SLEA HEAD

Thursday morning and we puttered about our cottage.  It was to be a day of walking into town, reading menus posted outside pubs and making a list of the restaurant kitchens to be sampled. The three of us rendezvoused at Murphy’s pub for a pint and a spot of late lunch before dropping into the Internet Café for mail call and posting of the previous day’s blog.  

Mike tries to stay busy while I post my blog
 at the Internet Cage

Lunch had been so satisfying that we decided to stay home for dinner, simply picking away at what ever cheese and salad we could rustle up. We also purchased a pack of turf logs so that we could enjoy a cozy evening fire as we each read our books or knitted or watched one of the few TV channels our landlord had provided.  It was a great plan, but we had forgotten to purchase anything to get the fire started with.  In desperation, we built a teepee of the turf logs and placed a roll of toilet paper under it, in hopes that the burning Charmin would last long enough to jump start the turf.  It didn’t.

We decided to do a driving tour out to Slea Head on Friday.  This region is fiercely Gaelic.  I strongly suggest that you know where you are going because the road signs and signposts are without a word of English.  Shortly before lunch we headed out toward Ventry Bay and The Stonehouse café.  Great plan, but with no address or other landmarks to direct us to the actual location of the Stonehouse, we stopped into the Skipper instead.  Bad decision.  Three watery bowls of mushroom soup, no doubt made with reconstituted mushrooms that were then pulverized and topped with butter that lay in a film upon the soup, one serving of pate, one warm Corrona and two cups of tea for 37 Euros.  When we had first entered the establishment the host had warned us that we had to eat quickly as he was expecting a tour bus within the hour.  That should have been our first clue that this was a tourist trap, but did we listen?

We continued our drive along the peninsula, passing the beehives that were actually huts built by ancient monks to protect them from the elements.  They are sprinkled among many of the local farms that cling to the road along the cliffs.  If you want to see one up close, there will be a farm wife that will greet you at her gate and then collect a fee before allowing you entrance into her back pasture.  You must then shoo the sheep out of the way, watch were you step, and then stoop way down as you enter through the wee little entrance to the beehive for a closer look.  We choose not to stop, simply catching a glimpse as we drove toward Slea Head. 

WOW!  What an impressive sight, as the southwest corner of Ireland disappears into the sea at Slea head. From the top of the cliffs you can look out toward the Blasket Islands.  It’s easy to make your way down the cliffs thanks to the making of the movie Ryan’s Daughter.  Much of it was filmed at Slea Head and David Lean needed to get the camera and sound equipment down the cliff face.  He built a basic road for this purpose and today you can easily walk down the serpentine asphalt roadway to the beach below. Of course, walking up is not quite so easy a walk!  But, whether you stay on the top or make your way down to the beach, it is breathtaking.

From Slea Head, the road followed the cliffs and began heading north toward Dun Chaion (pronounced Quin).  This is where you can pick up the ferry for a quick ride across to Greater Blasket Island.  No one lives on the Blaskets any longer, the last residents leaving the island in 1953.  But, it is an area rich in history and heritage. We were lucky enough to find the Blasket Center open and treated to one of the most beautiful and interesting museums I have ever had the pleasure of visiting.  The Blasket Islanders were a small, tightly knit community who lived an incredibly difficult life.  The islands are rocky, fog covered more often than not, and blown by sea dampened winds everyday.  Some where in the early nineteen hundreds, Gaelic scholars decided to chronicle the Islanders lives before all their history was lost as the elder members of the community died.  Many of the islanders then began to write, recording their history and their way of life.  These are the people and the stories that are presented in the Blasket Center today.  The building itself is designed to pay tribute to the people of the Blaskett’s.  The walls are stone and glass, and as you pass from photograph to photograph through the center, you catch a glimpse of the islands.  The main corridor slopes down so that as you work your way through, you are heading down to the sea.  At the end, you find yourself in a small glass conservatory looking across the bay.  You can still see the island’s last three buildings and the stone walls that divided the farm fields.  Breathtaking.

