When we flew into Cork from London we were struck by how green everything was--each plot of land neatly separated by hedgerows of gorse (also called furze) which is a mustard yellow bush that seems to define the Irish countryside. The ground below was like a patchwork quilt of impossible shades of green separated by yellow stitches of gorse.
From the air and as we were driving toward Kinsale, a more bucolic scene I can't remember. The country lanes are narrow (heart-stoppingly so at times) and never straight, so the sign Bend Ahead is a constant reminder to STAY LEFT. They are lined on both sides by ivy or hedges of various types. Sometimes you can't see what's on the other side of the hedge, but not to worry, the lane itself is a sight with tree limbs dripping down overhead and all manner of vegetation. There is plenty of opportunity to see over or through the hedges, though, and when the view is clear, the green pastures are full of lazy cows, sheep and horses, many of them lying down in contented pleasure. A few small villages with tall spires marking the village church would appear every now and then, but mostly there were just isolated farms or houses to break the expanse of green. It was so quintessentially Irish, that all we could do was say Ohmygod, and snap pictures.
Kinsale is a typical Irish village with a sleepy harbor cradling pleasure boats, fishing boats, small rowboats and some boats to let, all painted in red, blues, yellows and oranges. Many of them had seen better days, but it didn't matter because the colors were so lovely. Unfortunately, Americans don't always use color to its best advantage, because it's amazing how beautiful the shabbiest building or the most ramshackl boat can look if painted in a charming hue. You don't see that so much in America.
The morning after we arrived, Mary and I walked around the harbor snapping pictures and watching the little town come alive. Across the harbor was a row of buildings that looked like ordinary apartments or condos but again each one was painted a different pastel hue and that made them look quaint and charming. Later, before going to Old Head, we all walked through the town, a maze of pastel colored homes, B&B's, shops, pubs, and churches large and small. Right next to the Pier House was a gambling establishment with slot machines, which surprised us, but it turned out that betting is jolly good sport throughout Ireland and there were bookmakers everywhere. We had lunch at a famous place called Fishy Fishy, a blue and white deli and take-out joint that's only open for lunch and is written up in all the guidebooks. We were expecting huge crowds but we and another twosome were the only ones there. It was fine, but nothing to write home about--that's the trouble when a place makes the guidebooks. Still, it was fun to go there and get pictures of it.
After we left Kinsale for Ballymaloe, we had plotted our route to include a small island in the Bay of Cork called Cobh (pronounced Cove) that you can get to via car ferry. Anne had given us directions and had mentioned to be careful which ferry we drove on to or we could end up in France. And sure enough, as we drove up to the first large ferry we saw, it turned out to be the one bound for France, and only the fact that there was no line of cars made it possible to turn around and go back. But we finally found the right ferry--a rickety, long in the tooth old tub that held about ten cars, took only a few minutes to make the crossing and just goes back and forth all day long. The crusty old tar manning the ferry told us how to get into the town centre and then how to get out of town via a bridge rather than going back on the ferry. His thick accent which I think was a mixture of Gaelic and English was pretty difficult to understand. By the way, Gaelic is much more widely spoken than we had thought it would be--we heard it a lot and all the signs are in Gaelic as well as English. it's a strange language indeed.
The town was packed with people and cars, much to Tom's dismay and the driving was horrendous. The huge cathedral that dominates the island had something going on, even though it was Saturday, not Sunday, and the square in front of it was full of the faithful spilling into and out of the Church. A bunch of young people were dressed in long white robes so maybe it was a confirmation ceremony or something. At any rate, there was a massive traffic jam, no place to park, and I was in a constant panic that we were going to scrape another car or some inanimate object on our left, so eventually we managed to exit the town without getting out of the car at all. It was too bad, because the town looked wonderful and would have been a good place for lunch. As it was, we didn't have lunch which was just as well because the dinner at Ballymaloe was worth waiting for.
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