Mrs. O’Leary’s Farm Rosslare IrelandWe were several days in Ireland beginning in Dublin having come across on the ferry from Holyhead to Dun Laoghaire. We had only a few days before we had to return to England at Fishguard from Rosslare. We spent a few days in Dublin and then took a train to Kilarney for a night and then took the train to Rosslare. When we disembarked in Kilarney a woman was standing there and asked us if we needed a room for the night. We said we did and we would look around a bit first. She said it is quite a ways to the town and we could ride with her and if we didn't want the room it was okay with her but she would want to see us walk all the way into the village. We accepted and she was right. Her little apartment on Orchard Street was right off the main street and seemed comfortable so we accepted. We went out on the street and took advantage of the sights and sounds and a good dinner. The village has changed so mush that the little B&B where we stayed is no longer there. Kilarney is a story in its own right and I will tell it elsewhere. The route from Kilarney to Rosslare was one that had to double back on it's self in that there was no direct run. It was our first time in Ireland - short and sweet but it wetted our appetite for more. In preparation for the trip we had made reservations only in Dublin at Buswells Hotel on Molesworth Street. When we got off the ferry we boarded a bus that said Dublin on the sign. The bus driver asked us where we were going. When we answered Buswells on Molesworth Street, he said nice hotel too bad that is not on the route. I asked if he could recommend a bus. He said it was not on the route but after the normal route he could run us over to Molesworth Street. Such was our introduction to the flexibility of the Irish hospitality. That was generally true every where we went in Ireland but that is another story. When we reached Rosslare and were disembarking a lady came running up saying she was Mrs. Kavanagh and do we need a room for the night? No I said we are looking for Mrs. O'Leary. Amazingly a woman came running up yelling I'm Mrs. O’Leary, I’m Mrs. O'Leary! Within minutes we were in her small red car heading for the farm. We had read about Mrs. O'Leary in the Examiner travel section, a paper in San Francisco. It detailed the charm of her 16th century farm within a short distance from the ocean. On the way home she asked if we would like a roasted chicken for dinner. That sounded real good after existing on the cucumber sandwiches on the train. She immediately did a high speed left turn and stopped at a white building. Go in and order a chicken. I would not have thought that you could order something to eat in the building - it looked like a garage. Sure enough though they had a chicken ready for us in minutes and we were back in the little car zooming down the country road at a very high speed. It seems that she had to get us to the farm and return to the train station for the next train. By the time we reached the farm house it was dark and gloomy and our tiny room didn't add any cheer. It wasn't much bigger than the bed which turned out to be barely larger than a twin. We sat in the room with a naked light bulb and ate our greasy chicken from the newspaper in which it was wrapped. The chips that came with it were the best part of the meal. There wasn't much to do but go to bed and try to keep from falling off during the night. The room was definitely from the 16th century and probably hadn't been changed much since. At 5:30 a.m. we were wakened by the sound of a cows and a bell walking just outside our window. Seems Philomena took the cows to pasture each morning and returned them to the bawn attached to the house each evening. We had to be up early anyway to catch the boat at 9 a.m. Breakfast was at 7 a.m. and we were up dressed and waiting. That was when we learned that the boat left at 9 p.m. not 9 a.m. It then became awkward since we had no where to go and checkout was 11. Mrs. O'Leary didn't want to take us into town because no boats or trains were coming in until later. We finally negotiated a deal where we could leave our luggage in the house and go for a hike and Mrs. O’Leary would take us into town in time for dinner before we caught the boat. We headed out into the rain to take a walk along the beach. After a while the rain let up and the sun came. I tripped over a stone that turned out to be a head stone. It was the grave yard of a long gone church named St Mary's. It wasn't far to the beach and we walked for miles without seeing a single person. We did see a few farm houses in the distance. Finally we came to a stream that entered into the sea and we couldn't go any further. In the far distance we could see a village with steeples breaking the horizon. The beach was littered with shells. The water was gently lapping the shore under now blue skies. We found place to sit and meditate on the view. We had not seen a soul all day when a speck appeared back from where we'd come. It grew larger until we could see a man with a gray beard, walking stick, sandals and a backpack. We wondered where he was going since we didn't think he could get across the stream. He simply turned up stream, something we hadn't thought of earlier. It was time to turn back and after an hour of walking or so we were back with our luggage sitting in the sun room. The sun was coming in through the windows and it was warm; the complete opposite of that morning. A very large dog came in and sprawled on the floor which was just big enough. I had never seen an Irish Wolfhound before but I was impressed. Philomena must have taken pity on us because she offered us scones and tea. She sat with us and chatted until her mother said it was time to go. It was an interesting discussion of what a young girl does on the farm. Take the cows out at 5:30 and bring them in before dark and go to school. What about fun and parties and dances. Did she have a boy friend? No to all of that she said. She said she was cultchie with very few others around her age. I said well what about Dublin - there are plenty of young men there. She said they are Jackeens, city people and cultchies and Jackeens don't mix. I was getting a taste of cultural discrimination I had not expected. (Years later a man came from Dublin to sell some software to the company I worked for and I asked him about the discriminations against cultchies by the Jackeens and he made some very crude remarks about them so I guess Philomena had it right.) Philomena said she was left behind and was taking care of her ma and the cows until he ma died and then she would sell the farm and join her sister in Chicago that was her dream. I felt sorry for her. Her mother raced us back to the port and dropped us at a restaurant without saying goodbye. I wondered if I had offended her. Perhaps she overheard Philomena or already knew her thoughts on the matter. After a very nice meal we were happy to board the ferry to Fishguard, England. We had learned a lot on our first trip to Ireland. The trip to England that night would bring a few more surprises. |
