Day One

I’m booked on the 10:00 train to Cork, so naturally my brain has been working out the best route to get there.  I do my usual, and work out how long it will take – and add half an hour for safety.  As a result, I’ll need to leave the hotel by about 08:30.

My planning is briefly disturbed by one of the staff stepping outside the kitchen and indulging in what Billee Connolly used to refer to as a “wee swearie”.  Being only one floor above her, her voice carries clearly up to my room.  I consider critiquing her rant and suggest that she uses a greater variety of expletives, but sense that she might not be in the mood.

I have my last Irish breakfast (in Dublin, anyway).  I consider telling reception about the “wee swearie” but as it didn’t really bother me I decided against it and head out … about 15 minutes earlier than planned.  *sigh* I just can’t help being early.

I head down towards the bus stop and for a few yards try to use the dreaded and much-maligned wheelie option on my suitcase.  After it’s hit my shins twice and shown a predilection for lurching out into the road, I give up and just carry the damn thing.

I get the bus as far as Lower O’Connell Street where I head for the Red Line and my only tram ride of the holiday.  I am very excited.  And really shouldn’t be.  It’s just like being on the London underground, except it isn’t “under”.  Which means it has to stop for traffic lights.  It does have the advantage of being significantly quieter than the Tube.

The tram efficiently takes me to Huston Station, where I have about an hour to wait for my train.  I’ve pre-booked my ticket, so need to collect it from a machine, almost directly opposite the man who incoherently sold me my Leap card two days ago.  I know how this works, so I am ready for the usual steps:

1. Input the 10,000,000 digit reference number
2. Perform the first 17 steps of the Macarena
3. Strike the machine sharply with the heel of the right hand
4. Intone the mystic word of Power: “FECK!”

To my surprise, I put the short number in and am given my ticket.  I then wait for the usual extra slivers of card that vomit froth from these machines in England.  I’m pleasantly surprised that nothing else issues for the and I can settle down to wait for the train.

I forgot to mention that the weather is still sunny and very warm.  The forecast is that it will be in the low twenties in Cork today.  This bodes well for the big trip tomorrow.

The train is announced and I join the queue to get on.  The ticket has the carriage and seat number on it and when I get on, I take an inordinate amount of pleasure in the fact that my name is on a little electronic display.  (Which I then spend an age trying to photograph – and failed, so here’s a shot from my return trip)

The scenery is fantastic once we get out of Dublin with beautifully green scenery and an incredibly blue sky.    I spend much more time than usual just staring out of the window rather than paying attention to Notes from the Underground.

The train is quite busy but there are mercifully no kids running around.  We do have the requisite businessman who has to transact his business over his phone at the top of his voice.  It gets particularly interesting when he is discussing the career of one of his staff and he becomes remarkably indiscreet.  I do hope they manage to keep their job.

A few rows down from me is a guy reading a copy of Deathtrap Dungeon – I remember buying the original in err.. ummm… about 1984.  Well doesn’t that just make me feel awful.

There is also a bloke who walks past with a T-shirt that reads “Your dad is my cardio.”  I try to parse that in several ways to work out what it means and have to give up.  Explanations from the readership are very welcome.

At Limerick, the loud businessman leaves which is a relief as his ringtone is almost as obnoxious as he is. 

I get to Cork and the sun is beating down.  Which makes the decision to walk to the hotel a really easy one.  It is, according to Google, only a 28 minute walk, so off I go.  Did I mention the weather?  I’m sure it must have come up at least once. 

In the end it takes my about 35 minutes and I’m dripping like an untended tap.  (With sweat, I hasten to add).  It’s not a good look on anyone and the lady at the hotel looks appropriately perturbed.

The hotel is the Belvedere House Hotel which is a lovely place – nice building, friendly and tolerant staff, good residents garden and good sized rooms.  Unfortunately, it is at the junction of two busy roads, so there is a constant background noise.  Which is a shame as otherwise this would be a superb place.

If I’m hungry, I have an embarrassment of riches to choose from.  100 yards down the road are two competing garages.  One offers hot food 24 hours a day as well as the marvellously named Tayto crisps.  The other seduces its’ customers in with an outdoor launderette.  Truly these are the Golden Times foretold in yore!

Opposite these pinnacles of civilisation, there is a bus stop and I avail myself of this facility to get myself into town.  The tolerant lady at the hotel assures me my Leap card will work here.  She also tells me that the busses run about every twenty minutes and one is due very shortly, so I head back out into the sun to wait.  “Very shortly” is about 15 minutes, when a completely different bus rolls up, but goes to the same place.  The Leap card doesn’t work but after three attempts the driver nods sagely and lets me through.  Later on, I’ll find out that this is because it isn’t even vaguely valid here!

