Jan in her wellies. Photo by David Lansing.

Before we head out on the Cliff Walk, Honor suggests that we put on a pair of wellies provided by the hotel. “It’ll be a bit slippery out there,” she says.

I might put on some wellies but just glancing at the stacks of green boots in the wet room, it’s clear nothing will fit my rather large feet. Just as well. They’d probably make me look like a potato farmer. Jan’s wellies, however, make her look quite stylish.

It’s gray out. And drizzling. (When is it not gray and wet in Ireland?) Honor leads us down a gravel path lined with wild garlic. The scent is overpowering. A few minutes later we’re standing beside some old stone ruins. St. Declan’s oratory—a little church originally built around the 8^th century on the site of Declan’s monastery.

St. Declan, Honor tells us, was one of the first Irish saints. “He came before St. Patrick.” What they say about Declan is that he established a firm toe-hold for Christianity in the southern parts of Ireland back in the 5th century but it was Patrick that sowed the seeds across the land.

Near the oratory are more stone ruins. The site of a sacred well. The well is far older than Christianity in Ireland, going back to the days of the pagan goddesses who guarded and oversaw the proper use of things like water and food. Then Declan and the Christians came along and co-opted the well and its pagan ceremonies, replacing them with what’s called a “Pattern.”

A Pattern is a series of ritualistic events (like how we celebrate Christmas). The Pattern in Ardmore is held on St. Declan’s feast day, July 24, when thousands of people gather to circle this well while reciting a specific sequence and number of prayers before being allowed to take water from the well. Which is then either drank to cure what ails you or taken home where you might dip your fingers in it every morning before saying your prayers. Or anoint a sick child.

It’s all a little crazy, of course, but then so are most of the strange little rituals of all religions. That, however, doesn’t stop some in our group from reverently dipping a hand in to the well and drinking the mossy green water. Including me. Just in case.

The ruins of an oratory built on the site of St. Declan’s monastery on the clifftops of Ardmore (Ard Mor means Great Height). Photo by David Lansing.

Starters at the Cliff House restaurant in Ardmore included beet macaroons and salmon marshmallows. Photo by David Lansing.

Here’s what it says on the menu at the Cliff House restaurant in Ardmore, called The House: “Martijn Kajuiter, our Executive Chef, has sourced as many of our supplies as possible from as local an area as possible, even going so far as to grow our own vegetable garden…From Tadgh O’Foghlu’s honey in nearby Ring, David Brown’s fresh fish from Helvick and Ardmore Bay, to Sean Twomey and Michael McGrath, our butchers in Youghal and Lismore, the quality of the produce has given Martijn the inspiration to cook dishes that can rely on the seasonality of the ingredients.”

Well, you have to love that. I mean at home, my own cooking revolves around whatever I’m currently harvesting in my garden, whether it be peaches or heirloom tomatoes, arugula or Italian Roma beans. But I have to admit that I’m not a big fan of the Ferran Adrià-style of molecular gastronomy. So I was a little taken-aback when the starters arrived at the table.

A box of beet macaroons. Photo by David Lansing

First off, we got a plank of alder with a salmon marshmallow on it, a big gooey square of orange with overtones of fishiness. That was followed by a square rock garden topped with Easter egg-colored beet macaroons.

Really? This is what we do with the gorgeous salmon caught by David Brown in Helvick and Ardmore Bay? We turn it in to marshmallows? And the lovely beets Martijn grows in Youghal are transformed into puffy macaroons?

This may be great fun for chefs who have perfected the art of perfectly-poached Irish salmon and want to do something out-of-the-box to show their skills, but I think the only people at the table who professed a love of Kajuiter’s fishy marshmallows were infected with a bit of “emperor’s new clothes syndrome.”

That said, once Kajuiter was done showing off, the rest of the dishes were outstanding, from the plump West Cork scallops that were lightly seared, just for a minute or two, and served in a puddle of green peas, bacon, and garden herbs, to the moist Helvick cod, baked with its skin on, and seated on a light sauce of brown crab and saffron sauce.

Now if only Kajuiter (and other chefs) would get back to truly bringing out the essence of all the ingredients they work with and get over proving that they can make marshmallows that taste like salmon.

