WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD
Somebody needs to tell the Irish how dangerous they live, they all
drive on the wrong side of the road.
The City of Limerick is just an old castle with a lot of Irishmen milling
about and just out side of town is another castle with a pub nearby
called Dirty Nellies, or maybe that is Dirty Annies, anyway she is
dirty something and they will pour you Jack Daniels without the blink
of an eye.
You have to go through Dublin to get anyplace and the cops (garda)
are all down by the Liffey, fish`n. So, go fast, that`s a city and they
even speak English there.
As you head South toward the tropics of Ireland and the place where
the champions all live, you pass some little towns where Vikings used
to raid the farms and left their blonde hair, but they are all gone and it`s
only Irishers there.
You come to a big hill, The Knockmealdown mountains, all covered
with forest and there was a little old man sitting in a tree, his nose was
real red and he had on a suit of green. In a green tree? And he didn`t
see me ? I tried to catch the little bugger, but he threw a sandwich
with Velveeta cheese and ran.
When just a wee lad I asked, Grandpa, where do black Irishmen come
from? Sure lad and they come from the Lismore, where they swam in
the Blackwater river and it turned them around. And the fairies Grandpa, where are they? Sure they dance around the castle in
Lismore with me.
Getting tired, as it was late, Ann Landers in the town of Lismore was
the next stop, a bed and breakfast over the top.
A feast and a sleep and on to find some real Irish place. It was there
just down the lane, a place called Dunmanway, all the people in town
are called Crowley . Hungry as always, no flashing signs on the
restaurant, only somebody in the street tells you about the people
who sell food, and the waitress, a delight had her horse tied at the
back door so he wouldn`t get lost. I think her name was Mary.
Entering Bantry Bay, little man on a haycock overlooking the sea,
said hello to me. Hi cousin! And why are all the people so friendly
I ask and he says, only eight million of us remain, you have millions
all the rest, so we`re cousins you see. Joe Crowley`s downtown on
the wharf, more Jack Daniels and I ask what you do in the town, well
John Crowley is singing at The Crowley`s up town. More stories of
the English who raided and the Irishmen who raided them back.
Back to Blarney castle, I forgot it you see, passed right by, it`s old
broken spires and parpets and crumbling walls.
The stone, The Blarney Stone, imbedded in the wall beneath the
parapet, you hang by your heels. The stone is just that, a solid
rock, but when I kissed her she was warm and soft and I was cranky
they pulled me up, you see she was kissing me back.
Where is it ? I complained and they said, what ? And I said my gift,
the gift of gab. "Here, here`s the name of Tom Crowley, he has it."
So, off to search for it, for the gift of gab.
Back through Waterford, a city of class, to visit the church where
Grandpa went last. Hundreds of boys, hurling sticks on shoulders
visiting the Sacraments before the big games, then on to grand places
I cannot pronounce.
Ah, Mooncoin! This delightful small town, just outside of town.
Another castle of crumbling walls and a terrible nightmare as I slept
there at night. Canons roared thunder, horses screamed rent asunder,
men gasping and moaning while dieing and the English kept firing.
God! Undo the history of those terrible times, where a country was
pillaged and everyone died.
Another sweet village and the most beautiful church. I asked the
old man for it`s name, he gave me a steely look as he disdainfully
replied, "it`s the church, just the church, " walking swiftly away
leaving me in the lurch.
The Cliffs of Moher, Ah how romantic, looking West you can see
across the Atlantic. Nothing but ocean between you and the U. S. A.
I ask kids at play, what castle is that and the reply was, "no English".
An old man said, "it`s O`Brien`s castle" and I said, must be old and he
said "We just buildt it for Yanks to look at, you got all the gold."
Somewhat humbled and a little chagrined, on to visit the castle, the
one on top of the Rock of Cashel. What a chilling experience as you
stand on the grave of an Archbishop buried before the United States
was conceived. You visit the stone on which St. Patrick anointed his
bishops.
The Aran Islands, home of the real Irish. A country road and it`s
getting dark, an old country man is asked where it goes and the
typical answer in this part of the world, "no English" as he trudged
away in to the gloom.
A fishing boat and the ride to Inishmore a joy. On land Barney
O`Finnegan drives a fat pony, he used to drive taxi in New York City.
He entertains on the way to Dun Angus where the people in pre-history
held off the marauders. The Post Master was asked, where are you
from, a strange accent you see and he replies, San Francisco, and
you ?
The most wonderful meal, fresh caught salmon and the service
sublime, the waitress was charming and I think her name was Mary.
Abandoned! It`s getting dark, the boat has left us, what a lark.
The people in the restaurant made a call to Rosaville and in two hours
began the big thrill, a small fishing boat in a horrific storm, without
lights and that is the norm. Ah! Safe on land, almost. The tide was
out and land was about twenty feet above the boat. But, they hauled
us ashore in an hour or more and we were given a feast by the lady
of another warm, quiet place. I think her name was Mary.
There is relief in store, I bore you no more. This is the end, for you
have met the Irish.
Why did you leave Ireland, Grandpa? Sure lad, it`s a fine place, but
there`s no place to eat. The English took the food you see and there
are no signs over the cafe, but the waitress is nice, I think her name
is Mary.
----- Eagle Cruagh
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