Author: George Sellers

Before disembarking from the horse-drawn jaunting-cart, our very Irish driver-guide, John Costello, had told us to walk a hundred yards or so along the gravel path where we would reach a footbridge.  So, while the horses take a break, we begin our stroll along the tree-lined trail.  The spring wildflowers here in Killarney National Park are spectacular – waves of bright yellow on a sea of rich green!  “When you reach the bridge,” he had said, “look up the hill to your right and you will see the Fifteenth Century Ross Castle,” yet another abandoned stone castle.  “For a remarkable view of Lower Lake, you will want to make your way up to the fortress.”  But before walking on to the castle, he had directed us to stop about half-way across the bridge and to look downstream – to the left.  “Peer through the branches that overhang the stream banks and you will see, in a small clearing, a group of hookers.”

Hookers!?!  In this incredibly beautiful park!?!  “Yes, and they will be in bright, vibrant colors, very clean, and in an orderly line awaiting the arrival of their morning clients.”  John had alerted us in advance that we would not have time to take the hookers out this morning and that after taking a good look we should move on to see the castle.  And just as sure as John had described them, there they were – bright blue, green and yellow with natural trim – sterns in the water, bows on the bank, oars in their locks, angled up and ready for the firm grip of calloused hands. 

O’Golly!  I am so sorry, I forgot to mention – “hooker” is the Irish word for a small wooden fishing boat originally designed for use on Galway Bay.  Hookers are built in a variety of sizes and can be propelled by oars or by sails.  When sails are used the sailcloth is usually a deep red-brown color and the hull is coated in pitch making it black.  Here in Killarney National Park hookers have been painted bright colors and adapted for pleasure rowing.

An Irish National Guide like John possesses the knowledge and skills to make an escorted coach tour educational.  Such a guide also has the talent and demeanor to make a tour entertaining.  Under the direction of a quality guide, a traveler can laugh and learn at the same time.  It is not a stretch to conclude that John loves his job and his country.  Another thing about which he is very serious – it’s Costello (Cos’-tu-low); NOT Costello (Cos-Tell’-o)!

One warm afternoon after winding through miles of very, very narrow country roads of County Clare, John announces over the coach speaker system, “Na ya know – Y’all don’t deservit abit, but we’re coming up on a village that is home to the Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking Festival.  And here they have a wonderful ice cream shop.  I think we’ll see if they’re open.”

One can learn a lot licking and listening.  It seems that every autumn, following harvest, the population of this quaint town, Lisdoonvarna, swells from about eight hundred souls to around forty thousand.  These are not just local farmers; folks come from all around the world, and the vast majority of them are seeking a mate – or so they say.  Plaques are strategically placed around the town to offer words of encouragement and suggestion for young men seeking a life partner.  For example, a chap might offer the following proposal to a blushing lass, “How would like to put your feet under my table?”  Or for the more serious suitor, the invitation to the young lady might be, “How would you like to be buried with my people?”  I have to suppose that many leave the festival disappointed.  One sign leaves me a little puzzled – and concerned.  It simply states, “The craic in Lisdoonvarna is very good!”  My oral reading of the sign is promptly corrected by a storekeeper.  “It is pronounced crack – not crake,” says she.  That does not allay my concern at all. Continued . . .

May All of your Travels Be Happy and Safe!

A sign Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking Festival leaves me a little puzzled – and concerned.  It simply states, “The craic in Lisdoonvarna is very good!”  My oral reading of the sign is promptly corrected by a storekeeper.  “It is pronounced crack – not crake,” says she.  That does not allay my concern at all.

Next morning as we take our seats on the tour coach for another day of John Costello’s wit and wisdom, he asks those of us who had gone to the nearby pub last night – actually all of us – he asks, “How was the crack last night?”  No response.  I wonder, did John learn this from his extensive Irish Tourist Board training?  Is he running a side business of some sort to supplement his tour guide income?  The crack?  Then he spells it for us, “c-r-a-i-c, crack.”  “What?” he says, “You don’t know what craic is?”  “Oh the things I have to explain to you Americans!”

When someone asks about the craic they are asking if you had fun – if you had a good time.  The term is derived by taking the initial letter from five words:

Ceol is from the Gaelic word for music.  When pronounced, the word Ceol will sound like k-yawl.  So, the C of Ceol becomes first letter of craic – to represent music.

Rince is the Gaelic word for dance.  Specifically, it means to move quickly.  You might have seen or heard the phrase, Rince Na Tiarna which is translated Lord of the Dance.  So, the second letter of the word craic comes from rince.

The A is from the word augus which is simply a slang connector word like the word ‘and’ meaning to augment or add-on to something.  The fourth letter is provided by the word iompair which in the Gaelic language means to carry a load or carry on in a big way – to be plentiful.  Finally, the letter C is contributed from the word caint which means conversation.

What a neat word – craic!  So, when some asks, “How was the craic last night?” – and you reply by saying, “The craic was good.” – it is like saying, “The dancing was good; the music was good; and there was plenty of good conversation!”

Craic & hookers in little ole Ireland – who would have guessed?

May All of Your Travels Be Happy and Safe!

