Kinsale

We had had grand ideas of a leisurely pace hopping up the coast from Bere Island to Cork with our good friends and Applewood neighbors, John and Kelly Hranac, who came aboard September 7th. But Mother Nature had other plans for us. We hightailed it out of Bere Island during a one day break in the unrelenting gales, retracing Windleblo eastward 75 nautical miles downwind to the Irish sailing mecca of Kinsale. We tied up at Trident Marina, sheltered from the renewed westerly gales by the four story Trident Hotel.

First stop in Kinsale? You guessed it...the public house. John and I are founding members of the Applewood Beer Club, so it seemed only fitting to convene a meeting. We claimed it to be the club's First International Meeting and, because the club has no rules, who could challenge this assertion?

For those who aren't familiar with it, the Applewood Beer Club was started about 10 years ago as a sort of "anti-book club." You see, a few years before that, several of our wives had formed the Applewood Book Club, which, as best as most of us husbands could tell, was a thinly veiled excuse for binge drinking at monthly book club meetings, with only an occasional literary comment. Men were excluded from these wine fests.

So, as a countermeasure, the guys formed the Applewood Beer Club. At our inaugural meeting, one of the founding members came up with "We don't fuckin' read," as our club motto, which stuck immediately. (Which begs the question, how do I write this blog? But that's another story.)
As I mentioned, the club has no rules, only guidelines. Members are educated, fairly well heeled mid-career professionals - lawyers, doctors, engineers and the like. The club offers a respite from the rigors of the work world. We could be Archie Bunker for a night, checking our brains at the door of one of the more down and dirty bars within stumbling distance of our neighborhood, Applewood.

Accordingly, only three topics are recognized as appropriate at club meetings - beer (of course), ball (a euphemism for sports of all kinds), and babes ( i.e., women). Occasionally, a couple of members would stray into inappropriate conversation, perhaps Middle East peace, the impact of recent market movements on their tattered portfolio, or other similarly mundane topic. Upon overhearing this talk, a member would lean forward to gaze at a lady at the end of the bar, nudge one of the errant fellows in the ribs, and interrupt with "Hey, buddy, check out those knockers," or other sanctioned topic to get things back on track.

Unlike scheduled book club meetings, the beer club meets organically, whenever the time is right. Typically meetings are held on Friday's after work, though a meeting is proper any time there is a quorum of at least one. Notice is by word of mouth only. (We don't fuckin' read, remember?) If a member can't attend, he is expected to offer a sensational excuse like, "Sorry, bros, I can't make it. I've got seats on the glass for an Avs game," or, "I won't be there. I'm meeting my mistress at the No Tell on Colfax," or some such. Of course, we all know he is more likely to be taking out the trash or performing some other domestic duty, but it keeps club morale higher to think otherwise.

At our inaugural international meeting, it was tough competition. We went back and forth arguing the virtues of Guinness vs. Murphys, the County Cork stout. By week's end, after several sessions, we declared Murphys the winner, further testimony to the tautology that freshest is always bestest.

Our samplings took us to most of the pubs in Kinsale and a few in Cork. We found the Spaniard to be the most memorable in Kinsale. Built on the site of a former inn, this pub dates back to the 17th century days when the Spanish allied with the Irish to fight the Brits at the Battle of Kinsale in 1601. The British registered a decisive victory.

Topping the list for best pub and best Murphys, however, was the Mutton Inn in Cork. Entered only via a narrow alley adjacent to the English Market, the inn dates back to 1793 when Murphys was first brewed. The candlelit interior, dark wood floor and paneling, and deep tracks of Joplin and Hendricks created an extraordinary atmosphere for the hip clientele. Add in a creamy smooth, never bitter Murphys and the experience earned a definite 5 rating.

Our trip to Cork included a walking tour of the city's South Parish. There, we reviewed a story line of the city from its watery beginnings to the industrial development of mills and breweries. The tour revealed the city's religious past, from the impressive St. Finn Barre Cathedral, to the gravesite of Nano Nagle, the activist who defied the British 18th century Penal Laws to fight for the poor. Along the way, we observed more recent landmarks, like the ruins of a WWII air raid shelter and the site of the old Beamish brewery, rounding out the history lesson. In total, though, the dingy, dog eared patina of most of the city's streetscapes left a depressing impression, even on a partly sunny day.

After the walking tour, we boarded a bus for the 20-minute ride to Blarney, the official home of the world famous Blarney Stone. Kiss it and you will have the gift of eloquence bestowed upon you. As the story goes, Queen Elizabeth I, upon hearing effusive praise and flattery from the leader of the Irish MacCarthy clan but no pledge of allegiance, retorted, "I've never heard so much blarney in my entire life." With that, a new word was born.

Please do not confuse blarney with baloney. Baloney is unvarnished bullshit, whereas blarney is sophisticated cajoling flattery. For example, when commenting on a mature woman's looks, a man speaking baloney would say, "My, you don't look a day over 18." The more eloquent blarney speaker would instead say, "Madame, please tell me your age so I may know when a woman is at her most beautiful."

Despite reports that local Irish youths regularly urinate on the stone to torment unsuspecting tourists, we anxiously climbed the 100 steps to the top of the Blarney Castle where the Stone can be found. In a kind of bizarre pagan ritual, the final approach is to lie on one's back and, attended by a blarney speaking Irishman, assume an upside down cobra yoga position while suspended more than four stories above the earth as you kiss the stone, but only on the attendant's command as your kiss has to be synchronized with the click of the shutter of a camera mounted above and to your right, from which the official photo of your blarney smooch is recorded. Upon your descent from the castle, the photo can be procured for a small fee. In the end, surprisingly, only Jocelyn prostrated herself before the stone. The rest of us chose to beat the public health odds by keeping our lips to ourselves.

On Saturday night, we hired a local "hackney" (taxi) to take us to an Irish storytelling festival in Courtmacsherry, the next town over from Kinsale. We had learned of the event from Sharon Yablon's friend, Eileen Bartlett, who met us there for drinks before the event. The evening turned out to rival last year's Klaipeda mid-summer festival as the best serendipitous sampling of authentic culture. The lineup included some of the country's most renowned storytellers. Male elders predominated, regaling us with oral tradition passed down through the generations. Stories intermingled with song as the artists, each with their own cadence and brogue, delivered their acts. Mainly humorous but occasionally sober, story themes poked gentle fun at County Kerry, Irish alcoholic tendencies and Catholicism. In the finale, the most hilarious storyteller whipped up the crowd by leading a sing along regional anthem imbued with Corker pride. An encore was demanded and delivered.

To round out the week, John and I toured the countryside astride our Brompton folders. The 33-mile ride took us through rolling pastureland, past historic battlefields and along coastal overlooks. By the time we returned to the boat we had climbed one too many hills (they haven't discovered switchbacks here), but enjoyed the satisfied feeling one gets after a solid workout. Pints soon followed.

Early Thursday morning, September 15th, we double checked Windleblo's dock lines before climbing into a cab for the ride to the Cork airport and a three hour flight to Andalucia. Our Kinsale holiday was over. When we return in a week's time, winter storage prep will be our only priority as the season's end closes in.