We’ve moved on from Cork to Ardmore, a little seaside town about 60 klicks to the southeast. We’re staying at the Cliff House Hotel, so named because…well, because it’s literally perched on the cliff here.

The original hotel, called Kelly’s, after the owner, a Mr. Kelly from Connemara, was built in the 30s. Mr. Kelly ran the hotel until his death in 1983. After that, they tell me, the hotel fell into disrepair. Until the O’Callaghan family, who’d been coming to Ardmore on holidays forever, purchased the rather decrepit ol’ gal in 2005. They pretty much gutted the place and then spent three years rebuilding, re-opening five years ago this month.

When we checked in we were met by a lovely woman with sad eyes but a lovely smile who introduced herself as Honor. I just couldn’t resist: “I’m Justice,” I told her. She looked at the reservation and seemed a bit confused until I informed her of my poor joke. “Yes, I see,” she said, her pale blue eyes lighting up, “Honor and Justice. Just so.”

Honor escorted us down several floors (the lobby is actually on the ground floor and the rooms are terraced on the cliff below) to our room which was resplendent in pink—pink bedspread, pink armchairs, pink curtains. Above the pink couch was a bookcase with a book I’d heard about but never actually seen: Let’s Go Disco. It’s not what you think. It’s a very stylish cookbook. By Martijn Kajuites, the hotel’s Michelin star chef. Evidently “Let’s go disco!” is what Martijn shouts at his kitchen brigade when things get a little tense in the kitchen. We’re eating there tonight. With Honor, of course. I can hardly wait.

Let’s Go Disco above the pink couch in our room at the Cliff House Hotel in Ardmore. Photo by David Lansing.

Derk getting a manicure after high tea at Cork’s Hayfield Manor. Photo by David Lansing.

So I mentioned yesterday that while we were having high tea at Hayfield Manor in Cork, Lisa Leahy, our host, also offered up the services of two of her spa manicurists (I’m not sure that’s a word—manicurist—but let’s go with it). No manicures for me. I bite my nails (yes, I know, disgusting). But I was curious about how this would work. Who, I wondered, was going to be the first lady to quickly down her tea and run over to the spa ladies to get her nails done?

Actually, it wasn’t a woman; it was Derk Richardson, an editor from AFAR magazine in San Francisco. I like Derk and I’ve been trying to get something in AFAR since they first came out a few years ago, so I did what any ambitious writer would do: I grabbed my camera, ran to the spa table, and snapped several pics of Derk getting his nails done. Not by one manicurist, mind you, but by two!

But Derk wasn’t cooperating; he was scowling at me. “Listen, Derk,” I said as I continued shooting, “I’m going to use these photos for blackmail. Either you give me an assignment or I publish these babies.”

That made him laugh. But he still hasn’t given me an assignment. So I have no choice but to publish…and probably perish.

Hayfield Manor in Cork, Ireland.

Lisa, who works at Hayfield Manor in Cork, has invited us to tea. Not like a cup of tea or something but the full on high tea with a three-tiered silver serving dish full of little triangle sandwiches and smoked salmon on rye bread and an assortment of little tarts and cakes and such. Oh, and some tea…after the champagne.

Lisa has strawberry blond hair and blue eyes and is gorgeous but that’s not why I love her. I love her because when we first met at Ballymaloe and I asked her where in Cork I should go to get the famous Cork clove rock candy that I’m addicted to she went and found some and gave me four jars of the stuff. That alone is enough to make me be in her debt forever.

So she invites us all to tea at Hayfield and tells us she has a little treat for us. I’m secretly hoping it’s more clove rock candy but instead she’s had a couple of manicurists come down from the spa and tells us that if anyone wants to get a manicure when they’re done with their tea, they’re more than welcome.

Wow. Smoked salmon, champagne, tea, and a manicure. This is why I love Lisa. And want to do something for her but I can’t think of what. Until she starts talking about her daughter, Belle, who is crazy about all things related to Disney’s Toy Story. “She’s got just about all of the dolls,” Lisa says. “Buzz Lightyear, Woody, Jessie. About the only one we haven’t been able to find is that silly horse, Bullseye.”

So that’s it. When I get home I must see if I can find a Bullseye doll. And then ship it off to Belle in Cork. Clove candy for a Bullseye. A good trade, I think.