I head for the centre of Cork and have a wander.  The main street has clearly been revitalised and there is a lot of shining chrome and glass, as well as some modern metal poles that look like 30ft long elephant tusks.  There are a lot of high end stores and a large number of youths wandering around with Superdry and H&M bags.  I’m a little disappointed as it seems quite sterile and after buying a new leap card I continue to explore and start to find some more interesting things.

The first of which comes after I hear music ahead of me and I encounter the “World Famous” Spoon Playing Leprechauns.  (“World Famous”, by the way, seems to mean “are on Tiktok”).  They are certainly keen – which is probably the best that can be said about them. 

They turn out to be just the first musical interlude, as I head down beside the rather surprising gun shop to where a man is playing an accordion and looking as though he is waiting for Harry Lime.  I then change direction to go an listen to a busker with a quiet extraordinary voice.  I’m starting to enjoy Cork and almost forget the arrangements that I have to make for tomorrow as I’m not sure that the earliest bus will get me into the centre of town in time. 

I pop into tourist information, grab a tourist map and have a long chat with the guy working there.  He has a good moan about modern music and shudders when I tell him that I’ve seen the World Famous Spoon Playing Leprechauns.  He does recommend a local Ska band; Pontius Pilate and the Naildrivers.  Hmm.  No chance of them offending anyone is there?

He does give me some good idea of where to go on Saturday although he does start off with lots of recommendations outside Cork.  Once he’s got the idea that I want to explore Cork, he’s a bit more focused.  He tried to convince me to go to the Crawford Art Gallery, but I’m not that desperate!

Outside the sun is beating down, so I take shelter in a Costa and have a panini as a late lunch.

I then head off to find the much vaunted English market.  On first view, this is quite disappointing but as I get further in it’s a really good market with some fantastic things on display, including meats, cheese and chocolate.  I manage to resist the temptation and continue to wander.

I’m saving my main tour around Cork for Saturday, so I make do with a few rounds of the City Centre before heading back to the hotel.  Only now does it occur to me that I should have stocked up at the English Market.  Instead I stock up at the garage, including getting some food for the coach trip tomorrow – especially as I’ll be leaving before breakfast.  I’ve decided I can’t risk the bus, so I’m going to be leaving at 06:45 to walk into town.

I head back to my room, which comes equipped with a bath and Radox.  So I finish the day off with a damn good soak.

Day Two

I’ve decided not to risk the bus and walk, so I’m up at 06:00.  I shower, grab the snacks and water that I picked up yesterday and head out to make the walk into town.  It’s sunny and the skies are clear and bright blue – and it’s 12 degrees already.  I see that there is someone forlornly stood by the bus stop, so decide to ask when the bus is due.    He tells me that a bus was due 5 minutes ago – but he may have missed it.  Despite this clearly reliable testimony, I decide to walk anyway and as a result the bus sails majestically past me about 5 minutes later.  Followed by a second after another 10 minutes.   I nearly convince myself that the walk is worth it as the temperature is about right and it’s a lovely walk which gets ets my aching legs moving nicely.

I head to Paddywagon and have a chat with the lady there.  (By the way, I’m the only person who seems to think that this is rather an odd name for a coach company).  She directs me around the corner to where the coach is waiting.  There are already a couple of people here and we’re soon joined by several more.  Everyone is in heavy jackets and scarves except for me and the coach driver, who are both rocking the “shorts and t-shirt” look.  I wonder if we’re heading further north than expected.  When I ask the driver he chuckles and says “Well, this is Ireland, so it’s best to be safe.”

The driver is called John and is both English and delightfully blunt.  When two people rush up to the coach having gone to the wrong place, he just cheerfully says “You were on the wrong street weren’t you?”  As English is not their first language, they seem somewhat confused by his version of an apology.

We set off with only about 12 people on board – and mercifully no bloody children.  But John tells us that we’re picking up around 40 people in Limerick, so there will be very few spare seats.  I’m hoping that one of them will be beside me as there is very little leg room and I’ll be in agony if I have to sit straight on.  (I‘m currently sat with my legs stretching out into the aisle).  As predicted, the coach gets packed – mostly with very loud Americans.  John gets his first complaint of the day as he directs us to toilets but fails to mention the 30c charge.  That keeps two Americans moaning for at least an hour.  The good thing is that I manage to retain sovereignty of a double seat – victory!

