Irish Eyes Are Smiling / January 30, 2009
It can be hard to find present-day Ireland among the ruins dotting the country. Mom and I rented a car from Shannon in the West and drove to Dublin in the East. Every few miles we encountered a half-missing church or an abandoned castle. Sometimes there were brown history-markers indicating the name of the ruin, but sometimes not, as if the Irish thought, “Oh, that old thing?”
If you have the time and money, there’s no better way to see a country than renting a car and driving yourself. If this means driving on the left, it takes some adapting, but nothing a few hours and a couple of jumped curbs won’t cure. Mom and I were the proud renters of a Nissan Micra. We toured Ireland with a blinking seatbelt light, even though we are diligent seatbelt wearers. A rubber piece kept popping out of the trunk when we removed our bags. We never found the door locks despite sending out search parties. At least Ireland isn’t known for its carjackings and who would want the purple Micra anyway? Possibly a couple of escaped Americans from a hackneyed tour bus, but certainly not a self-respecting Irishman.
Knowing this, we decided to pick up hitchhikers outside the small town of Killimer. They were a teenaged couple who lazily threw up their thumbs indicating, “We may or may not need a ride.” Having ample room and a hurried discussion, Mom and I turned the car around to collect them, although we were turning off only two miles down the road. I told them how far we were going, but couldn’t understand what they said in response. I guess we sat there translating long enough that they figured they might as well jump in.
They clamored into the backseat and I said, “You realize you’re risking your lives riding with an American on the wrong side of the road.” The boy’s response was, “HaHaHa. Blah blah gurgle right blah County Kerry blah.” We responded with a laugh, unsure if this was the correct response, as we had no idea what he’d just said. This short conversation took us right up to our turnoff, and we were saved from another incorrect response, as I’m sure they thought they were saved from vehicular death.
We continued along the Southwest coast through the Dingle Peninsula and the Ring of Kerry. The towns and villages dotting the countryside were everything one imagines Ireland to be: quaint, friendly, colorful and quirky. We saw a goat guarding a house, sheep sleeping in the road and signs reading nothing but Gaelic, but most puzzling of all was the white pudding. We greeted each morning with a traditional Irish breakfast consisting of orange juice, tea or coffee, cornflakes, a fried tomato, mushrooms, eggs, bacon (looks and tastes like ham), sausages, toast and jam and black and white pudding. For those of you unfamiliar, black pudding looks like a hockey puck and is made up primarily of lamb’s blood. Thankfully, I knew this going in and wouldn’t touch the stuff. So what was white pudding? I had no idea and apparently neither do the Irish. I asked three different people, all serving food, and no one knew. The first conversation went like this:
Me: “So I know what black pudding is, but what is white pudding?”
Lady behind counter: “You know, I have no idea! HaHaHa!”
Another conversation:
Me: “Mike, what is this?” (Mike owned the B&B in Cobh)
Mike: “That’s white pudding.”
Me: “What’s white pudding?”
Here he thought a bit, grinned and maybe even scratched his head. Then he said, “Well, black pudding is blood so maybe white pudding is meat?”
I smiled. He smiled. It remained a mystery to both of us. Mom, who surprised me with her bravery, took a small bite and claimed it to be quite tasty, but then left the remainder untouched.
As a last ditch effort and in the spirit of travel boldness, which is really only applicable on vacation, I’ve just asked the Irish family behind me on the plane what white pudding is made of. The son quickly said, “We’re not from the farm,” implying that only farmers and brave tourists eat the stuff. The mom looked perplexed. “I don’t know,” she said, “sausage and meat, I think.” Again, she didn’t really know. An American seated next to her piped up to say, “[The people at the B&B] wouldn’t tell us what it was.” I wonder if the Irish aren’t gathered in some conspiracy to keep the ingredients of white pudding hidden from the rest of us, which, honestly, might be in our best interest.
The weather was surprisingly cooperative for mid-October, usually sunny despite the cold, making the Coast glow. It’s possible that I saw more rainbows in one week than I’ve seen my whole life. And not just your average rainbows, but rainbows that shined with all seven colors, rainbows that spanned the entire horizon and even double rainbows layered on top of one another. They made me believe in leprechauns and pots of gold and all those other surprises found in a Lucky Charms box.
We ventured to Cobh (pronounced “Cove”; in English), the port where we believe our ancestors left Ireland for America. It was sobering as we read of the famine and Irish pilgrimage to America, but it was also heartening. The Irish have endured a hard lot and are deserving of the fortune they’re experiencing today. Ireland currently has the strongest economy in Europe, but they pay for it. Small houses in the country cost well over 200,000 (about $250,000). I can only imagine what a place in Dublin might cost. It hit us hard paying $4 for a fountain serving of Coke and $12 for an average lunch in a pub. Financial observers speculate that Ireland is due for a bust, although like before, I’m sure she will endure.
I learned this previous information by listening to the radio. That’s how Mom and I got our head around present-day Ireland. We also watched some TV, saw a movie (Man About Dog – very Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels), and eavesdropped on conversations around us. These may sound trivial, as they’re things we do back home, but begrudgingly or not, they’re the lifelines to culture. One of the hot topics in Irish media right now is our upcoming presidential election. I don’t know if Ireland has a president or a prime minister, yet they’re watching our debates. Without doubt, most of the Irish are for Kerry, as was demonstrated through the campaign button on our Trinity College tour guide’s jacket and in national Irish polls. First debates, then polls, soon they’ll be voting!
Mostly the Irish appreciate Kerry’s stance on the issues, but as one drunken Irishman put it, “Massachusetts – Boston – Ireland! HaHaHa! Bush is an English [jerk]!” While he said this, I glanced at the picture of JFK hanging next to an American flag on the wall of the pub. Irishmen have often teased me for claiming to be Irish. “You’re no more Irish than I am American,” they say. I know there’s truth to that, but if they can claim Kerry, then surely I can claim Ireland?
Mom has stayed behind to see more of our Irish heritage. She’ll be traveling the Antrim Coast in the most Northern tip, where we believe our ancestors lived. Like them, she’s striking off on a new adventure. She’s traveling solo for the first time on a big trip and I’m so proud of her. She’s naturally shy, but friendly, and if there’s people who will make it easy for her to open up, its the Irish. So Mom, if you’re reading this in the Emerald Isle, smile, remember you’re in Ireland, have a pint for me, know that I love you, and please find out once and for all, what is in the bloody white pudding!
Rachel Clemens
Austin, TX
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