Cashel to Dublin

Breakfast at 8 o'clock was one glorious banana, lashings of smoked salmon on scrambled eggs, and a veritable bucket of tea which I managed to spill on Laura's nice tablecloth. Butterfingers...

We all packed, and Pip and I had a last-minute scramble when we thought we'd lost the key. It turned up underneath her suitcase, however, so we returned it and set off to see the sights of Cashel. Laura had recommended the Bishop's palace, and Cashel castle, the "Rock of Cashel".

We walked through the gardens of the Bishop's palace, which were splendid even in winter. Winding pathways took us through immaculately-kept lawns, spotted with piles of raked leaves. We reached the back wall only to find that the gate to the Rock had been locked. We tried at a few breaches in the stonework, but failed to scale the wall.



That forced us back into the township, though, which made for a nice walk through some of Cashel's houses and shops. We were amused to see the way "tourism" still works in parts of Ireland - this sign was next to the gate of a ruined cathedral:



We climbed up the road to the Rock of Cashel, which was spectacular. Alas, no time to go in - but we got a good look at the outside. You must be able to see for miles and miles from the tops of the walls and towers.



We strolled back to Ashmore house again, stopping to look in more shop windows, and being greeted by cats. Back at the house we said our goodbyes to Laura and Brendan (talkative people, and lovely), and we set out in the car yet again. No hardship, though, because the roads were much easier. We stopped halfway back to Dublin to walk along a canal covered by houseboats, every one with its own little idiosyncrasies. Potplants, for instance:



Mum and I decided the best colour for any dream-houseboat was shiny red, though she thought she'd like gold edging along hers as well. It was cold (for us), so we crossed over to the Bridgewater hotel and had hot chocolate and a bowl of wedges to share. Then it was back into the car for the last stretch to Dublin.

Once we arrived we returned our faithful hire care, and caught a taxi across the city to Barry's hotel for another night. Dad and I formed a delegation to the laundromat soon after we arrived, and then I set out alone to explore the streets of Dublin for myself. It's a big, lively city, and hard not to like. I wandered for 5 or 6 kilometres by my best guess, taking detours down alleys full of Christmas shoppers, and strolling along the shops near the Liffey. The only shop I actually went into was a sort of "alternative" bookshop. You know you've not walked into a particularly commercial venture when you're greeted by walls of poetry, Irish mythology, philosophy and the edgier classics... and when the "popular fiction" is hidden down the back and contemptuously marked "3 for the price of 1". The philosophy section was marked only by a label that said "Big Ideas". This was my kind of bookshop. I wanted to buy a rather large book that said it was a sympathetic history of the Fenians, but it was outside my budget. Hell, I wanted to work in the place! I bought a birthday present for my friend C, and hurried out before I saw anything else too wonderful to pass up.

Down the street from the bookshop I flirted briefly with the temptations of the Dublin Wool Mill (beautiful cloaks! Ultra-snuggly jumpers! ...Exorbitant prices!) before hurrying away again. By now it was dark and most of the shops were closing, and I had strayed into slightly shadier backstreets. I consulted my map and returned to our hotel.

Soon after everyone got back (dad from the laundromat, and the others from an internet cafe), we went out for dinner on O'Connell Street at Murray's Bar, where the others had eaten the night I was sick. I ordered delicious Limerick ham, and this time managed an entire pint of Guinness on my own. Sadly, I have developed a taste for it - sad, because everybody (except the breweries) agrees Guinness outside Ireland isn't worth the effort. Once we had toddled back to the hotel, Pip made me walk in a straight line along her scarf to prove I wasn't tipsy...

...And the cow had laid down her scarf in a curve!