The ends of the straw along the eaves of the thatched-roof are trimmed as neatly as the fibers of an artist’s paintbrush.  The lower edge of the roof is just about at the motor coach’s window level, offering the best view yet of the ancient craft of roof-thatching.  Our bus is rolling to a stop beside the two-hundred-year-old stone cottage on Rathbaun Farm, in County Galway, Ireland.  Here the Connolly family operates a sheep and horse farm.  Our driver, John, swings open the coach door and from his right-hand-drive position waves and shouts, “Good afternoon, Frances!”  Frances Connolly continues strolling toward the bus, wiping her hands on a full-length print apron.  Tottering along beside her, at first glance, appears to be the shadow of small dog; it is, instead, a black lamb, its head not as high as the lady’s knee.  Frances climbs the coach’s three steps; so does the black lamb.  She welcomes us to the farm and begins telling a bit of its history, but the little black lamb steals the show completely and is finally introduced to us as Shannon.  Shannon, we learn, is less than two weeks old, is being bottle-fed, and has been trailing Frances since taking her first awkward steps.  I will apologize now – I just cannot help it – all I can think of is, “Mary had a little lamb . . .”  You know the rest, except that this is Frances instead of Mary and this lamb is black instead of white.

Our hostess informs us that we have arrived just in time for afternoon tea which will be served with freshly-baked scones; homemade jam; sweet, fresh cream butter and porter cake.  To reach the dining room where tea will be served, we pass through a room in the thatched, stone cottage.  Someone remarks about the unusual, sweet aroma, seemingly coming from a fire glowing in a large open fireplace.  “Oh, that smell is from the turf,” says Frances.  Turf?

Tea and scones can wait!  Everyone gathers toward the hearth to have a look.  On the fire grate are four small chunks glowing with short flames licking upward.  In a basket at the left side of the hearth are pieces of a dark, hard substance, resembling sun-dried clumps of animal dung.  Not heavy when lifted and appearing to have tiny plant fibers embedded, the brownish material is not quite as dense as charcoal.  Turf?  “But, what is turf?” asks someone. 

A brief explanation follows, and we learn that the turf burning in the fireplace is also called peat or sod.  It is dug from the ground in areas known as peat bogs and will burn as long and as hot as any oak-wood fire.  Observing our fascination with turf, John assures us that we will alter our plans a bit for the next day, and he will take us to a peat bog to see sods of turf being harvested.

We proceed to the dining room and are seated for afternoon tea.  The scones are incredible!  The homemade jam and butter are spectacular!  The tea – is tea.  Following afternoon tea, Fintan Connolly leads us through the farmyard to the sheep barn where we see dozens of ewes watching over their young.  It seems that each sheep and lamb has a different voice, all bleating to plead for our attention.  Fintan guides us through the barn and out the back to be introduced to Mollie, a young Border-Collie.  Mollie the Collie can hardly contain herself waiting for the gate to be opened so she can perform her afternoon duties.  As soon as her nose makes it through the opening, she is off like a shot across the pasture.  Grazing lazily at the far corner of the pasture are about a dozen adult sheep.  When they detect Mollie’s first movement into the pasture, the sheep appear to panic and start running in the general direction of the barn.  They seem to know where to go.  Mollie zig-zags and circles frantically as the flock races across the pasture toward an open pen at the end of the barn. The first sheep to arrive at the pen does so with such speed and enthusiasm that she overshoots her destination jumping a four-foot stone wall at the back of the pen into the open barnyard.  Once all the sheep are where they belong, Fintan apologizes for Mollie’s demeanor indicating that she is new to the job and has not yet developed the maturity of her predecessor who recently passed away.

Fintan chooses an unsuspecting candidate from the flock and for the next ten minutes shears away the entire fluffy, layer of wool, leaving it in one connected piece.  The visit to Rathbaun Farm ends by passing back through the thatched cottage where again special attention is given to the turf fire.  More questions – lots of pictures – time to go.

Next day, true to his word, John pulls the bus off the narrow road and into a dirt lane.  “Here it is,” he says, “This is a peat bog.”  Stepping off the coach, I see what looks like an idle field – not swampy – not muddy.  There is a wild-grassy covering and to the casual tourist passing by, there is nothing spectacular here to be seen.  But this land, for as far as we can see, is said to be filled with tons and tons of the energy-producing substance known to the Irish people as peat, turf or sod.  To me, it looks like mucky dirt.

About a quarter of a mile away we see a mechanical sod-harvester.  The huge piece of equipment removes sod in layers to a depth of about four feet, cuts it into manageable sized chunks, and using a conveyer system deposits the harvested peat in piles where it will be covered and allowed to dry or dehydrate for a few weeks.  For centuries peat has also been harvested manually using a spade-like tool to cut the sod into brick-sized portions.  Once the peat has dried, it will not reabsorb moisture and remains a convenient, ready fuel for fireplaces, stoves and furnaces.

Peat is an accumulation of partially decayed vegetation, usually, but not always, in marshy areas.  As I understand it, after thousands of years and tons of pressure, peat will become coal.  For household use it is cut into chunks.  Once the clods have dried, they are handled much like firewood.  The dehydrated, cured, product seems not as dense as wood, but locals tell me that sod will burn long and hot.  It can also be ground or milled into pellets or briquettes for home or commercial use.  Some electric generating stations are fueled with sod.

While the rest of the world experiments with, and debates the pros and cons of, green energy versus fossil-based fuels, it appears to me that the folks of southeast Ireland are years ahead (or centuries behind), in heating their homes, churches, castles and pubs.

One of the rewards of escorting groups of travelers is being able to observe which local customs attract their attention.  Of all the fascinating things to experience in the beautiful Irish countryside, who might have guessed that chunks of dried mud burning in a fireplace would have attracted so much attention from the American tourists?  From that day forward we noticed that sweet aroma in every pub we visited.  Burning dirt!?!  Really!?!

May All of Your Travels Be Happy and Safe!