Mediaeval meets modern in Ireland
ON A sunny Friday afternoon in April, the sleepy city of Kilkenny, Ireland, began to wake up. Chattering students filled the sidewalks, their book bags slung across school uniforms, many of the boys carrying the short, hockeylike sticks used in hurling. Locals hurried through Butter Slip, a narrow passage between two streets where butter vendors set up stalls in mediaeval times. And shoppers ducked into the small stores that share a main street with a 17th-century merchant’s house and an 18thcentury town hall building that was served as a customhouse.
I was at the midpoint of a two-week tour of the country looking for somewhere to settle down for a few days. I felt a pull towards Kilkenny after reading that it had both a mediaeval castle and a contemporary design centre. Everything there, it seemed, had two sides.
The city was subdued when I walked the half-mile from the station to my hotel. Rows of quaint storefronts set a pretty scene, but many of the shops were closed. I passed a handful of people at most.
An hour-and-a-half south of Dublin by train, Kilkenny – a town of 27,000 residents – is a blend of old and new with a thriving arts culture woven through it. The exit from Kilkenny Castle, which was built around 1195, leads to the Kilkenny Design Center, which is filled with modern crafts in addition to traditional patterned pillows, hand-knit hats and Irish linens.
In the evening, perhaps needing a break from the delicious, rich Irish beef stews I’d been eating for days, I ended up at an Italian restaurant. My waitress, an Irish woman married to the Italian chef, lit up when she learned I was in town on my own. She, too, likes her solitude sometimes, she told me: “It gives me time to breathe.”
On the way back to my hotel, I stopped in at the vast Left Bank Pub, a former Bank of Ireland branch. Every window of the three storey-building glowed like it was backlit by a roaring fire. I had the bartender to myself.
“Would you be horrified if I ordered a half pint of Guinness with blackcurrant?” I asked him. In Dublin, I’d overheard an American couple ordering it and was curious.
“It’s usually tourists,” he said. In the morning, I headed down the impossibly picturesque High Street – dubbed the “Mediaeval Mile” – and took in the array of brightly coloured pubs and shops.
High on a hill in a neighbourhood called Irishtown loomed the imposing, 13th-century St Canice’s Cathedral and its Round Tower, which closely resembles a smokestack. I entered the dark cathedral to find high ceilings and impressive stained glass windows. I saw enough to be satisfied without paying a fee to enter the pews. Back on High Street, it was time for gift shopping.
That evening, I went to the Watergate Theatre to see an American musical called The Parade, performed by the Kilkenny Musical Society. There, a greyhaired man kissed many people hello while taking tickets.
When we spoke at intermission, he seemed to light up at hearing my accent. “American! Well, we’re all half Irish. Or is it the other way around? Are you on holiday?” He proudly told me he was the father of the female lead.
I followed the crowd heading upstairs to find a most civilised intermission – people sipping tea from china cups and saucers. No Styrofoam here.
The day had been packed, but on my way “home”, I stopped in at the Field, a sports-themed pub established in 1620 as the Castle Tavern. Over the bar hung a Goliath-sized “hurley”, or hurling stick, covered with signatures.
There were few people inside. Perhaps that was to be expected on a Thursday night near closing time. I ordered a Kilkenny Irish cream ale and pulled my stool up to a comfortably worn wooden table wet with rings from beer glasses.
On Friday morning, I toured Kilkenny Castle. Sun filtered through the windows, brightening the period furnishings. It is thought that the site was chosen by Strongbow – the nickname of Richard de Clare, the Second Earl of Pembroke – shortly after the portion of the Norman invasion he led in the 1170s.
An informative docent enthusiastically answered my questions about the second-floor paintings, fireplace equipment and furniture. What are those things in front of the castle’s fireplaces? They’re adjustable screens that protected women’s faces from the fire, she told me, because the heat would melt their wax-based makeup. And that round, red-cushioned chair with seats for three, similar to one in the opening credits of The Crown? It was a love seat that accommodated courting couples – and their guardians.
A staircase led down to the pitch-roofed picture gallery, a portrait-filled wing that was built during the early 19th century. I emerged into the sunshine to see a group of boys goofing around on the lush castle lawns, using their hurleys to bat around a ball much the way Americans might toss a Frisbee together.
At night’s end, I found myself at the Hole in the Wall, a 16thcentury tavern that is as small as its name suggests. When I opened the door, everyone turned to see who had arrived. I almost backed out. But owner Michael Conway called out a welcome and waved me in.
“I’m going to sing a song,” he announced later. “About a woman who abandons a man. Christy Moore sings it”.
I had snagged one of the four stools that fit at the short bar and got a good view of the lyrics written on the large flip chart Conway held. My pub mates and I sang along as best we could while he turned the pages. The warm camaraderie of the tavern was the perfect coda to the evening.