The rest of our drive about was filled with amazing vistas, small enclaves of holiday homes and sheep everywhere.  We arrived back at our cottage in time for of each of us to enjoy a few chapters of our individual reads and a cocktail before a late dinner.  We chose a traditional restaurant/pub that offered music later in the evening.  Dinner was outstanding and the music was a mix of traditional with a hint of blues.  All in all, it was a glorious day.

MUCKROSS AND MARY

Tuesday morning and time to make plans for the day.  As this is my third visit to Ireland and Mike’s fourth, we have learned a few short cuts for making the most of our precious days here.  In the interest of friendship, I will share some of this local knowledge with you.  Let’s begin.

     1.  Never, never, never waste any time on your hair.  No matter how it starts the day, the second you step out of your hotel, your hair goes to hell in a hand basket.  No one cares.  Very few Irishmen wear a hat.  So, you will be at the mercy of the weather and the weather is not terribly merciful.   More than likely it is softly raining, or it is just about to begin, or with any luck at all, you are out in the ten minutes between the previously mentioned “soft rains.”

     2.  Forget about fashionable boots.  Yes, in London and all other major European cities, you wouldn’t go more than twelve hours without pairing your boots with every ensemble you might care to walk out in.  Try those same boots in Ireland and you are likely to have twisted some lower extremity, making walking painful.  City, country, suburb, you will not go a block without having to navigate over bricks and cobblestones.  These are hard enough to travel while wearing a sturdy, lace up shoe with a solid sole, making any other shoe choice unwise.  Truth be told, don’t worry about much fashion at all.  Ireland is a country filled with sensible citizens, who understand that an oversized sweater and gore-tex anything will see you through the day, from start to finish.

     3.  Pay absolutely no mind to what the day looks like when you wake up.  This works both ways.  If it is misting at 8:00 AM, the clouds will break by noon.  But, do not be fooled by a brilliant, cloudless morning.  The sort of morning that arrives in twenty-seven shades of green, birds singing and the air clear and golden, can break your heart by noon. As Mary tells me, Ireland is a country of many weathers. And, reread point number one to see what this means for your hair.  

     4.  But, most importantly of all, pay absolutely no mind to points 1, 2 and 3.  Just get your self outside and inhale deeply.  Always have a sweater and raincoat in your backpack, run your fingers through your hair, and prepare to tuck in somewhere if necessary.  You’ll have no trouble finding a pub with a coal or turf fire burning and a steaming bowl of fish chowder to ward off a chill.  You might also manage to find a pint or two.

Yes.  He's Irish!

Paying careful attention to points 1 through 4 above, Mike and I decided to head out to Muckross House for a day of touring.  Rather than a bus tour, we simply grabbed a taxi and had the driver deliver us to the estate.  Our driver, Tim, was a lovely senior citizen, filled with lots of suggestions for enjoying the day.  I think that’s what he was saying.  Every sentence was crammed full of “Yup, yes, yes, yes, indeed, indeed a grand spot, yes, yes, yes, for sure.”  And, just like in the US where those from Maine have a hard time understanding a Louisiana drawl, Ireland is filled with regional accents.  If you have no problems in Dublin, your ear will be sorely straining to catch even half of what is said in other quadrants of the country.  So, Tim was interesting.  He deposited us at Muckross House and promised to return at 4:00 to collect us.

We did all the tourist things at Muckross, starting with a trip up to Torc Falls in a jaunting car.  Spectacular! The jaunting car is one horsepower and the horse was a black and white Irish Cob named Patches.   We were the first passengers of the day for Patches and the driver, and I’m not totally sure the driver had recovered from the previous nights ration of Guinness.  Mike paid the thirty Euros for the trip and was tempted to give the driver an extra five for a bath.  Patches was a bit “fresh” in the morning air, making us grateful for the blanket the driver tossed over our knees as we smartly trotted out way to the falls and back. 

