Part II: An Irish Ramble

St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland was all that I had hoped it would be without all that I’d anticipated it being. I had envisioned Mardi Gras, pushing my way through sweaty, drunken crowds, the smell of stale beer flooding my nostrils.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that Dublin’s St. Patrick’s Day parade was family-oriented, beginning around noon and lasting only a few hours. The streets were patrolled by policemen, people walked politely in single-file queues down the sidewalks. Children sat on their parents’ shoulders and people sipped coffees or walked around as we did, nibbling on sandwiches from corner delis. Our sandwiches, the least expensive of all our meals while traveling, sufficed to be one the best: turkey paninis with a spicy mustard, tomatoes and a sweet pepper relish that resembled fruit chutney.

As soon as the parade ended, the crowds cleared. The streets were tended, though little cleaning needed to be done. I could not help but observe that Dublin was the cleanest city I had ever seen; the main street, O’Connell, being cleaned each morning, and with soap, none-the-less!

We warmed up, post parade, back in the hotel bar with hot whiskeys: whiskey, hot water, cloves, a bit of sugar and a slice of lemon. From there, we rebundled in coats and scarves and ventured towards Temple Bar to meet friends.

Temple Bar is an area of Dublin comprised of pubs and eateries, and attracts a younger, rowdier crowd. One of my dearest friends, Helen (who is obtaining her graduate degree at Trinity College), invited us to a classmate’s flat located on the second floor, directly above a popular pub. The streets were filled, young students, tourists, and some more adventurous families, in large green hats or other green paraphernalia. People sat on their balconies or in windows sipping beers and joining in with the crowds below.

We made merry with Helen’s Irish friends before settling in at a crowded basement bar and listening to a true Irish band complete with bagpipes and red ponytails.
One of our biggest adventures however, was our renting a small beetle of a car with Helen and her boyfriend, Spencer, and taking a spin in the Irish countryside. Popping in a purchased compact disc titled, “Irish Whiskey Tunes”, we ventured out along the narrow winding roads (but not before getting quite turned around in the autobahn-esque roundabouts located on the outskirts of the city). We escaped a near death, stalling out in the middle of a dip in one winding road, only to stumble across (thanks to Spencer’s suggestion) one right turn that led us to the base of Sugarloaf Mountain. What a right turn that turned out to be! It was a quintessential place to frolic. I expected to clasp hands with Julie Andrews and twirl in circles, my lungs full of those sweet lyrics, “the hills are alive.”

There was a small parking lot at the base and a man selling snacks from his van. Sheep roamed on adjacent patches of land and a stone farm house loomed in the distance. We began our ascent.

The wind was strong on the mountain. We stretched out our arms, the sun warm on our faces, and let the wind ripple across our jackets. Our feet padded across soft grass that turned into small rock collections that grew larger until we were practically rock climbing to the top of the mountain. Dogs raced ahead, their small feet taking boulders in bounds. We took our jackets off and tied them around our waists. Our cheeks turned pink.

The sea stretched before us from our perch on the utmost boulder. Behind us was the sprawling countryside of Wicklow County, its earth a patchwork of green. We shouted to hear one another and looked on at those around us, unpacking sacks full of water and peanut butter sandwiches; locals who knew that such a view deserved more than a mere ten minutes to marvel.

The moment our feet hit soft earth again, I could contain myself no longer. I threw my arms out and raced down the mountain, the wind taking my breath away. It was one of the most liberating, uninhibited moments of my small life. I felt like running forever, up and across each green hill, past the grazing sheep and towards the dipping sun. I passed a family, a mother and daughter and two couples, my face bright and smile stuck across my cheeks.

Almost as wonderful was looking behind me to see the mother and daughter I passed, running back down the hill, their arms outstretched and hair flying behind them. Joy is contagious.

We drove to our hotel in Portmarnock later that night, the sky dark and full of thick, wet clouds. We could smell the sea, hear the lapping of waves, but could only see black. At the front desk, I looked to a postcard boasting long, wide stretches of beach. A feeling of such strong yearning to see what I could hear, smell and possibly feel filled my stomach.

We lugged our suitcases to the bedroom and headed back to the hotel restaurant. It was a restaurant to be rivaled, fulfilling all expectations for a last night in Ireland. The walls were made of a dark, glossy wood. Fires cackled beneath ornate mantels tucked away in nooks surrounded by plump chairs. Small, round tables nestled in darkened corners with small tea candles to light conversation. Older couples ate in satisfied silence, groups of men sipped whiskey and watched rugby matches on television. As the night wore on, the remains of an earlier wedding party filled the bar area.

My husband sipped a Guinness, and I a Smythwick. I concluded the trip with fish n’ chips and my husband, an order of surprisingly good fajitas and guacamole. To end, we split an Irish coffee and hot whiskey.

We slipped into our bed and slept soundly for four hours, before waking at four in the morning for a seven a.m. flight. We left the hotel in the dark just as we’d come, with my window open, listening for the waves and breathing in the salty air of an Irish coastline.

Slip into the end of any evening with a hot whiskey. My friend, Helen, true to her Irish roots, swears by a similar soothing hot toddy. So, do as the Irish and slip into some soft sheets after one of these.

Hot Whiskey

2 ½ oz. Irish Whiskey
1 slice, fresh lemon
2-4 cloves
1 tsp. sugar
Hot water

Pour whiskey into glass. Stick cloves in lemon slice and add to glass. Fill with hot water and add sugar. Stir to dissolve. Serve immediately.