Dublin Calls

WestJet, Dublin and the Raleigh-car ride to Kinsale

Last fall my husband and I booked WestJet’s last flights of 2014 to Dublin with our friends Heather and Chris. $175 Cdn, one way, taxes in. How could we not? Especially when we enjoyed a rejuvenating ten adult days twacking around Dublin and driving our tiny rent-a-car to the south coast past lazy herds of sheep; the Knockmealdown Mountains on one side; Comeragh Mountains on the other. We raved so much about our trip that Child No. 2 and his girlfriend flew across the drink last night on one of WestJet’s first Dublin flights of 2015 (May 1 - October 24). They had to pay a little more. $500 return, I believe. Still too cheap to pass up. Thinking of them over living it up with our pasty-skinned neighbours to the east, I offer you more tales of our trip last fall. 



“You’re the best travel companion,” slurs out my husband as he quaffs his pint of Guinness and reaches for mine (Remember ‘Confessions of a Non-beer Drinker in Wales’?). It’s 11 in the morning and we have been in Dublin about five hours. After two quick hours sleep in The Jury’s Inn on the Liffey, we cross the Ha’ Penny Bridge to Trinity College with its Book of Kells and The Buttery cafeteria right inside the main gates. We grab a bite and walk the length of the city, past Dublin Castle to what the men have been dreaming about, the Guinness Factory tour.



The Guinness tour is all bells and whistles filled with widget technology and Harry Potteresque paintings that talk to visitors as they walk by. I, the dutiful wife, have been on my share of brewery tours for a non-beer drinker: Samuel Adams in Boston; Avery Brewing Company in Boulder, Colorado; Die Halve Maan in Bruges. I know what to expect on a vacation sans enfants. A giddy husband with a silly grin.

Seven storeys of Guinness history and trivia in a building shaped like a giant pint glass. The froth at the top of the glass is the glass-encased Gravity Bar with its panoramic views of the Dubs. I see Phoenix Park where I hit the wall during the Dublin Marathon 12 years ago. Steeples of St. Patrick’s and Christ Church Cathedrals. The Liffey snaking its way to the sea.

We had tons of fun in Dublin, but the day came for us to check out of our hotel and see a bit of the countryside; a kind Irishman asked where we were heading.

“Castlemartyr,” we told him.

“Ach, ye’ll be enjoying that. Then where ye’ll be off to?”

“Cork”

“Cark? Cark?” He spit the words at us. “What I`m telling ya is; You’re going to Kinsale.”

It is for that reason and that reason only that we sailed through Cork down Nascar-like windy cow paths lined on both sides with stone walls overgrown with greenery. Unexpected herds of cows had me saying the Our Father as my husband maintained the 80 clicks an hour speed limit to the seaside port of Kinsale.

As soon as we got the first view, we understood why the man had been so adamant. Colourful bars and restaurants dot the waterfront guarded by two British built to protect the harbour against – I would never have guessed – the Irish and the Spanish. You can definitely feel the Spanish presence in Kinsale, although I thought more French Riviera, except without the casino and exorbitant hotel and restaurant bills. The Kinsale jazz festival was in town (it coincides with the Cork Jazz Festival in October), and live music spilled out of pubs smelling of garlic and curry.



Kinsale has no shortage of B and Bs, but it is such a popular destination, you’re advised to book a year in advance. We had done no such thing, but the Irish Gods were smiling upon us, and on the very last night of the season, we scored two lovely rooms near Fitzgerald Castle. Home of Scampy, the one-eyed dog, the Old Presbytery offered complimentary afternoon tea with siesta-inducing cheesecakes as well as a full breakfast buffet or a la carte breakfast at no extra charge.


During our foray beyond Dublin we also called into Kilkenny with its surrounding walls and medieval castle reminded me of Chester on the border of Wales. Butterslip Lane, The Hibernian Hotel and Smithwick’s Brewery.


All well worth a visit. Cobh (pronounced Cove) was another highlight of our trip to the south coast. With its steep cliffs and large harbour, Cobh has a less than fortuitous maritime history. It was the final port of call for RMS Titanic and the Lusitania was torpedoed by a German sub in 1915 and more than 1,200 died. We twacked along West Beach and up to the towering St. Colman’s Cathedral.




If you happen to be in southern Ireland in August consider signing up for Cobh’s Escape from Spike Island jail-break triathlon. Like the Escape to Alcatraz Triathlon, you take a ferry to Spike Island and swim from the former prison back to Titanic Pier before tackling the bike and run portions of the race.
In a shop the man heard we were from Newfoundland and said: “Ach, ye’ve come on WestJet, have ye?”

Why yes, we had. And we recommend you do too.

Susan Flanagan is a journalist who learned from her husband that it was the Guinness family who built the Lion’s Gate Bridge in Vancouver to link the main part of city to North Van where they owned property. She recommends an evening meal at the Hairy Lemon on King Street South near St. Stephen’s Green in Dublin. And no trip to southern Ireland is complete without a tour of the sprawling Jameson Irish Whiskey distillery in Midleton, just east of Cork.