Muckross house is a magnificent country home.  The estate was built in the 1860s and, along with its 24,000 acres was given to Ireland by the third owner, creating the Killarney National Park.  The house’s history and furnishings are closely tied to a visit by Queen Victoria just three months before the death of her husband, Albert.  The original owners spent six years preparing for the royal visit and many of the specially commissioned furnishings, draperies, and wall coverings are still in place.  The tour of the house is very interesting because you are able to visit every nook and cranny, giving you a good peek into life in the Victorian era.  The nursery, the kitchens, the bathrooms, the billiard room, and all the other living spaces are open for accompanied tours.

Nothing like a day in the park to work up an appetite for a wonderful dinner at the Stonechat nestled into an alleyway off the main street in Killarney.  The air and the meal and the wine insured another great nights sleep. 

Our Rental Cottage

Wednesday morning is all about packing and waiting at the curb for Mary!  She drove down from Labasheeda to pick us up in Killarney.  After only one snafu with a flat tire, she arrived and we headed out to Dingle.  The drive was gorgeous but we were all feeling a bit weak with hunger by 1:30.  The need for lunch found us at Inch Beach and the most delightful café sitting up above the beach and dunes.  The surf was a bit tame, so we only saw a few dog walkers enjoying the day as we looked out from our perch above.  Fish and chips and a pot of tea fortified us for the remaining drive to Dingle.  I claimed the back seat for myself, as driving along cliffs and up winding roads through the countryside is not my favorite thing to do.  I pump an imaginary brake pedal and grab onto any handhold I can find, sucking in my breath at every hairpin turn.  Mike and Mary happily chatted away, oblivious to me.  Fortunately, to my mind, we arrived in Dingle while still in the upright position.   After stopping at a local grocery store for a few necessities, we found our holiday house and settled in for the next ten days.  Perfect! Woot?  No internet?  How refreshing!  Let's go find our dinner!

A DAY AT THE RACES

Saturday morning was moving day and we caught the 11:00 train out of Dublin heading to Killarny.  Ireland is very manageable without a car.  In truth, you will see much more from a bus or train than you ever will in a car.  Most of the roadways are narrow and edged with shrubs making sightseeing difficult.  That, and you will have your eyes squeezed shut much of the time.  If you are the driver, and forced to keep your eyes open, you will arrive at the end of the day with cramps in your fingers from gripping the wheel so tightly and a blinding head ache from your passenger screaming.  Just saying.
     We needed to transfer trains in Mallow and it was easy peasy.  You grab your suitcases and step off of the first train, cross the platform and up onto the waiting train.  Slip your bags into the rack at the end of the car and then you make your way to an empty seat.  Mike and I seated ourselves, and looked forward to more beautiful sights.  But, first, we were forced to witness a real, honest to God, chick fight, involving three females.  It seemed that two of them had rushed to seats in the very end car (where we were seated) whilst the third member of their party was washing her hands and looking about for some paper towel.  She exited the Loo to find herself standing alone on the platform, her girl friends no where in sight.  She then got into the first car and did not spot her friends.  She worked her way down, going from car to car, until she FINALLY found her pals in the last car.  That is when the yelling began.  She stood in the aisle, shaking her finger at her two rude sitting friends.  She told them how panicked she was, how near she was to a nervous breakdown thinking, they had left her.  The other two were answering back that they ALWAYS rushed on to save seats and she should quiet down.  But, instead, the mad woman continued to ramp up her anger.  At the last second, just before what might have been fisticuffs, the enraged one turned to me and smiled.  Without a word of a lie, this woman will never see seventy-five again, nor will either of her friends.  With a huge smile, she giggled and asked me what I thought of her rude friends.  All I could think of to say was, "We're tourists and you're scaring us!"  So, after all three stopped laughing, they broke out a deck of cards, put their coins and match sticks on the table and began a lively game of something.  Every time one of them came close to raising her voice, she was told to hush before she scared the tourists.

