Part 1: An Irish Ramble

I began my morning with a Madagascar vanilla macaroon from La Dureé in the Charles de Gaulle Aéroport. My husband watched me, his eyes laughing, as I savored the sweet crunch of macaroon between my teeth, and reveled in the “Frenchness” of the morning. Never mind the layover in Atlanta, and the six hour delay in travel plans, I was in France, if only in the airport. It made no difference to me. My ears were full of the French language, and I entered practically every store front and approached every available airline attendant to ask mindless questions in the language I’d studied for ten years and never had the chance to use. I looked, I assume, as a puppy learning to bark and run on wobbly legs must look, bobbing from one direction to the next, tail wagging and in love with each new movement.
If it weren’t for the fact that I was growing quite delirious with exhaustion, having slept an hour on the plane the night before, nerves on high alert and eyelids daring to close, I would not have willed our last flight of the day to fruition. However, the promise of a warm bed, blackout shades and a tall pint of Guinness appealed to my more immediate needs.

Having arrived, sans luggage, in the Dublin airport, we tumbled onto a Dart bus and meandered through narrow streets into the city and towards our hotel. We were let out two blocks from the hotel and left to find our way. No trouble there, however, as the Irish are the most friendly and desirable a group of people to encounter when in need of direction.

The hotel was situated on a quiet street off Parnell Square. And, instead of dropping onto the newly made bed and sleeping away the morning, we had a mission. As our luggage was not due to arrive until the following morning, at which time we would be touring the west coast of County Clare, we could not anticipate fresh clothing for the next forty-eight hours. We needed undergarments. Loading up on digestives (which I insisted on buying to feel oh-so-European) and water at the corner market, we hit the road.

Along the way, I was nearly accosted by an obnoxious, teenaged-boy with crazed eyes who laughed menacingly after pretending to run towards and corner me. Little did he know that my husband, always a few steps ahead, but with eyes in the back of his head (and who believes he was built to play rugby) spun around at my squeak of distress and would have pummeled him had I not restrained him with soothing kisses. Lucky for the boy, he continued on just as quickly as he’d come, towards his next victim.

Having escaped a brawl, we continued on, my mind racing with images of crazy Irishmen and my husband half-mumbling, half-snorting something about little leprechauns under his breath.

In perfect time, we stumbled across the Brazen Head, whose sign claimed it to be the oldest pub in Dublin. We sat down at the bar, already crowded at noon, and ordered two pints of Guinness. I could have melted into my seat upon first sip. The bar was small, intimate, accommodating thirty, forty people maximum, and though worn in feeling, exactly what we wanted, everything awash in dark mahogany, with vintage newspaper clippings and posters framed along the walls.

We continued our bar hop, now believing barley to be the fuel needed to get through the day and adjust to the time change, and made our way to an area known as Temple bar. After splitting fish n’chips and chatting up a few local bartenders, we met friends at the Jameson Distillery, where much to my dismay; I slept through much of the tour.

Finally, back at the hotel, we arranged for a six a.m. wake-up call in order to make our Moher Cliffs tour the next day. Unfortunately for us, sleep was not in our destiny this trip. I awoke to my husband’s voice, still husky with sleep, saying that the alarm had indeed gone off and it was time to get up. My eyes scanned the room for a clock. No such luck. I peeled the sheets away from me and walked into the bathroom, showered, dried my hair and put my makeup on. By the time I was done, my husband had returned from his coffee run. Settled once again in bed, he informed me that it was two in the morning and that he had dreamt the alarm. I didn’t bother undressing. I simply flopped back into bed.

The tour to the Cliffs of Moher was magical. Old, wizened Irishmen chatting against wooden gates flashed toothless, boyish grins and tipped hats to passing tourists (who scoured the narrow roads in giant green buses). Sheep roamed on sunny pastures that dipped into the sea. And, despite the fact that I was heading into my fifty-third hour in the same clothes, I felt refreshed, the cold, clean Irish wind licking my face and hair.

We wandered through old castles and monasteries, grabbed a pint at a local pub near the ocean and listened to our tour guide serenade us with traditional Irish songs and the repeated warning of, “Ireland: where the men are men and the sheep are scared.”

Sometime after lunch we arrived at the cliffs. A harpist played near their edge, her music mingling with the whipping wind and crashing of waves against the cliffs below. Hundreds of feet above water, we looked out and around, surrounded by green earth on two sides and the depths of sun-speckled sea on the other two. Following the lead of two other tourists, we scaled a small stone wall (feigning to see the “do not cross wall” sign not far from us) in order to take a photo against the cliffs. The landscape provided a perfect Christmas-card photo opportunity and happy with the effect we proceeded to scale back over the wall. My husband jumped; very handsomely (and skillfully) back over to safety. I had no such luck. The wedge of my boot tipped me backwards on the wall, propelling me into a full roll towards the edge of the cliff. Catching myself (by the grace of God) after only one backwards somersault, I peered back at the remaining four feet between myself and the cliff’s edge and clapped a hand to my chest. So much for the graceful ballerina I’d prided myself on being.

Having survived, what I may add as, an awfully romantic death, my new and nearly widowed husband, headed back to the bus where we dozed on and off from the day’s excitement, all the way home.

Almost as romantic as falling off the cliffs of Moher, was a seaside dinner for two at Ivan’s oyster bar and restaurant in the port town of Howth, Ireland. We settled in at a table by the window and dined on a steaming pot of mussels, with a warm buttery broth that we sopped up with sweet, brown bread. Fresh caught prawns followed, along with grilled Hake filet and a fisherman’s cioppino. After dinner, we walked along the sea wall, watching the sun dip into the dark sea, its’ last rays painting the clouds lavender.

Clark followed a small dog, similar to a spaniel, but clearly a mix, that looked as European as his owner, with old world golden curls. A seal in the water below followed us with large, dopey eyes. Sea gulls perched upon ships’ masts called to one another and no one in particular. Ireland’s “Eye” loomed ahead, a lone island, green with the soft grass, indigenous to Ireland, and a large basalt formation on its’ eastern side jutting up towards the sky. The air was full of both sweet and salt, the breeze cool against our woolen Blarney sweaters. I wanted to lie down, spread my arms and legs across the cool stones of the sea wall and watch the wisps of cloud that were gathering with the dusk. I wanted to feel that delicious smallness that you feel when encountered with the sea or a wide open prairie. I wanted to remember the sweetness of Irish mussels and fresh brown bread.

I love Ina Garten so will recommend any of her recipes. Here is one for mussels in white wine. Try with crumbly, nutty Irish brown bread and fall in love...

http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/mussels-in-white-wine-recipe/index.html

Found a recipe for brown bread from the usually dependable Gourmet archive, but will be tracking down Ivan's Oyster Bar's recipe, so stay tuned!

http://www.gourmet.com/recipes/2000s/2001/05/irish-brown-bread-with-smoked-salmon