Eire to whom Eire is due E-Book

Carlo Reltas

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 132

Beschreibung

Never before has a country left such a strong mark on my memory. I simply had to write down my Irish impressions. The hustle and bustle of Galway, the Girl of Connemara, the mummies of Saint Michan, the Black Rose and the Crane, the Ring of Kerry - everything still seems like yesterday. Only a few days, and yet it seems like a small eternity. So much to tell ...

Leseprobe

Carlo Reltas

EIRE TO WHOM EIRE IS DUE

An Irish Travel Diary

Carlo Reltas

Eire

to whom Eire is due

–

An Irish Travel Diary

CARE Publishing

Offenbach

Cover photo:Dunguaire Castle on Galway BayPhoto: C. Reltas

© CARE of Sattler 2023ISBN: 978-3-757533-35-9

(Original eBook in German 2019, Original print version in German 1998, Re-issue 2015)

Publisher: CARE of SattlerAugust-Bebel-Ring 22, 63067 Offenbach

[email protected]

Distribution:epubli – a service of Neopubli GmbH, Berlin,www.epubli.de

Contents

Cover

Title

Imprint

A little Leap in the AirWell then, Nestor, Mister!Through the BowlGalway  in Summer BustleThe Girl from ConnemaraOnly Fjord and Largest LakeHeading for the CliffsRipe for the isleA Chance for PeaceThe Black Rose and the CraneFollowing Frankie's footsteps in LimerickEurope House AghadoeKerry Ring: Honour to whom honour is dueHoly Post OfficeFried-up and other tasty stuffHop on, hop offMummies of a special kindPub Crawl with BeckettThe Dublin ExperienceGaelic Football, Late PassengerAbout the authorBy the same Author

A little Leap in the Air

Half past eleven Greenwich Mean Time. A cloudy sky over Dublin cannot slow down a mobile phone. Modern communication technology triumphs over geographical divides and a tuff island climate. The satellite phone quickly brings me back to the small town on the Rhine, which I left a few hours earlier via the motorway in the direction of Frankfurt Airport.

The fact that I have made a not insignificant aerial leap from the airline hub in the centre of Europe to the westernmost country of this continent does not excite my daughter on the other end of the line. She asks me questions as if I'm calling in from the milkman round the corner because I've forgotten my wallet. "Yes, I suppose the post office in Bad Honnef is already closed," I reply to the question about the opening hours of the local stamp depot. Because normally they close there at half past twelve, I assure her. And that's what my watch shows, which I haven't yet changed to Irish Time.

For me, "Irish time" had already begun with the landing approach. "Nothing comes from nothing", my grandmother always said, thus teaching me to respect rumours and clichés. Indeed, the "green island" lives up to the promise of its name even in mediocre weather. Hedge-ringed meadows in dark green are the first detail that one sees when approaching from a bird's eye view - with strange bright sprinkles that mutate into beige spots at lower altitudes and finally shortly before touchdown turn out to be lively, grass-eating balls of wool .

I leave my daughter, who is not interested in such country-specific phenomena, to her mail problem with my best regards to the rest of the family, stow the wireless link to the homeland lost for a week in my backpack and turn back to Ireland. In front of me in the bus park at Dublin Airport is Nestor's Bus - a somewhat rickety vehicle with worn-out seats and the destination Galway on the west coast.

Well then, Nestor, Mister!

A few minutes after landing, the story with Nestor confirmed an assessment of Irish hosts that is sometimes found in travel guides. In a well-meaning, malicious way, they point out the undoubted fact that Irish people are willing but unreliable sources of information.

The first person I spotted after walking through the snazzy car park passage in the airport bus yard was wearing the uniform of the airport staff and therefore seemed trustworthy. No, there was no CityLink Coach directly to Galway. I would have to take the airport bus to Dublin City. From there it would continue.

I couldn't believe my ears, as I had already heard from the CityLink announcement service in Germany that there would be a direct bus from the airport to Galway on Saturday at 12.10 pm. So I walked through the spotlessly clean multi-storey car park again, which reminded me of the city chic of small towns in northern Germany, and looked at the airport building. And while I was still inspecting the bus stops there - above all, those buses lead directly into the heart of the capital - the nice uniformed man of about 30 came trotting along behind me. "Yes, yes, there is a bus to Galway. A Nestor bus to Galway has just pulled up in front of the bench where I was sitting when you approached me. Nestor, Nestor, you must take it."