 

      We arrived in Killarney without any further excitement.  What a charming, picture post card town!  Winding streets, pubs galore and cobbled walkways.  Mike had booked us into the Malton and it is spectacular.  It's an old railway hotel in the grandest of Victorian style.  It has the feel of being a guest in a manor home like Downton Abbey.  Domed ceilings, glass conservatories, wide staircases and quiet servants, oops, I mean employees, walking at triple time on crepe soles so as not to disturb the guests.  Our room was a large corner suite on the second floor with a view out two sides toward mountains. The grounds are park like with flowering trees and manicured lawns all the way around.  We unpacked and took a brief intermission before walking about to explore the town.  The only sounds we heard were the voices of dozens of kids who had been released by their parents to play outside while the adults lingered over the last of the First Communion luncheons in the dining room.  Mix in the sounds of the horse taxis as they smartly trotted about, delivering people and entertaining visitors.  Our dinner was grand, thanks again to Trip Advisor, where Mike does his research before we ever leave home.

     Sunday is race day!  One of the items on Mike's bucket list was to attend the racing meet in Killarney.  Remember, horses are to Ireland what breathing is to the rest of the world.  From our hotel and the heart of Killarney, it is only a ten minute walk to the race course.  Wait, did I say the race course?  This is a story of efficient use of land.  For all but a few days in May, a week in July and another later in the summer, the race course is the Ross Golf Club.  During racing, they suspend golf and put up the jumps.  What you find is a race course with fairways through the infield.  The rest of the year, you will tee off in front of the grandstands and play through the horse box (horse trailers) parking ground.  Race day was a beauty!  Sun and a good breeze barreling through the pass between the Purple Mountains and McGillicuddy's Reeks, straight at the race course.  Families everywhere!  Picnics well packed and children running serpentine between wooden tables and up to the rail and back.  The walking ring rail is packed with knowledgable betters elbowing about, trying to get a good look at their favorite.  Just before the race start, the horses and riders head to the track for a warm up gallop and to give the horses a look at the first jump.  As post approaches, the spectators move as a wave to the track side rail.  During the first race, I was standing next to two boys, about ten or twelve years old.  As the field approached the last jump, both lads were yelling and rocking atop their imagined mounts, "Come on Captain!  Come on Captain, Come on boy!"  I don't really know if Captain held on for them, but both boys sprinted the last thirty yards with the leaders, presumably to cross the finish line with THEIR horse.

     The rest of the afternoon, between races,  was filled with Irish music, step dancers in front of the grandstand, bookies calling out the odds to their clientele, tweeds, silks, fascinators, and children everywhere.  Glorious!
     Back at the Malton and a quiet four star dinner before retiring to our room to watch the end of The Players Tournament.  If Kevin Na holds on, I will be sitting pretty in our Sawmill Golf Pool!





      

TURN LEFT AT THE HAIRY LEMON

      We've arrived.  The flight from Toronto to Dublin was painless and we actually arrived ahead of schedule.  This is a really special bonus because it meant we beat all the other international flights to the customs agents and were able to cover the distance from plane to taxi stand in about fifteen minutes.  The only down side to it all was joining the rush hour crush into the city, but our driver wanted information about Disney World, so the time flew by.
     Good news!  The Brooks Hotel is still an oasis of comfort within an incredibly hip city.  Yes, Conner, the butler, is still there and he claims that he remembered me but couldn't place Mike.  What a charmer!  Still dressed in his cut away grey morning suit, wearing his "Best Of" lapel pins, perfectly shaved and every hair on his head brushed into obedience.  A deep three hour nap and Mike and I were ready to meet the city.
     Dublin is an incredibly young city.  Statistically, the average resident's age is somewhere in the mid 30's.  Even though the Celtic Tiger has been reduced to a quiet kitty during this economic downturn, the cities heartbeat is still beating loud and proud.  The restaurants and bars are packed with hip locals and a lot of German and Scandinavian tourists.

