The Irish Path

Wait. Until it happens. You wait hours, days, months, years. A lifetime because you feel that moment will come. And for me, that moment came on a rainy late February morning eight years later.

It was a Friday at the beginning of the day; on the motorway, the cars were flowing fast without hindrance, and we reached Bologna airport by the scheduled time. The rain was falling hard, and the wind was lashing it against our faces, but we were so determined that nothing and no one could stop us; there was a magnificent light inside every storm.

We boarded the plane almost on time – a rather unusual standard for the ‘budget’ airline Ryanair – ready to take off for the Emerald Isle.

This is an account of a past trip, before I began my master’s degree in travel journalism and before I realised that every single place one visits deserves to be experienced slowly to capture those details that would otherwise remain unnoticed. A little over a year has passed since I departed for Ireland, and in these months, many aspects have changed without my realising that the first approach to this deep land, founded on Celtic legends, would then shape the rest of my days.

Therefore, I will not write about my fourteen-day travel itinerary, as I will base it on my personal experience with the locals I had the great pleasure of meeting during the days I spent in County Cork, in the south of Ireland. Fortuitous and fortunate encounters occurred through a mutual acquaintance, which allowed me to immerse myself in the true meaning of Irish hospitality, kindness and generosity.

Tommaso loaded the suitcases into our compact little Kia, ready for us to hit the road again, when we heard John’s message with directions to Cork, instructing us to turn off the M8 – in Ireland, motorways are identified by the letter M followed by a number. And so we did; along the way, glimpses of the rural landscape, thatched cottages scattered along the road, and signs for small towns – the little villages that still bear the Gaelic name – were poetry to the eyes. Every ten kilometres travelled by car, the weather changed quickly: from shy sunshine to downpours of rain, to flurries of snow, only to return as clear as it had started. This is Ireland.

A growing sensation of hunger was beginning to surge within us, and on the way, we stopped for a quick break at a traditional Irish pub in the suburbs; inevitably, as we approached the entrance, curious glances turned towards us. Discomfort and indecision hovering, we entered cautiously, exchanging greetings and smiles that aimed to inspire confidence. Each of them returned to look at their pints and the waitress to serve the dishes.

The Irish are known for their friendliness – I do not deny that this is a constant feature found in Ireland – however, in more remote and country places where locals are more likely to be seen, a wary gaze can penetrate you, especially in social situations of aggregation and new contexts where they may show a particular caution towards strangers; an attitude influenced by the historical and cultural framework experienced.

The fact remains that having finished the first few seconds as foreigners we were, the introspective atmosphere, the brown and earthy colours of the rustic décor, the distinct accent of the mother tongue, and the intense perfume of the generous dishes and the chunks of butter in the middle of the table spread on Soda Bread, is an indelible memory.

We resumed our journey with Tommaso still at the wheel, and by mid-afternoon, as we queued along the Port of Cork, we arrived in the city where our friends were waiting for us for the days to come. The Port of Cork ‘Connecting Cork to the World‘ is the second largest natural harbour in the world – of which Corkonians or Leesiders are very proud and speak of with some pride – and represents a vital international gateway for trade with over two hundred years of history. Cork’s historical past is long and marked by tragic events, inextricably linked to the Irish struggle for independence.

<< Hit hard by the economic recession, thanks to its liberal, young and cosmopolitan spirit, Cork has been able to reinvent itself and today boasts elegant streets, redeveloped stretches of waterfront and artisan cafes on every corner. >> Guide to Ireland, Lonely Planet.

The main attraction of Cork is the city itself; it is worth getting lost and wandering aimlessly along its streets, savouring its atmosphere, as we did during our encounter with the tea house to the right of our hotel. My attention was caught by the cosy, old-fashioned style of décor with a rectangular palette of bleached wood on which the cafe’s name is written above the door and collections of china on the sideboards; welcome to the home of an old Irish aunt.

Tara’s Tea Room is a small, cosy place, so warm and full of trinkets in every corner that when you open the front door, the smell of cake and loose-leaf tea pervades you, and as you take your first steps towards the cabinet of sideboard cakes you are as enchanted as a child, undecided which one to choose. I would have tasted them all. In the end, after minutes of indecision, I opted for the blueberry cake accompanied by breakfast tea without any regrets. Our first day in the thriving metropolis came to an end; the next day, awaiting us were Sam and Eoghan, two Irish natives from County Cork who would be our guides.

By trade, the two characters I am about to tell you about are not tour guides but people who have offered to do so to give us a truly unique experience; Sam is a client of my boyfriend’s hotel, while Eoghan is a friend of Sam’s whom both of us (my boyfriend and I) met during our short stay in the city. They embody the classic Irish stereotype in appearance: a pale complexion with rosy tones, deep, dark green eyes, a broad smile, the Gavroche hat (an Irish hat) for Eoghan, and the warm Aran Islands jumper (Aran Knitwear) also for Eoghan. They are also skilled conversationalists, with Sam, in particular, being a notable example.

