Kinsale

Headed the wrong way up a street in Kinsale. Photos by David Lansing.

We should stop in the tourist office, I say to Mr. Lynch as we slowly make our way up the old Pier Road in Kinsale.

Whatever for? asks Mr. Lynch. I’ve been here before. Besides, the whole town is nothing but three short blocks. You could walk it in less than five minutes.

Yes, well, but wonder if our hotel isn’t exactly in town? What if it’s somewhere out in the boondocks?

It won’t be, says Mr. Lynch confidently. I specifically requested a hotel that was within walking distance of the town.

I still say we should stop at the tourist office and get directions. It’s right on the corner here. You can stay in the car and I’ll just run it. Only be a second.

Still grousing, Mr. Lynch pulls in to the public lot behind the tourist office and I pop out of the car. A fine light mist has just started to come down.

Can you tell me how to find the Old Presbytery, I ask the young woman sitting behind the desk in the empty office, her hands folded on her lap. She jumps up from her chair and uses a pencil to point out the window. Just up the street to the top of the hill, she says. Near the Desmond Castle.

Lovely. Have you got a map?

Yes, she says, but you don’t need one. It’s right there.

Well, maybe a map for wandering around the town later.

The Old Presbytery, Kinsale

She reaches for a stack of folded maps on her desk, opens it up, and uses a green pen to mark the route from the tourist office up Market Quay to the Presbytery. Simple as pie, she says, handing me the map.

The mist has turned to cold rain. The wipers only partially mask Mr. Lynch’s bored face behind the fogged windshield. Well? he says when I get in.

Make a right at this corner and then a left up Market Quay, I tell him. It should be just a couple of blocks.

That’s what I said, says Mr. Lynch indignantly.

The wet map open on my lap, I trace the route with my finger as Mr. Lynch heads up the hill on Market. We come to a one-way street and, going the wrong direction, are forced to go down a narrow alley that might or might not allow cars. The lane dead-ends. Back part way and then a turn away from the harbor and suddenly we are on an unmarked road heading down the backside of the hill.

I think we’ve gone too far, I tell Mr. Lynch. The rain has increased. Fat plops smack the windshield making it hard to see.

How can we have gone too far? You said it was just up the hill.

Yes, and now we’re going down the hill.

Didn’t she say it was by the castle? Look for some ruins.

There’s a tower up ahead, I tell him. That must be it. But it’s not a castle. It’s a church. St. Johns. Listen, I think we should head down the hill back towards the harbor.

We drive for several more minutes. No idea where we are. How can we be lost when you could see the hotel from the tourist office? It’s a mystery.

Now the rain has stopped. The sun is back out. Blue skies. What a strange country. You get several seasons of weather all in twenty minutes.

Stop a young woman walking her dog. Can you possibly tell us where the Old Presbytery is?

She doesn’t say anything. Just points across the street. To a white building with a red door with a sign next to it: The Old Presbytery. Ah. Seems we are there.

Old Head golf course in Kinsale. Photos by David Lansing.

When you get to Kinsale, says Mr. O’Connor, you should wander out along the coast to the Old Head golf course. It’s stunning. Just have a wander out to the lighthouse. Shouldn’t be a problem. Just tell them you want to have a look.

So off to Kinsale we go, winding along the road as it dips down to the harbor and then out to the green countryside, following the signs to Old Head. Reach a gate thrown up between some stone ruins and a young lad comes out of a guardhouse, clipboard in hand. When he asks for our name Mr. Lynch tells him we’re not here to play golf, just to have a look around. Have a look around? repeats the young lad. Sorry but it’s a private course, says he.

Oh that alright, says Mr. Lynch, we’re journalists. We’ve been advised by Fáilte Ireland to come here. Said it wouldn’t be a problem. Fáilte Ireland? repeats the lad. Right. But here’s the thing. It’s a private course.

We don’t want to play the course, I tell him, leaning across Mr. Lynch and poking my head out the window. We just want to have a look at it. Five, ten minutes at most and we’re out of your way.

One minute says our nervous charge. He runs back into the guardhouse and rings up someone on the phone. A few minutes later he’s back. So you’re journalists? he asks. That’s right, we tell him, showing him our cards. He holds them in his hand without looking at them and says, Right, but the thing is, this is a private course.

Come on now, says an exasperated Mr. Lynch. Five minutes is all we want. The lad runs back into the hut, gets on the phone, has a long chat and returns to our car several minutes later. Quickly, he says, opening the gate. Very quickly, please.

God, what was that about? says Mr. Lynch as we drive out the peninsula, the Atlantic Ocean visible on all sides. Willie and Kate aren’t in Ireland, are they? Does Willie play golf? I ask. Maybe not, says Mr. Lynch. Should do, though. I’ll bet Kate would look fine standing over an old putter, don’t you think?

The guarded entrance to the clubhouse at Old Head. Photo by David Lansing.

William and Kate may not be here but something is going on. There are beefy looking men in suits and sunglasses with earpieces staring at us as we park and a Scottish bagpiper is warming up next to a long limo. Best be quick about this. Past an imposing clubhouse guarded by two stone mastiffs at an entrance warning it’s only for Members and Guests—neither of which we are. Down the hill to the cart path leading to the 18^th green. I start to head down it. I wouldn’t go down there, advises Mr. Lynch. Nonsense, I say. Just want to have a quick look. Not advisable, says Mr. Lynch.

A foursome is just coming up the green with their caddies. One of them—a lad no more than 17 or 18—sees me walking down the path. Hey! he shouts. Hey! As if I’ve just stolen his car. I fire off two quick photos and quickly retreat as the caddy continues to yell Hey! Hey!

Off we go, I tell Mr. Lynch. Hustle back past the stone dogs and to the parking lot where the men in suits and sunglasses are now standing around our car. Mr. Lynch smiles at them and says something about it being a lovely day. Silently they part to let us in our car. We grin like idiots as we pull out of the lot.

When we get back to the guard shack, the young lad is more nervous than he was when we first arrived. We roll down the window. Thanks much, says Mr. Lynch. You didn’t go out on the course now, did you, asks the lad. Of course not, says Mr. Lynch. And the gate is shut and locked behind us.