     Our first destination on our walkabout was The Queen Of Tarts, a wee little tea shop on Dame Street, near Dublin Castle.  Word of warning...if you are thinking that Dublin Castle is like something from a travel brochure, not so.  It has been modified, subdivided, updated, torn apart, rebuilt, rezoned and chopped.  A gate here, governmental offices over there, a bit of a remaining wall and if you squint your eyes a bit, you can almost see where they displayed the heads of slain enemies.  But, the castle holds great importance to the history of Ireland and is worth a guided tour if you want to understand it's landmark status.
     Following our late lunch we walked about a bit more and returned to our hotel in time for me to meet up with local knitting ladies.  I spent a spirited evening sitting with women who meet weekly in the bar at The Brooks to chat about their knitting and their lives.  I had been tipped off about this group by a chance meeting the week before with a young lady who had just returned to Canada from living a year in Dublin.  The two Clair's were the first to arrive and they graciously invited me to join them.  From that moment it was as if we had been friends for eons.  Knitting will do that!  Then along came Edel and we were joined by Keeko and a couple of others.  Edel, spent the entire evening making suggestions of sights, tastes and sounds of Ireland that she thought we would enjoy.  You could see that she had a special love and pride about her city and she wanted to open my eyes to all of it.  At the end of the evening, I was thankful to Lilly for introducing me to these women.    
     After knitting, Mike and I walked two short blocks to a trendy little alleyway named Coppinger Row, filled with chic restaurants and very hip patrons.  We found a corner table in the front window and both ordered the roast lamb dinner.   It always surprises me when Americans turn there nose up at lamb.  But, I must say that over the years I too have had some pretty strong mutton that has been labeled as lamb, and am usually cautious about ordering it.  But, Irish lamb is a unique meat and is to be ordered when ever possible.  That, a nice bottle of red wine and the crisp linens at The Brooks insured a great sleep for us.

    Friday we awoke to find a bright and crisp morning.  But, not to worry, because the soft rain returned by noon.  Now, about breakfast.  Where else but The Brooks would you start your day with the most lovely bowl of Irish porridge, sprinkled with brown sugar (not the American sort) and swimming in cream with a dash of whiskey?  Who would have ever thought of this?  I am here to tell you that whiskey is the perfect topping to porridge.  This gave us a proper start for a full day of walking.
     Trinity College and Temple Bar got most of our attention on Friday,  These are two places not to be missed.  Granted, Temple Bar is a bit touristy, but still great fun.  A pint of Guinness here, a cheese tray there, and buskers every twenty feet.  For dinner, we managed one more pub and more Irish fare.  Mike had the sausages with chips and I had a steaming bowl of Irish stew.  I have decided that a proper Irish stew is something I am going to ask Mary to teach me about during our stay in Dingle.  Remember Mary?  Read this blog back in 2009 and you will get re-aquainted with Mary and her mad kitchen magic.  Then, stay turned here and you will see that we are spending ten days in Dingle, at a holiday house with Mary.  But, I am getting ahead of myself.

      Tomorrow we take the train to Killarney for a four night stay.  So, good night all!

LET'S GET PACKING!

It's that time again!  Time to bring the luggage up from the basement. Time to do a practice blog entry.  I don't seem to have the proper skills to remember how to do all this blog stuff without posting a dry run.



     We are heading to Ireland on Wednesday.  Does everybody have their passport handy?  Do you have your raincoat?  And, remember to pack one of those electric outlet converters.  Do a final check for the proper cords for charging the camera, the lap top and the ipad.  For me, I have prepared a couple of knitting projects that won't take up too much room but will keep my hands busy for the next three and a half weeks.
     I'm glad you've signed on to take this trip with Mike and me.  We will be sitting in a pub in Dublin within 48 hours.  Welcome aboard and Slante everybody!

IN BRUGES

Truly, I have saved the best for last.  Friday morning we boarded a train from Frankfort to Brussels and then a second train to Bruges.  When the planning for this trip began, several months ago, my friend Kath had requested the stop in Marburg, so the last city on our itinerary was my choice.  After seeing the movie In Bruges, I had been very intrigued by it’s eight hundred years of architecture.  It was a bonus to find that it is also a Mecca for chocolate lovers. 

