HORDES OF THE DANCE
On a trip to Ireland, two 60-something sisters end up on the run from pop fans and sporting crowds
WE agreed to meet in Dublin and begin our road trip from that point. What we had not factored in to our deliberations was that Dublin was far more interested in the arrival of Robbie Williams and Lady Gaga than two sexagenarian sisters from South Africa and Canada, and that an Irish GPS was exactly that — Irish.
We had secured hotel reservations in Dublin and, on giving the location to the cabbie, he responded, “So you’ll be walking to the concert, then?”
We should have heeded that warning and run for the hills of Wicklow. We were terrified to venture beyond the hotel for, having anticipated leprechauns, we had not bargained on this cultured city being overtaken by “Monsters” in fishnet stockings and precariously high heels, irrespective of sex. Twenty-four hours later, any jetlag had dissipated in the marijuana fumes that drifted through our window and we involuntarily twitched to the music that still pounded in our brains. We 60-something sisters were truly gaga.
What a relief to hit the open road. We had no set route and no bookings. But this was Ireland and, in an absolute deluge, we headed south. The refrains of Lady Gaga were replaced by the disembodied voice of the GPS, until my sister took over the navigation.
She got us to Kilkenny and into a traffic jam. The pop concerts of Dublin paled into insignificance against the crowds gathered for the AllIreland Senior Hurling Championship with Kilkenny as the defending champions. There was bunting in the streets, cars in procession with their varied embellishments in Kilkenny County colours, marching bands, hundreds of people, and no Tourism Office in sight. We pulled into the nearest B&B and collapsed.
In order to avoid any more unexpected Irish events, we decided to travel the country roads. But, away from the motorways, many road signs are in Gaelic
Dublin was overtaken by ‘Monsters’ in fishnet stockings
only. The people were utterly charming but do not ask an Irishman for directions as the answer is always prefaced by, “Well, I wouldn’t be starting from here…”
Until this trip, I believed I was a hardened Platteland driver. Here, roads morphed into narrow country lanes, untrimmed hedges of wild fuchsia replaced fences and around every bend was a tractor that had right of way. Driving into “butter territory”, we drove through herds of dairy cattle, unattended but eerily well behaved.
We finally holed up in the beautiful bay of Ballycotton. Sweeping cliffs that looked down upon the sea, crofters’ cottages in the distance and the legendary green hills of the Emerald Isle surrounded us. Fishermen brought their daily catch to the Bayview Hotel and it was served fresh and unadorned. We walked along lanes where the trees met overhead, allowing only filtered sunlight through and we realised why so many Irish writers had been spawned by this land that urged one to exclaim upon its beauty or its tortuous history.
This was the Ireland we had been looking for and we were sad to move on to Cobh, where we hit another “event”. It was from Cobh that the Titanic sailed and now it was the ongoing centenary celebration of that ill-fated voyage. Hordes of Irish-Americans were searching for their ancestry, there was an interactive show to illustrate the experience of those panicked passengers and you could even buy a replica of the blue-stoned necklace worn by Kate Winslet in the film. We moved on swiftly to fish-and-chips above the harbour and washed it down with a restorative Guinness.
After a quick tour of delightful Cork, we took a train back to Dublin. Just one problem remained. Has anyone got a à1 coin for the luggage trolley on Dublin station? As the train guard said, “Well, I wouldn’t be asking here.”
No wonder someone penned the song When Irish Eyes are Smiling. It’s an essential requirement. © — Noreen Gruskin is a Labour Relations and Human Resources Consultant based in Port Elizabeth