High tea at Hayfield Manor in Cork. Photo by David Lansing.

Crane Lane in Cork, Ireland. Photo by Katie Botkin.

After Counihan’s Mary and I head across the street to Crane Lane, a big place with hanging plants above the outdoor walkways and frequent live music. I’d been there a few nights previously with Mary and Emily and Nicole, the last two of whom have returned to England since then. It was that evening that Mary decided to christen Emily Five-Foot due to her height, and some ill-fated Irishman overheard and decided that gave him leeway to use her head as a table for his drink. He kept insisting that she cooperate, and she kept telling him in exasperation that she was not going to allow it.

This evening, things are considerably more quiet. We sit at tables and talk above the noise. Once again, we stay out until the place closes. Once again, the music stopping gives the males in the place one last surge of adrenaline, and they try to make conversation as we’re being swept out the door. One fellow asks me where I’m from. “Idaho,” I say “I bet you don’t know where that is.”

“I know Josh Ritter wrote a song about it,” he replies, and before I can compliment him on his taste in music, we’re separated by a wave of people, and I’m outside on the sidewalk, jumping up and down in the chill. Slightly to my right, lo and behold, there’s the other Katie from Idaho. Maybe she’s the reason the boy in the bar knew about Josh Ritter. But then, I kind of doubt it.

Soon enough, I feel the need to get up from the table and find the ladies’ room. As I go in, I catch a glimpse of a blonde girl in the mirror as she stands at the sink washing her hands. She looks like someone I know. For the next minute, in the stall, I’m trying to remember who. Maybe she looks like someone famous. And then I remember: she looks almost exactly like a girl I’ve seen in yoga class a few times in my town of 10,000 people. I bolt out of the stall to get a better look at her, trying not to seem creepy. And sure enough, it looks like her identical twin.

“Are you from Sandpoint?” I blurt out.

“How’d you know that?” she asks, obviously startled.

“I’m in your yoga class,” I say, still trying not to be creepy. “Hot yoga. The one Noelle teaches.”

She doesn’t know who I am, but it doesn’t matter. “I’m Katie,” she introduces herself.

“I’m Katie, too,” I say, and I laugh. What are the odds?

So we go downstairs, and of course we take a picture together and tell our mutual friends about it, and then they meet each other. And we go back to drinking our Irish stout.

Thatched cottage somewhere near Killarney. Photo by David Lansing.

I’ve been blaming Mr. Lynch’s driving for our navigational problems but it’s me that gets us lost trying to get out of Blarney. How can you get lost leaving a village with only one road in and one road out, you ask? Well, it’s not easy but I manage. The thing is, there are two roads headed west towards Killarney, where we’re headed. One is well south of Taiscumar Loch (really a reservoir) and is the major highway; the other closely follows the north shore of the lake and is nothing more than a two-lane country road.

I’m suggesting we take that but the thing is, once you get out into the country there are all sorts of little lanes that split off here and there, few of them marked, and it’s not at all difficult to suddenly find that you’ve passed some village church and the old cemetery and are now out in the country where you’re likely to see only cows and sheep and the odd thatched cottage out in the middle of nowhere (my gawd, says Mr. Lynch as we slow to have a look at an old one-room stone house. Do people really still live in those?). Are we going north or west? A little of each it seems.

Mr. Lynch is driving so slowly that even the oul langer in the rusted out truck behind us is feebly honking his horn. Mr. Lynch pulls to the side and the oul bastard gives us the finger as he goes by. Well, that’s nice, says Mr. Lynch. What would his mother say to that?

We pull into the next cemetery we come across to turn around. And back down the country road we go, passing the same bored looking cows and the young lad pedaling the bike we passed twenty minutes ago. Never mind. We’re in no hurry. We’ll get to Killarney when we get there. That’s the thing about Ireland: It is always waiting for you.

Meself kissing the Blarney Stone. Notice the bottle of anti-bacterial spray. Photo by Allan Lynch.