We arrived in the late afternoon on Friday and caught a taxi for the ten-minute ride to our hotel.  The old part of the city radiates out from the central market square, which is dominated by a huge bell tower.   

The bells, all forty-seven of them, ring out in a beautiful bouquet of mixed tones, marking the quarter hours from morning till night. Our driver found our hotel on a tiny alleyway just two blocks off the market square.  We checked in, unloaded our luggage and set out to explore. 

Over the next twenty-four hours, we learned a lot about this city by simply walking about. When Bruges first developed, it was a major trade destination, owing to the canal system that linked it to the sea.  But, the most amazing thing today is that every building, whether it is eight hundred or two hundred years old, has maintained it’s original façade.  If you look closely, you will see a system of braces that have insured that every building stands straight, the original chimneys are in tact and all colors are original.  On the exteriors you will see what appears to be a wrought iron S shaped rod, about three feet long, mounted on the building at the spots where another story has been added.  These pieces will follow the floor line and the roof pitch, being placed evenly, about every ten feet.   On the interior of the walls and floors rods have been strung from one brace to the opposing brace on the other side of the building bringing new strength to these antique structures.  We saw several buildings that were in the process of renovation.  This meant that we were looking into a shell.  Only the exterior walls were standing.  So, you now have an ancient city with every modern convenience neatly tucked away, out of sight of the tourists.  

On Saturday morning, we took an hour-long bus tour of Bruges.  The bus only seats about twenty passengers at a time.  Anything bigger and they wouldn’t fit through the streets.  This is a city where it is physically impossible to drive over fifteen miles an hour (in my opinion!), over the cobbles, through the maze, avoiding pedestrians who must walk glued to the sides of buildings.  In addition there are hundreds and hundreds of bicycles, a few motorbikes and dozens of horse drawn carriages.  There is no logic to the twists and turns of the streets and alleys.  Some streets run into market squares, some along canals and some only join two alleys for no reason at all.  

Following our bus tour, we decided to retrace part of the tour route on foot.  At one edge of the city we had seen three original windmills and decided that they needed a closer look.  Following a street map is almost impossible.  My eye could not read the street names, most of which contain multiple double vowels and ended in “djkt”.  We simple aimed our feet in the general direction of the windmills and began to weave our way about, snapping photos as went. 

It is nearly impossible to get lost in Bruges because all you need to do is look up and spot the bell tower, using that as your beacon to the city center.  Thus, we found the windmills and we found our way back to the market square.

The weather was fairly mild, and we found that a sweater under a light jacket was all we really needed.  But, Kath had arrived without gloves.  I had brought a pair of fingerless gloves that I had knit and I also had a second pair of gloves Amy had left with me.  Since Kath had none, I gave her my fingerless gloves.  These I had knit out of lovely Malabrego sock wool in the color Archangel (my knitting friends will understand this).  As our windmill walk-about was ending, we were again back in the market center.  After a few more stops at chocolatiers, we were ready to head back to our hotel before dinner.  We were now retracing our steps from the very beginning of our afternoon’s journey and stopped at a street corner to wait for a break in the bicycle traffic before crossing.  There, on a window ledge was one of the Malabrego fingerless gloves.  Someone had found it during the day and parked it on the window ledge, exactly were the rightful owner would find it.  Coincidence? 