What distinguishes the two, apart from their physical form, is their character. When I saw them arrive that Wednesday morning, I expected them to be younger in appearance, but I soon had to change my mind, crumbling all my prejudices. They were not two retirees as I had imagined them to be… Their attitude was distinguished, lively, alert, and typical of those who still have drive and a desire to do many new things. Sam is a former bank manager with more commitments than he had before. At the same time, Eoghan has worked all his youth at the Port of Cork and now enjoys the streets of Ireland riding his bike with his friend Sam and the Fort 2 Fort cycling group, who organise international bike rides to raise money for ‘The Mercy Hospital Foundation‘ in support of cancer patients.

As the city woke up, we returned from our first walk, and sitting on the soft couch in the hall, we waited with excitement and anxiety (at least for me) for our friends who showed up with extreme punctuality, also excited to show us places unknown to us. The first stop left me positively surprised; I certainly did not expect to enter the local tourist office. Sam told us seriously, ‘Here you can find all the information you need, clarify your doubts, and collect a lot of paper material divided by itinerary. When you visit a new town, go to the local tourist information offices’. And dropped several catalogues into my arms.

A year later, that material sits in the travel section of my personal library at home, not knowing that some of it would serve me for the final project of the master’s course I am attending. Life surprises you.

County Cork is a place where traditions are still alive and where tales are passed down from generation to generation, summing up the best that Ireland has to offer its visitors. Between the pages of ‘Fairy Legends, Tales of Irish Fairies and Traditions‘, the first organic collection of legends from the Irish oral tradition, handed down only by the storytellers of the noble Celtic tradition of the seanchaí, the author Thomas Crofton Croker, a brilliant pioneer in inventing a proper method to systematise these stories, made me reflect on the places I explored, beauties unveiled and amplified by the technology of the modern world now before everyone’s eyes but which very few know how to see.

At a good pace, I set off towards the centre with my companions, with the enthusiasm of a child, my heart beating, my eyes full of curiosity. My ears strained to translate Sam’s descriptions as he tirelessly and without catching his breath told us about every corner of his town, with a distinct county accent that was difficult to understand.

We stopped in front of a black cast-iron gate. ‘Come here, you’re in front of the English Market. I’ll take your picture’, said Sam. With its elaborate vaulted ceiling and Victorian-style columns, the English Market, which owes its name to the fact that it was opened in 1788 by the Protestant, or ‘English’, guild that controlled the city at the time (there used to be an Irish Market nearby), is a real find. ‘This is where Queen Elizabeth II passed through on her visit to Ireland; let’s go inside to warm up with a cup of tea‘, Sam urged us.

We passed through colourful stalls featuring regional products, ranging from meat and fish to fruit, cheese, and ready-to-eat dishes. As a natural glutton, I was enchanted by the array of Scones with and without raisin, with chocolate chips, stuffed or empty, and the fragrant Croissants whose perfume wafted through the air, intoxicating me without having had a Guinness yet. A small note on Scones… they are those little sandwiches that are eaten with tea across the Channel, accompanied by clotted cream and strawberry jam. Neutral in flavour, except for those with raisin, which give them a natural, sugary aftertaste, neither sweet nor savoury, they belong to the family of quick breads that use bicarbonate of soda as a leavening agent: let’s say a relative of Soda Bread.

We sat in the corner of a cafe and ordered two teapots amidst small talk conversations to socialise and establish the weather that day – in the end, a burst of splendid sunshine accompanied us all the way through the day – Eoghan, of a shy and more reserved personality than Sam, bit into the thunderous croissant, asking me several times if I wanted a piece.

This attention, and many other gestures that took place that day and the following day, were an actual demonstration of the generosity of these people; they made us feel welcome, introduced us to other friends eager to get to know us, embraced us as family, offered us everything within their reach, without asking for anything in return. Actions that show the reflection of the soul of a people.

‘Now let’s head for the garage to get the car and get out of Cork to another destination’, Sam said as he stood up. ‘We will drive along back roads along the coast, an ideal area to drive around in no hurry’, added Eoghan.

And so it was. With our eyes glued to the window, expanses of grass, sheer cliffs, endless horizons, rocky headlands and sandy beaches darted along the route towards Charles Fort, one of the best-preserved star-shaped fortresses in Europe, dating back to the 17th century. Believe me when I say that it deserves a visit if only to admire the spectacular view that surrounds it. We were 3 km south-east of Kinsale – the third stop on our trip. Built in the 1770s to defend Kinsale harbour, this fort was used until 1921, when it was largely destroyed by retreating British troops.