You don’t think about how claustrophobic a narrow spiral staircase can be until you duck your head to enter (my god these Irishmen must have been little people back in the 15^th century) and then you try not to think about it at all as you slowly take a step at a time with large bodies directly ahead and behind you. Try not to imagine what you would do if the large lady grunting and panting ahead of you collapsed in the stairwell; don’t even imagine how you’d be trapped for hours if you had a heart attack half way up. It will only make you sweat even more and your heart beat faster than a rabbit running from a hawk.

I can’t breath, says the large woman above me. Her daughter, large on her own, has her mother’s elbow in her hand and is half pulling and half willing her mom to continue going up. Just stop for a moment, says the daughter. Mother huffs and puffs, pulls out a Kleenex from her purse and wipes it across her forehead. No rush, no rush, I tell them. Take your time.

The view from the top of Blarney Castle. Photo by David Lansing.

Meanwhile, I feel like I’m having a panic attack myself. Staircase so narrow both my shoulders touch the cold damp stones on either side. Everyone has stopped climbing. All of us looking up the dimly-lit staircase, trying to catch a glimpse of the large woman holding things up. Finally she starts climbing again. I start climbing as well.

Eventually make it to the top of the tower and gawd, has fresh air ever smelled so grand? Just take it in by the lungful. And lovely view of the emerald green countryside all around. Worth the climb, I suppose. But there’s still the matter of kissing the stone. Line snaking around the battlement like visitors at Disneyland waiting to ride the Matterhorn. All so we can get down on our hands and knees, roll over on our back, stretch out backwards under the parapet—feet held down by a bored young lad—and kiss a moldy stone in hopes it will magically confer us with eloquence. Ridiculous. Yet here I am. No wonder Mr. Lynch refused to do this.

My turn now. Down on my knees. Roll over. Push out beneath the parapet, grabbing at where I hope the wall is. Bend my head down and out. Kiss something cool and smooth. Must be the stone. Lad gives a yank to my legs to pull me back in. And that’s it. I’ve kissed the Blarney Stone. An Irish baptism. Wonder when I’ll start noticing the eloquence?

Blarney Castle. Photo by David Lansing.

When you get to Blarney Castle, says Mr. O’Connor, ask for Jean Murphy. She’ll get your tickets. So at the turnstile I ask for Jean and am told she no longer works here. Bit embarrassing that. Explain to the woman that we’re journalists and she says just a minute and wanders off. Meanwhile, the line behind us grows anxious. And it’s starting to rain again. Mr. Lynch and I are the only ones in line standing under cover. What’s the problem then? says a woman with two young ones at her side and a stroller in front of her covered with a baby’s pink blanket.

I smile and shrug. Nasty looks all around. Line continues to grow. So does the disgruntled nature of those behind us. Woman finally arrives back at the window and hands us our tickets. Thank gawd says the woman with the stroller.

Where’s the castle then? I ask Mr. Lynch. Like everyplace in Ireland, he’s been here several times. Yet he’s never kissed the Blarney Stone. I asked him why over breakfast this morning and he told me a story about bored guides at the castle ending their shifts by pissing on the stone that’s kissed by thousands each day. Sure that’s just an urban legend, I tell him. Maybe, he says, buttering his toast, but even if it is, think of the number of people mashing their maws against that stone every day. You really want to kiss something like that?

Probably not but I’m not going to come all the way to Blarney and climb the 127 narrow steps to the top of the keep and not kiss the stone. Piss or no piss.

The rain starts coming down heavy enough that we take refuge with several others beneath an ancient yew tree. At least this time I’ve brought a rain coat so I can tuck my camera between my sweater and my coat. The rain stops, the clouds flee, and it’s blue skies again. Odd country this Ireland.

Across a bridge, the stream down below filled with coins. Thousands of them. Maybe enough to cover Ireland’s debt. The mom with the toddlers and stroller stops on the bridge. Little ones want coins to throw in the stream. Mom gives them one each and tells them to throw them as far as they can while making a wish. The boy, not more than three or four, flings his coin but it only goes a few feet away. He starts to cry. What are you crying about? says him mom. It doesn’t matter how far it goes. Your wish will still come true. What did you wish for? An ice cream, says the boy. Ah, well, we’ll see about that, says the mom.

No doubt he’ll get his wish. But I wonder how many wishes lofted skyward along with the coins in the stream also came true? No many, I think. No many at all.