"Thank you very much, young man, the main thing is that I get to Galway." Sure enough, no sooner had I passed the passage for the third time than I saw Nestor's bus. "To Galway?" a red-headed model Irishman asks me. "Okay!" And then I finally have it, the ticket to the mid-west coast.

Three quarters of an hour until departure. Enough time for a satellite phone call and a walk around the parking lot, where I discover the ultra-modern CityLink bus to Galway at the back. Not only does it make a much neater impression. It also leaves a quarter of an hour earlier. But who's in a hurry in Ireland? Why not take the old Greek? And I look forward to my Nestor transport.

Through the Bowl

Irish geography is like a flat bowl. In the middle, it's mostly flat. At the edges of this island, Mother Earth curves into substantial low mountain ranges. The highest point in Eire, Carrantuohill on the Kerry peninsula in the southwest, measures 1038 metres above sea level. Speaking of Mother Earth, near Killarney, the "Irish Davos" and tourist centre of Kerry, she even shows her breasts. Within sight of the road to Cork, "The Paps", two shapely, hemispherical hilltops, rise to 696 metres.

But we are not there yet. First we have to cross the bowl. "Nestor" drives through rowhouse-lined suburban avenues and finally stops on the banks of the Liffey River, right in the heart of the city of Swift, Joyce, Behan and other Irish noble pens who have carried the name of this river into world literature.

A stop of half an hour - directly opposite the Custom House, an imposing giant building that now houses a museum rather than the Port Customs Authority. "Anna Livia", as Joyce calls the river of his hometown in "Finnegans Wake", does not unfold any particular charm on this grey-hued day at lunchtime.

So I turn to the "Irish Times", a liberal Dublin newspaper worth reading. Somewhat amused, the columnist asks who is not actually taking part in the political competition to succeed today's "Anna Livia", Mary Robinson,  first woman to hold the office of President of the Republic of Ireland. There are several "Taoiseachs" (pronounced T-shock like stale tea) in the starting blocks. And besides the "chiefs", which is what the Gaelic taoiseach actually means before this title passed to the heads of government, there is also a real-life winner of the Grand Prix Eurovision de la Chanson.

But "Dana", who once stormed the European summit with "All Kinds of Everything", did not receive "douze points / twelve points / zwölf Punkte" from the Irish this time under her civil name Rosemary Browne. After all, the left-liberal Mary Robinson, who was appointed UN Human Rights Commissioner, was again followed by a woman in office in the person of Mary McAleese - something I did not yet suspect on board "Nestor". So while I was immersed in Irish domestic politics, the Midlands flew past the windows of the coach.

The grey-green counties of Kildare, Meath, Westmeath, Offaly and Roscommon were criss-crossed by the bus. Passengers change at village and small-town stops. In medieval Athlone we are in the middle of the bowl. "Nestor" crosses the much-praised Shannon, which exits the fish-rich Lough Ree here and continues its way southwest to the Atlantic.

Shortly before Athlone Castle on the western side of Shannon Bridge, a strategically important military post since the 13th century, "Nestor" almost caught up with its competitor from CityLink. But while the snow-white Link liner is already setting sail again, the cosy colourful namesake of the mythical Argonaut is anchoring at the side of the road in Athlone City. Our bus driver is not bothered by a military dispute on the banks of the Shannon or a modern horsepower battle on the route to Galway. On this lazy Saturday afternoon, a chat with the rotund general dealer next to the bus stop is much more tempting. With a view of the castle and this colourful and charming row of shops in the centre of the Irish bowl, you want to linger.

Meanwhile, the descendant of the King of Pylos also has a timetable. Less than twenty kilometres behind Athlone, County Galway already begins, one of the most extensive counties in the Irish Republic. It is over a hundred kilometres from the Shannon tributary Suck, the county border in the east, to the coast at Clifden. But in between, the rim of the bowl first curves, soon catching the eye on the horizon.

The mountains only really become stately to the west of Galway, but even on the way to this former emigrant port you get a slight foretaste of ups and downs. And when "Nestor" turns into Eyre Square in the county capital in the late afternoon, it turns out that it forms a rectangular inclined plane - as if to prove that we are now at the edge of the bowl.

Galway in Summer Bustle 

Galway on a Saturday afternoon in the peak holiday season is buzzing like a beehive. Groups of young people crowd Eyre Square, skaters dash on the flagstones, young and old stroll and camp on its lower part, the green space of Kennedy Park. In the nearby Tourist Board, the last new arrivals are still looking for accommodation. Desperate unregistered people are already being offered accommodation far away without any guarantee of quality. Thank God, I only need to have the way to St. Mary's explained to me. Because St. Mary's College at the university has promised me accommodation by fax.

