaving on our trip, several people had told me that I simply must try the seafood in Ireland. Especially the fish & chips. It's just the best.
Here's a tip: Be careful saying that to a guy who grew up near Boston. Who went to Cape Cod almost every summer for vacation. Who frequently gets up to the Maine coast. I know me some good fish & chips, know what I'm sayin'?
The fish & chips at Cosy Joe's was nothing to write home about. The batter was soggy and chewy, which was a major buzzkill. The fish was just so-so. And they served it on a bed of squashed peas. I was underwhelmed, to say the least.
When we finished eating around 8:00 PM, Tracy and I conferred to make a plan for the remainder of the evening. The shops were all closing -- weird thing about shops in Ireland: even in the tourist towns they close up by 6:00 PM -- so what should we do? More drinking? Some live music? Wait! Here was an idea: Go back to the hotel and sleep! Yep, Friday night, in Westport, Ireland, and at 9:00 PM we were in bed reading our books.
How lame is that?
(Shut up, it was a rhetorical question.)
Three days in Ireland were behind us, but it seemed more like three weeks. Time to crash hard. The night brought fitful dreams and restless sleep as my body and brain tried to absorb everything that had happened to them since landing in this fair land. Finally, in the wee hours, I got some delta rhythms in. Good thing, that, because the wedding that would follow the next day would be, as Irish tradition dictates, an affair of epic duration.