After an hour or so of sightseeing, we drove up towards the picturesque marina of Kinsale (Cionn tSáile), where the famous Wild Atlantic Way begins.

Suddenly, the car stopped ‘get out and walk down the Scilly Walk with Eoghan, I’ll wait for you down at the harbour’ so we said goodbye to Sam and took the mysterious coastal path, not knowing where it would take us. You can’t tell you’ve visited Kinsale before you’ve walked the Scilly Walk, an enchanting coastal path that takes you both towards Charles Fort and towards the harbour along the waterfront.

Kinsale is a small fishing village with brightly painted houses that brighten up the many long, gloomy autumn and winter days – an alternative way to combat depression. The town features a series of narrow, winding streets lined with art galleries, souvenir shops, lively bars, and excellent restaurants that serve freshly caught fish. Surrounding it is its beautiful natural harbour full of pleasure boats. A pretty little town where we spent a few hours in complete tranquillity.

We stopped to eat at a small seafood restaurant; the pictures hanging on the walls depicted photos of Kinsale from years past, faces of fishermen, and a fledgling town based on its primary source: fishing. The ambience was intimate, with long wooden tables and benches synonymous with gathering and togetherness. The menu primarily featured fish dishes, but there was no shortage of meat dishes – one more inviting than the other, all made with regional ingredients. I opted for the catch of the day, always accompanied by a generous portion of potatoes and a side dish of vegetables, while Tommaso chose a succulent duck breast. Between good food, beer and company, that was among the most enjoyable lunches of my life. For dessert? There was no room!

Our afternoon was coming to an end; physically tired but not yet excited, we took the road back to Cork as the sunset peeped over the ocean. To our left, a flat green Spike Island lay exhausted in Cork Harbour. Spike Island played an important defensive role for the harbour in the second half of the 19th century, during the Irish War of Independence, and from 1984 to 2004, it became a place of detention, earning the nickname ‘Ireland’s Alcatraz’, according to Lonely Planet, Guide to Ireland.

That day was full of amazement – at least for us – probably our guides thought they hadn’t given us enough time or perhaps they were dissatisfied with the itinerary shown to us: it was almost 6pm, and we still had to get back to the hotel, feeling the strain of the early wake-up call as they suggested we go to dinner at the steak house with the best meat in the county. With extreme gratitude, we declined; we felt we had taken enough advantage of their willingness. As a final tribute, on the way home, the sky was ablaze, filling us with feelings of hope and wonder.

We said goodbye in front of the Isaac Hotel, and we would see each other again the next day.

Writing this story has been like walking backwards – a bit like when you rewind a tape or send back the recording of a video – a journey into my memories, of how I remember it, what it was like, what I thought it was like under the eyes of a tourist, and how I appreciate beauty after experiencing it. A year later, with a different perspective, I would have liked to savour more of those weeks, to face them calmly, without the rush of following the list of places to visit, returning home even more tired than when I had left. To write notes of volatile sensations, to appreciate even better – not more than I already do, and I am immensely grateful for that – the company of my Irish friends.

The aforementioned book on page 3, which I am currently reading, gave me the input to write this story, my ‘hero’s journey’; T. Crofton Croker – translated by Francesca Diano, art historian, writer, essayist and translator, an expert on Irish folklore and oral tradition, who has always edited and disseminated Croker’s work – made me reflect on the term folklore and its meaning.

The term was initially coined by the English archaeologist William John Thoms in 1846 in a letter sent to the journal Athenaeum. He invented this compound name, which literally means ‘popular traditions’, to replace the various other terms in use at the time, such as popular antiquities or popular literature. Antiquaries were defined as scholars, such as Croker, who dealt with this material.

Fairy Legends is a hymn to Ireland, a search for common roots in the themes of fairy tales and legends, and a comprehensive anthology that has given accomplished form and longevity to the voices of Ireland. In his tales, I still find the generosity of these people who, despite having nothing, living from hardship and misery, were magnanimous with the pilgrims, opening the door of their homes to them and offering what they had, even if it was just a measly potato. Let’s not take it for granted; not all of us are capable of doing this, of opening our hearts to a stranger, of letting him get in touch with us. Who would do that nowadays without expecting anything in return? I am the first to expect a return from others.

I hope that this story has taken you on a journey with me, that it has drawn you into the silhouette of noble-minded locals, that it has conveyed the same emotion I felt during those days, that it has given you a clear picture of the places I visited, and how good and varied the Irish cuisine is.

Ireland is a state of mind, a succession of connections, vibrations, the perception of ancient souls, legends and stories that add a touch of mystery and fascination.

On Monday morning, when I entered the office a fortnight later, I was no longer the same; I was determined to continue what I had started on the Emerald Isle.

But that’s another story.