Ireland is a devout Catholic country. And so the university college is not only called that, but in the entrance area the traveller is also personally greeted by the Mother of God, a white statue at whose feet a few candles are always burning. A mosaic of the Virgin Mary also looks out at the guest from the tower-like extension above the portal of the wide four-storey building block as he approaches the seat of knowledge across the wide lawn. In combination with a few glasses of porter or whiskey, this good spirit should give me a deep sleep night after night of my stay.

On the way to the university, the pedestrian crosses the Salmon Weir Bridge, the northernmost of Galway's three bridges. Here at the lower end of Lough Corrib, the largest lake in the Republic, salmon are supposed to gather to leap over the weir upstream. But apparently the salmon had also made a leisurely Saturday afternoon of it. Instead, a few steps further on, in a side channel of the River Corrib, there was another extraordinary water spectacle.

A dozen canoe knights, helmeted and with their lattice face protectors folded down, also decked out in thickly lined foam bibs emblazoned with the player's number on the front and back, engaged in a fierce battle. Their "packaging", however, is meant for unintentional body attacks. Primarily, they hit the water with their paddles and try to lift a yellow plastic ball with these scoops. This sporting competition, called Irish Waterpolo, takes its cues from basketball. The yellow ball has to land in the basket of the opposing team, which is suspended from a rod that is tightly moored to the canal walls. The defender's paddle just reaches the opening of the throw-in. In fact, he manages to wipe the attacker's ball off the edge of the basket.

In the evening, there is less action on the water, but all the more in the narrow streets of the city centre. The fight for seats in one of the better (fish) restaurants on Quay Street strains the nerves and patience, but is rewarded by fresh seafood delicacies. After dinner, the streets are even more crowded than before. The pubs are overflowing. Guinness and lager pour from the extra counters for passers-by in parallel with the hard-to-reach bar.

Pop, rock, Irish folk and jazz from various live bands emanate from the numerous music pubs. But real life happens outdoors on this balmy summer evening. The musical heart of the city beats on the corner of Quay Street and Cross Street. An Irish vocal and guitar duo drives a crowd of many hundreds over the highs and lows of pop culture. From current Oasis hits back to the Stones, Beatles, Dylan and back, they have everything in their repertoire, spiced up with a few Irish folk songs.

The audience goes along enthusiastically and joins in - as far as they know the lyrics. Of course, the Irish are among themselves when it comes to native standards, but Lennon/McCartney songs are just as well known in Milan, Brussels and Berlin. "Where there's singing, there's settling" - even if it's the kerb. Anyway, the crowd at the Cross Street corner is getting bigger and bigger.

Since the most eager singers also have to take a break once in a while, travellers from various corners of Europe and America get to talk. What tours have you already done? And what else do you have planned? Tomorrow we're off to Connemara. So be it! Finally, the passers-by sing their own songs. Once again, the Italians, who appear in large groups, are unsurpassed in their good humour and singing skills. Allora, domani a Connemara! Well tomorrow to Connemara.

The Girl from Connemara

The voyager to Ireland does not travel to a terra incognita, but images in his head accompany him even on his first journey. The most lasting "pre-image" I re-imported to Eire was by a certain Augustus Burke, a 19th century landscape painter. His painting The Connemara Girl, on view in illustrated books as well as in the Irish National Gallery in Dublin, conveys Irish country life as a romantic idyll.

A young shepherdess, dreamy-eyed and delicate as a Madonna, strides barefoot across the moorland of her homeland, a bundle of brushwood in her arms, two of her charges at her sides. The goats pose dutifully for the painter. There is nothing to be seen of the land but a slope covered with heather, the sea shimmers bluishly in the background, above it the sky in all its grey-white shades. The rough ground suggests that life in the west of County Galway is probably not as tranquil as this Irish icon looks. Nevertheless, the viewer inevitably succumbs to the charm of the Girl of Connemara.

So "In search of the Girl of Connemara" is the motto on this Sunday morning. But first there are mundane things to do. To hire a bike is my desire, and that is not difficult. The bike rental shop near the docks in Galway is prepared for Sunday excursionists. When the shop owner hears about my touring plans for the next three days, he thoughtfully packs a repair kit on the luggage rack. I agree to this very much. Because experience shows that this is the best guarantee that nothing will happen. The breakdowns always occur when you don't have a repair kit with you.