John is highly entertaining, although most of the bus objects when he describes rugby as “the man’s version of American Football”.  Sensing a change in mood from my fellow travellers, he then reminds us that if we are not happy with the tour, his name is Eduardo.

It’s quite a scenic drive to our first major stop which is at the Cliffs of Moher.  The cliffs are suitable large and cliffy and there are some spectacular views.  There are lots to love here – and lots to hate.  All of the bad things are the people visiting the cliffs, namely:

• American tourists (or which there are significantly more than a plethora);
• Narcissistic social media whores using a selfie-stick to get the perfect shot of their over-made up selves with an incidental backdrop of an area of outstanding natural beauty;
• American tourists;
• People insisting on taking a push chair along a narrow cliff path (there was no child in it, nor were they accompanied by a child);
• American tourists;
• People who stop in the middle of said narrow cliff path to take a picture of some sheep;
• Fucking American tourists;
• People moaning about carrying their heavy jackets with them (firstly, it’s 20 degrees; secondly, leave them in the fucking coach!);
• Fucking American fucking tourists;
• Morons who walk on the wall where a sign is clearly displayed saying “Please do not walk on the wall”;
• Fucking American fucking tourists.

You may get the impression that I am unfairly biased against our cousins from the U S of A.  This is far from the truth.  I’ve met several who are perfectly reasonable.  Unfortunately, every single American tourist is currently at the Cliffs of Moher. In fact, I suspect that several of their smaller cities have been radically de-populated due to the number of FAFT here.  I decide to try and get away from them by heading along a cliff path that runs between farmland and the edge of the extremely precipitous cliff.  I do pretty well until I get stuck between two FAFT who are proceeding at a glacially slow pace.  It’s a bit like getting stuck behind a learner driver at rush hour – except there are no turn-offs or places to overtake.  Their dialogue is enraging:

• Why don’t they use the American system over here, it’s so much easier? (because we’re in Ireland);
• Why is this path so narrow? (because it’s between farmland and a cliff edge);
• Why is there a wall here? (to stop morons like you falling off the cliff);
• Why aren’t there any signs? (because there have been literally no junctions and so signs aren’t needed);
• Why is my voice so annoying? (I would hazard that this is a combination of genetics and the fact that you never fucking shut up!)

I finally manage to get ahead of them and reach the point I was aiming for – which is suitably impressive.  I’m also quite proud of the fact that on my way back I pass most of the people from the coach – so the FAFT didn’t slow me down that much! 

(Sorry about the blurry ones – it would appear I got sunscreen on the lens. Or, I could just say I was experimenting with soft focus. In any case, pictures cannot do the cliffs justice. They’re quite amazing).

I head back to the visitor centre to get some lunch.  There is a huge queue and as I consider whether or not to join it, I hear “Can I get a beef stew without meat?”  FAFT!!  I head outside, grab a bookmark at one of the significant number of souvenir shops (blessedly uninfected by FAFT) and settle down to my picnic lunch on a bench where the braying accents are somewhat muted.

It’s actually much better than sitting in the restaurant, because the day is absolutely glorious. 

Now, when we left the coach, John was quite clear that everyone had to be back at the coach by 12:30.  For those people for whom English was a second language, he wrote it down.  So we should all know what to do.  I, of course, am back in my seat by 12:20.  About 10 minutes later, one of the American tourists comes up the stairs, looks around and says to someone outside: “I see zero people here.”  I’m sat about four rows back and not, as has been stated before, easy to miss.  “Actually there are three of us here,” I helpfully say.  “Oh sorry, I’m not very tall” is the response.  In that case, why were you the one checking? FAFT!

At 12:45, we leave – without seven people.  Johns attitude is that they were told what time to be back at the coach and warned that he would leave without them – which they were.  We then head off to a restaurant for lunch – which was definitely NOT mentioned on the itinerary!  Several of us have already eaten, so John very specifically does not direct us to the local pub.  I have a refreshing pint of beer and get back to the coach in time to overhear John having a spirited discussion with his office who want to know why he left seven people at the Cliffs of Moher.  His answer is simple – and I completely agree with him.  Apparently, they “misunderstood” and turned up at 13:00.  I’m on his side and tell him that I’ll back him with his office if needed.

And so we’re off – or we would be if we weren’t another two people short.  It’s starting to feel like an Agatha Christie novel.  I know they were down at the pub, but they haven’t returned on time.  They wander up 5 minutes late and sit down without offering any kind of apology.  I’m in favour of making them walk the plank, but apparently the coach isn’t equipped with one.