No report would be complete without mention of a meal.  Friday afternoon, I enjoyed, possibly, the finest lunch I have ever had.  We found a tiny little establishment on a side street and noticed that there were diners sitting in the window on the second floor, overlooking the foot traffic below.  The first floor was only large enough to accommodate a wee little tea shop and a lunch counter.  We asked to be seated for lunch and were directed up the stairs.  The stairs.  Imagine a brass fire pole with little steps wound so tightly that only one person at a time can go up because you are in danger of putting the top of your head into the bottom of the foot of the person ahead of you.  When you reach the top of the stairs, you must spin around and step into the loft that is the second floor.  We found a table in the window and ordered our lunch.  My tea arrived in a little cast iron pot with loose tea leaves in a strainer.  Now, that’s a cup of tea! We both ordered the salade d’Medici.  This salad is nothing short of brilliant.  The base was a lovely collection of greens.  Forming a crown on the mound of greens was warm broccoli.  Now, I love broccoli, but am not a great fan of that lightly steamed version that is still way to crisp and still too crunchy.  I like it soft and tender allowing me to easily cut it with the side of my fork.  So, there was the centerpiece of my salad made from perfect broccoli.  Forming spokes from this center were the loveliest pieces of lightly grilled bacon.  Not crumbly, dark brown, salty, sulfide laced American bacon, but an Italian version that is more like prosciutto.  At the ends of the spokes of bacon were paper-thin rounds of spicy chorizo.  Between the spokes were alternately shredded carrot, shredded red cabbage, sliced eggs, and tomato (pronounced toe-mah-toe) wedges.  I know this all sounds delish, but I have one more thing to add.  Under the warm, perfect broccoli I found melting cubes of Gorgonzola cheese.  Lots of melting cubes of lovely Gorgonzola.  You are probably asking, “How can this salad be made any better?”  Well, I will tell you.  On the side was severed a tiny little pitcher of dressing that can only be compared to a fresh béarnaise sauce.  Lemony, creamy goodness.  Five stars to the Medici salad!

Friday evening we walked more, as though we couldn’t soak in enough of the magic.  Christmas lights were lit, window decorations twinkled, lively horse drawn carriages were clip clopping down the streets, the air was filled with the smell of chocolates and pastries, and always, the bells were ringing.

Saturday was moving day again, but we were able to squeeze in a forty-five minute walk around the town.  November mornings always seem to arrive in a frosty fog, which burns off around noon, only to arrive again in the late afternoon. On this Saturday we were treated to some sort of Boy Scout celebration that was marked by a band that played and marched all around the square.  The band was made up of scouts and adults in red uniforms, playing It’s A Long Way To Tipperary.  And, in the center of the square men with hoses were completing work on a huge outdoor skating rink as the band played on.  Very festive!

Then, off to another train station.  We were heading through the Chunnel and back to London for our final night of this adventure.  After checking into our hotel, we faced the crowds and made a final pilgrimage to Harrods.  Kath had never been and since it is an iconic Christmas shopping destination, we felt it was worthy of our last night's entertainment.  We browsed about for a bit because real people can't afford to buy much at Harrods!  We could, however, afford a cup of tea and a dish of sorbet in the cappuccino bar.  As we were leaving the store, we were treated to a powerful and highly professional youth choir of about forty voices singing in an outdoor walkway.  We stopped to listen for a bit but left as soon as they started passing out leaflets explaining how they had all been saved.  

I’m at the end of my trip.  I have found two women that I would travel with any time, assuming they would have me.  Each of us had a strength and we took turns being the smart one.  Thank you Amy.  Thank you Kath.  But, I really am looking forward to being home in a few hours.  I have missed Mike.

GERMANY! Der Frost ist auf dem Kürbis

On Tuesday morning we caught the train from Paris to Frankfort.  It was an uneventful ride with the exception of the three uniformed and armed police that boarded the train as we crossed the border between France and Germany.  They slowly traveled through the train, looking between the seats and making eye contact with passengers.   I know that in our post 9/11 world, there are security measures at all borders, but it is still an eerie sight.  That being said, as we walked back to our hotel in Paris on our final evening, we had come face to face with three military persons, carrying rifles held at the ready, walking the bridge toward the Eiffel Tower.

Upon our arrival in Frankfort, we were pleased to find that our hotel was directly across the street from the main train station.  This would be helpful as we had plans for train travel to Marburg on Wednesday.  Our hotel was spotlessly clean but it lacked any soul. It shouted ‘BUILT IN 1955” from every corner.  The best feature of the Hotel Manhattan was the incredible continental breakfast that was offered.  Pretzel rolls, strudel, freshly baked breads, pate, cold meats, hard boiled eggs, nearly a dozen choices of dry cereals and muscli, and most importantly for my plate, five different cheeses, all laid out in a beautiful mosaic.

