Nora Roberts's Travelogue of Ireland:
Ennis—September 4, 2004
We have a wonderful evening, starting in the bar off the main dining room where I order a bottle of champagne. The maitre 'd will come around to those having dinner, bring you the menu, talk about it, and let you sit there until things are ready for you. We can watch the 18th hole out the window. The sun's shining strong. We see various golfers taking advantage of it. Earlier a sleek little helicopter came in, and is now sitting on the grass.
There's a group of Americans, four couple, all dressed to kill. One of the women is wearing a tiara, which I find a bit over the top until I understand it's her birthday, and her girlfriends had presented it to her right before dinner. Now it's cute, and sweet of her to actually wear it. They're having the best time. At the end of the meal, the maitre 'd bring over a cake with candles, and the staff and other diners sing happy birthday.
In the morning, my driver wants the day off, so we have an at home day. The weather's not promising in any case. Just a sky of layered clouds, which occasionally spit out a bit of rain. I'm caught up in any case with the horror in Russia, and keep the TV on, hoping for the best in a situation that can have no true happy ending.
Do a little yoga in the room, then take myself off for a nice walk that'll bring me around to the castle's nice shop while BW settles down to read. Noreen, the shop keeper, and I chat away while I browse and select. I get a nice haul here, and am especially taken with the little creamer and sugar bowl by Franz that I find. Delicate and whimsical porcelain.
Late in the afternoon we take ourselves off to Ennis. During the day, the traffic here is busy, and parking is problematic. The day's cleared up some, and it's warm enough for shirtsleeves. We don't mind the walk into town. School's just let out. There are swarms of kids, tidy at pictures in their uniforms. The little girls wear gray pinafores, pink shirts, gray ties and cardigans. Much prettier than the uniforms we wore back in the day. Mothers have come to collect them and walk or drive them home. I hear one girl getting a set-down from hers. I didn't hear much more than: I'll tell you something for nothing--but the tone sounded ominous.
I do bit of shopping, a bit of poking, we find and buy a Clare banner, and I find some nice earrings. There's a restaurant called The Sicilian on the pedestrian street; we remember eating there with Ruth and Tom when they were here. The food's just as good this time around, but we very much miss the company.
BW's moved the car closer to the restaurant, and we move it again, now that traffic's light for evening, to the pub where we're meeting our travelers.
We've been here before, too, remember visiting the pub again with Ruth and Tom. A big place with stone walls, lots of low tables, and a fire. Our group's already there, the American ADWOFFers and the Dubliners, staking out a couple of tables. It's fun to see everyone. We find we've passed ways with the Yank portion on their visits to Loop Head and around Kerry. They're having the best time, and I think how brave they are, Lee to do the driving, Adele Nora and Ottis to hop in the car and ride with her. The Dublin girls have come in on the bus, arriving just before us. Over five hours! But it's a good place to land, I think, wherever you've come in from. Crowded and noisy, and good company.
There's a couple, must be hikers, sitting just across from us inside the door. Sprawling, really. For quite some time they sit facing each other, no table between and all but nose to nose, just staring at each other. Rather than romantic, it just looks strange. If they're not stoned, I'm a monkey. I find my eyes drawn to them throughout the evening. While he rubs her feet. While she sleeps against him, or he against her. While they neck. While she takes out massage oil and rubs his neck and shoulders. He rubs her hair, her face. It's perhaps a cliche to think get a room, but it's really all I could come up with.
The music starts off with a fiddler, a squeeze box, and an instrument that looks to be a combination of a mandolin and a banjo. We called it a mandajo or bandalin, but I've no idea really. Good lively traditional, joined shortly by a pipe. Then another fiddler, then another piper, then a drum, a banjo, another drum, another fiddle. I've seen dozens of sessions here, but never one with some many musicians dropping in. Twice the mandajo player sings a ballad. But the real treat was a man having a pint on a tall stool, who got up to dance a step. Must've had hinges for knees and hips, and good fast feet. Each time he gets up to dance he makes it look effortless, arms loose and down at his sides, upper body nearly still, while his legs and feet just go.
We stay till midnight and couldn't have had a better time.
Nora
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