Erin Go Braugh, Part Three: Cork and Blarney

Our first view of Cork upon arriving from Dublin was of Merchant's Quay, the shopping centre of the city. Below you can see the River Lee, which winds through Cork and empties into Cork Harbour, one of the world's largest natural harbours.

Including Cork in the title of this entry is a bit disingenuous on my part; while we certainly spent the night in Cork, the only reason we made the trip was to satisfy our tourist-y need to swap spit with a certain famous piece of limestone. All told, we spent perhaps ten hours in Cork, eight of which were devoted to sleeping, albeit in the nicest hostel I've visited and without the roar of Dublin's Canadian woodchipper in the next bed. (It would seem the hostel gods finally decided to throw us a stinking bone.) Should you ever find yourself in the south of Ireland in need of decent lodging on the cheap, go to Cork International Youth Hostel. Tell them Kathryn sent you. They won't have a clue as to what you're blethering on about, but I'll certainly get a chuckle out of it.

Immediately after being dropped off, we hoofed it to the hostel, deposited our bags in our private room, and quickly scurried back to the bus station to catch the 3:30 bus to Blarney. Oh yes, we were ladies with a singular aim, that of getting some face-time with the Stone of Eloquence. While I'm sure Cork is a lovely city, I just couldn't be arsed to fit it in the trip itinerary, not with this gem sitting a short forty-minute bus trip away:

Everyone, welcome to Blarney Castle, a medieval holding in the quaint village of Blarney. The original castle dates from the late twelfth century, though it was destroyed in the middle of the fifteenth century and subsequently rebuilt.

The entrance to the castle. Most of you know I love history like a fat kid loves cake, so you can only imagine the state I was in as I approached the archway that opened into the castle lobby. (Read: Frenzied, geek-tastic hysteria)

A picture of the view from the second story of the castle, which served as my desktop wallpaper for several weeks until it was replaced by a landscape panorama taken during a trip to the Highlands. The smaller tower to the left is the watchman's tower; the larger, creeper-covered tower which is only partially in frame is featured in the following image, as seen from one of the family bedchambers.
Thanks to New Orleans's semi-tropical climate, autumn and the turning of leaves are foreign concepts to me. It seems that even in Tuscaloosa, which is far enough north to boast at least three seasons to southeastern Louisiana's two, only the ginkgo and maple trees get the annual 'quit making chlorophyll' memo. Ireland, however, was showing signs of fall in mid-September. Here in Scotland, where the leaves are coloring and the rowan trees are laden with berries, autumn is in full swing.

The interior of the ruins, as seen from the top of the castle. Centuries ago, this open space would have been divided into three floors. The bottom floor would have served as a banquet hall, with the second and third floors serving as priests' quarters and family living quarters, respectively.

Me, making an ass of myself in a hearth in the former banquet hall. No, you simply cannot take me anywhere.

My personal rendezvous with the Stone of Eloquence, aka the Blarney Stone. Please forgive the dusty elbow, the unfortunate souvenir from my earlier shenanigans in the hearth.

For those of you not familiar with stone-kissing protocol, allow me to give you a little rundown. The Stone itself is mounted between the castle wall and the parapet, meaning in order to get within canoodling distance, you have to lie down, bend backwards and, holding onto the provided iron bars, lower yourself to the Stone, all whilst hanging over an open hole in the castle wall 39m (~126ft) off the ground. Your only protection should you slip? An iron grid that could easily allow for the passage of a falling human body and whatever kindly volunteer works the kissing booth that day.

According to the free SkyNews magazine provided to us by AerLingus, famous smoochers of the Blarney stone include Colin Farrell, Matt Damon, and Vince Vaughn. If we were playing Six Degrees of Separation, I could proudly claim to have bussed Brad Pitt (Vince Vaughn - Jennifer Aniston - Brad Pitt). However, this would also mean that I've had the misfortune of kissing Billy Bob Thornton (Vince Vaughn - Jennifer Aniston - Brad Pitt - Angelina Jolie - Billy Bob Thornton).

That would explain the infection. (Author's note: Infection in my trachea...jeez.)

The dungeons at the foot of the castle rock. Feeling brave, the four of us entered the dark, dank underbelly of the castle, intent on touring the ancient cells. We quickly scrapped that plan as soon as we discovered that a) there was no illumination in the dungeons, save the faint glow from my mobile and my camera's LCD, and b) the walls separating the cells from the staircase were eroded, if not completely missing. Not wanting to fall to our deaths (or, at the very least, a bone-crushing thud), we turned back and decided to scope out the gardens and arboretum instead.

Being a mycologist, I know plant pathology and taxonomy insofar as they relate to fungi. As such, I haven't the foggiest notion as to the species of tree featured in the above photo. For the time being, we'll call them Druid trees, by virtue of their proximity to the Druid's Cave and Druid's Circle on the castle grounds. (I apologize to all botanists, plant taxonomists, and dendrologists in the audience for my ignorance.)

While not as large as some of the southern live oaks in New Orleans, these Druid trees were pretty monstrous. The four of us hopped into the larger one for a scale comparison.


Another classic from the "Kathryn Can't Act Her Age" files: Shae and I testing the Sacrificial Altar for quality-control standards.

As dusk fell on Blarney, we made our way from the castle grounds into the surrounding village, on the hunt for some grub.

The village's main drag.

After dinner, we settled on the steps of an old church and watched the sun set over the hill- and rooftops. Say what you will about CFCs and other air pollutants; they make for a glorious sunset.


Tune in next week (or tomorrow, whatevs) for our next installment: St. Andrews and Fife