It now transpires that we have to pass the Cliffs of Moher to go to our next location, so we will be able to pick up our seven strays.  Or we would, if half a mile down the road someone realises that they left their purse at the lunch stop.  So John turns the coach round (not an easy option on country roads) and we head back to pick it up.  This really is the Coach of Morons.  Guess where they come from? FAFT!

We arrive at the Cliffs Of Moher again to collect our strays and find out that two of them (who are not Americans – no, they’re French) have been amusing themselves by abusing the other coach drivers.  The strays rather sheepishly get onto the coach – well, except the two obnoxious French ladies who find the whole thing hysterically funny.  The other five do, at least, apologise.  We then have to wait to pick up two other people who also missed their coach.  FAFT!

We then head off to the Burren which is an area of raised sea bed that is both remarkably start and the home to a wide variety of plants.  We have another round of nature good, tourists bad.  The dickheads from the back of the bus insist on sitting as close to the edge as they can and they only reason that I don’t wish disaster upon them is that this would probably delay us even more.  The French women appear to have lost their volume control and are cackling like geese, which drifts across the Burren and frankly, spoils the fuck out of it.  And still people can’t get back to the coach in time.  It’s not that bloody hard is it?

Our last visit is at Bunratty Castle where John admits that he has given up trying to get back to the schedule.  We’re given a leisurely 25 minutes – reasonable as we cant actually get into the castle as this is essentially a food and souvenir stop.  After 45 minutes, most of us are sat on the coach, still waiting for 5 people.  These people are a frigging nightmare.

At 17:30, we dump the FAFT at Limerick and are heading back to Cork.  Our original eta was 18:00, but the tour was always described as roughly 10 hours.  This is therefore the point that one of my fellow travellers raises the issue that she has to catch an 18:15 train.  Seriously?  What kind of an idiot organises their day like that?

The rest of the journey has a backdrop provided by a combination whiny Irish folk music and the woman in front of me who is Facetiming her partner.  Because she is holding her phone in a very odd way, I keep getting a clear picture of him, which is probably as disconcerting for him as it is for me.  It does mean that I spend a lot of time trying not to look at him in case he might think I’m overly interested in what they’re saying.  I’m not – though she does moan several times about not being able to hear him because the whiny Irish folk music is too loud.

We get in an hour late at 19:00.  I consider going for a meal, but instead stagger to a bus stop and go back to the hotel.  I pick up a sandwich from the local gastronomic garages and then have a bath to soothe my legs.  All that sitting in a coach is knackering!

Day Three

I’m knackered this morning and have real trouble getting going.  Luckily, the full Irish breakfast provided the hotel is excellent and I leave feeling both full and revitalised.  Everyone in Cork that I spoke to advised me to leave and head elsewhere but I am stubbornly going to amble around.

I head for Elizabeth Fort and get there just before it opens at 10:00.  Entrance is free and this is a superb example of a star fort.  It was also used as a women’s prison and a Garda HQ and there are a couple of little displays that give a fascinating insight into the history.  The views from the walls are excellent – significantly more inspiring than Dublin.

I’ve planned to head north of the river to look at some of the churches around there, but my legs are aching and it’s 19 degrees (which feels like about 30).  So I take an easy stroll back into the city centre and find a place called Bunsen which sells nothing but burgers.  (I admit it – I loved the name).  Cheeseburger and chips it is.  This is the first place for a long time that I’ve been asked how I want my burger cooked.  And when it arrives, it is very good.

I still have several places to look at, but I am absolutely knackered today.  I decide to slowly wander back to the hotel.  On the way, I pass the MacCurtain Wine Cellar where they sell wines by the bottle or the glass. Todays special is a chilled red which is a Tuscan Field Blend.  It would be rude to say no, and they provide me with a glass and a menu.  Given they don’t start serving food for another two hours, I feel this is somewhat presumptuous!  I finish off Notes from the Underground and move on to The Mysteries of Udolfo by Ann Radcliffe.

I resist the temptation to sit here for the rest of the day and leave after one glass.  Then I walk back to the train station, get my ticket for tomorrow and take the bus back to the hotel.

My dining experience is from the local drive thru, which is called Supermacs.  They sell burgers (no, not McDonalds, honest), Supersubs (no, not Subway, honest) and Papa John’s pizza.  I go for the only part that doesn’t seem to be ripping off a major chain and polish off the pizza in my hotel room.

I feel a bit guilty that I’ve wasted my last day in Cork – but I hope to come back some day.