We did a small walk-about of our hotel’s neighborhood Wednesday night.  This only served to reinforce for inexplicable lack of enthusiasm for Germany.  However, we had a lovely dinner, sitting at a window table, watching the local parade of shoppers and office workers moving about in the damp early evening.

Thursday morning we were up early and, following our breakfast, ready to head to Marburg.  It was a cold morning.  The train offered us a view of the countryside and my first glimpse of a beautiful Germany.  As soon as we had left the outskirts of Frankfort, we could see frost everywhere.  The farm fields were all manicured and dressed for the winter. They had been harvested and put to bed in a tidy manor, raked and plowed, lined up shoulder to shoulder.  We caught glimpses of farmers out walking up and down the ditches that delineated each five-acre field.  Most farmers were assisted by their dog as they surveyed the frosty fields. There were some fields with horses, most wearing their winter blankets.  But, a few without blankets, were wearing the morning frost, tipping their brown coats with sparkle.

Marburg is a beautiful 800-year-old city that is almost untouched by any war damage or urban renewal.   The city could not afford to tear down ancient structures and build glass and steel replacements.  They had to retain all the old buildings and houses and make them continue to serve in the manner for which they had been built.  It looks just like a fairy tale town.   Marburg was the home of the brothers Grimm!  Today, Marburg is also the location of the first major European school for the blind and the city has made itself totally accessible to the visually impaired.

The reason for our travel on this day was that Kath had dear old friends who lived in Marburg and she wanted to reconnect with them.  They are living a quiet life now, having traveled the world, teaching and lecturing.  We were to be their guests for lunch, followed by a tour of the area.  They speak English fairly well, but not regularly anymore, so they spoke as one person.  Dieter would start a story, pause for a word, confer in German with his wife Heidrun, and then one of them would finish the story.  Kath has a very basic knowledge of some German words and could usually understand the theme of a conversation.  I nodded, smiled and said “ahhhh” a lot.  Then, Dieter would squeeze my arm and tell me I was now his sister.  Dieter was our driver and tour guide.  He explained to me how lucky he was to own his wonderful car.  And, it was his car’s birthday this month.  We were in a twenty year old, violet Mercedes. Not quite purple, but certainly violet.  Rather like riding about in a grape soda.

Our tour included the ancient city of Amoneburg, which sits on top of a huge hill.  The ruins of the ancient Celtic castle are still there.  And the town is a labyrinth of alleyways, just barely wide enough for a grape Mercedes.  Half-timber houses look as if they were built last week. We were presented with a three hundred and sixty degree view of the region, looking down upon more than thirty villages and towns.

We ended our day at the historic Castle of the Landgrove.  This castle sits at the top of a hill in Marburg.  Enchanting.  Everything is as it was six hundred years ago.  Again, this is the result of the long succession of owners and residents not having the money to tear apart parts of the castle and rebuild them in the style of whatever century they were living in.  It is magical.  Today the castle is a concert venue and is used for meetings and conferences.  Marburg University shares the hilltop with the castle.  It may be most famous as the place where Martin Luther debated the theory of Transubstantiation.  But, for us, it was the site of a beautiful restaurant.  (Readers may find that most of my posts seem to always come back to the theme of good food?). I knew the food would be superb in this breathtaking venue, even though the mood music was a nice CD of Dion Warwick singing the classics. We had no sooner been seated when a party of six arrived.  Their group consisted of three couples, one of which arrived with their Portuguese Water Dog in tow.   The dog sat between his man and woman and was fed generously from the table.  When not sitting with his chin dangerously near the food, he curled up on the floor and politely listened to the conversation.  The four of us enjoyed a beautiful meal, looking out over the castle walls and down the hills to the twinkling fairly tale city.

Following dinner, Dieter delivered us at the rail station where we caught our train back to Frankfort with twenty-seven seconds to spare.  The train doors snapped shut barley missing my coat tails.

It’s Thursday and we are now on the train to Bruges.