We were up nice 'n' early for our tour; it was neat to walk against the stream of commuters to Dubrovnik's Old Town at that hour. There was a bit of a mix-up with the tour, such that we ended up on a bus with thirty or so French-speaking Belgians. Luckily there were two guides, so the half dozen English speakers were segregated to the back of the bus for translations in the silences. As both Tea and I understand French reasonably well -- particularly the guide's perfectly enunciated Montenegrin-school French -- we got the best of both worlds, with quick questions to our guide where we faltered. (Incidentally, we both agreed that what I'm assuming was Walloon French is very difficult to understand. Before I discovered they were Belgians, I seriously suspected that their native language wasn't French, and that they'd simply booked said tour for its accessibility, etc.)
The Cathedral of Saint Tryphon, in Kotor
Let there be no doubt: the Belgians know how to vacation. After clearing the two border crossings -- Croatia's and Montenegro's -- the agenda called for a quick stop at a petrol station to pick up our local guide; 15 minutes for the toilet, a stretch, etc. I blink, and the station patio bar is full of Belgian couples raising glasses of the local Nik Gold. (Obligatory review: I tried Nikšićko pivo in Budva later that day; unpleasantly metallic at the outset, with no finish -- the latter being a selling point, according to the warped reality of beer advertisers.) And this continued at each of the stops! Živjeli!
Montenegro is, simply, beautiful. Driving around the Bay of Kotor was incredible. Cypress trees darken the awesome Dinarides -- hence the country's name, "black mountains" -- leading down to the mirror-like, deep blue bay; it actually resembles a fjord, blocking all wind from the Adriatic. With towns and villages at the water's edge -- the best defence against the main threat of the time: invading Ottomans from the mountains -- it really reminded me of a lush Lake Como; indeed, the Dinarides (is it just me, or does that word conjure up this epic mix of Easy Rider and dinosaurs?) are properly called the Dinaric Alps.
You can just make out the city wall above
The city of Kotor was our first significant stop. Words fail me. That wall 'round the old port, rising up the mountains in the most imposing fashion, was the highlight of the tour. Unfortunately, given the lushness of the terrain, I feel my pictures too have failed to capture it. (This will probably sound simple and odd, but, staring up at that wall, I felt like the greatest of cities from the Romance of the Three Kingdoms video game were alive before me; ah, a childhood bowed before Nintendo.)
This trip has really illuminated how paths diverged following the dissolution of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, and on a spectrum of Croatia to Bosnia, a good example of mixed blessings is Montenegro generally, and the route to our other stop, Budva, specifically.
Relaxing in Budva
The division of the South Slavic language known as Serbo-Croatian was largely a political construct, and while Montenegrins understand Croatian, officially they use a Cyrillic alphabet, whereas the latter use a Latin one. (Incidentally, our guide admitted that she struggles with official, largely government-related, correspondence, as the reality of Montenegro's reliance on tourism means that a Latin alphabet carries the day.) I raise this because our guide pointed out that, on said road to Budva, and throughout the town itself, it's the Russian alphabet, not the Serbian one, on the road signs and shop fronts. This, the large mansions (outside UNESCO protected areas, at least), and (abandoned, in many cases) factories blighting the greenery, reflect Russian exploitation of a newly-independent (since 2006), but poor, country. (For example, unable to afford a currency of their own, Montenegro requested, and received, permission to use the euro, even though they aren't part of the Union.)
I've always had difficulty putting news from this region (e.g., Kosovo's declaration of years past) in context, so it was particularly fascinating and rewarding for me to learn about its history in such beautiful surroundings. Tour guides are no different from any of us, of course, burdened with a set of biases; still, for me, it's tough to beat a few hours with a good storyteller.
Walking to the bus stop last night, one could hardly be blamed for worrying whether the evening was going awry. We had a destination (Wotton Hall, Gloucester) and a route (no. 10), but beyond that, it was all a bit fuzzy. We knew there was a small beer festival at that hall this weekend, but their Web site allocated far more real estate to a 60s and 70s dance, going on we knew not when.
As we sat on the bus, halfway to Gloucester, two nicely dressed ladies and a spiffy chap got on. We privately joked about them getting off at our stop, only to suffer that sinking feeling as they pushed the bell while we gathered our stuff. In a scene right out of one of those 80s teen movies, we just stood there on the pavement, the bus pulling away, staring at the dozen lads 'n' lasses in waistcoats and gowns on the hall's steps, smokin' and lookin' right back. After what seemed like a heck of a long time, but was probably just half a dozen seconds, the tension broke and they went back to gabbin' 'n' puffin'. Pluckin' up our courage, we squeezed through the crowd, assuming we'd made some horrible mistake.
Upon entering, the "Private Party" sign immediately to our left perked us up, as did the doorman's, "Back to the skittles alley," in response to our beery query. Wotton Hall was a-hoppin'! In addition to that reception, there was a skittles match in full swing, a wine tasting, an open mic night, and, thankfully, a beer festival! That place is clearly the heart of their community. Such a great atmosphere; warm and welcoming.
We met up with American Joe and had a great chat over a few pints, then caught the last bus back home, where Matt 'n' I broke out Guitar Hero III, rockin' it double-axe style 'til the wee hours. Good times!
When friends of ours said they were going to be in Dublin for a long weekend in July, we jumped at the excuse to visit one of our favourite cities. One quick train ride to Birmingham International and forty-minute Ryanair flight later, and there was much hugging and back-slapping all round -- shortly followed by "Good night!" Hey, none of us is gettin' any younger; it's all about pacin' yourself.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
In Kilmainham Jail
Since Cee hadn't been to Dublin before, we decided that a hop-on-and-off bus tour would be the first order of business the following morn. After a hearty breakfast at the hotel -- including soda bread and black pudding -- it was off to buy our tickets for the bus, and for the hurling and football matches on Saturday, something the original Jae had been assured was a must-see.
In the Victorian wing
Our first hop off was the 'Gaol'. Tea and I enjoyed some great tours on our first trip to Dublin, but I have to say, if you have time for just one while you're there, the Kilmainham Gaol tour can't be beat. The history presses down on you before the informative guide even gets started. In particular, as we walked out to the yard that includes the Invincibles' unmarked grave, we all agreed that its significance was made known to us -- be it through chills or a weight in the air -- before the guide even pointed out the plaque. That, and seeing Joseph Plunkett's cell (amongst those of the other planners of the Easter Rising), where he and Grace had that short span 'alone' as a married couple, and then seeing her cell in the much-filmed Victorian wing later on; it wasn't hard to imagine why she decided to devote herself to the cause.
After that, we stopped at the Patriots Inn for lunch before walking to the Storehouse for some Guinness swag -- no, you can never have too much. We hopped back on the bus at that point, getting off again near Grafton Street for more shopping. Well, the girls shopped. Cee bought a cigar, and then we went wandering, stumbling upon the James Toner Pub for a pint before meeting the girls back at the Porterhouse for, you guessed it, another pint (of their own porter in my case -- delish!).
Within minutes of greeting Jae the previous evening, she'd mentioned Montys, a Nepalese restaurant she'd heard about; that was on the docket for supper. Well, what a treat! From the opening recommendation -- dumplings! -- we were hooked. My lamb ledo bedo (traditional Nepali curry) was amazing, and the peshwari nan was ridiculous -- seriously, probably the best I've had to date, and I'd like to think that means something now, after a year of trying great curries.
We finished the night off with a few more pints and live music at O'Neill's.
Friday, July 16, 2010
We started with another good breakfast at the hotel before heading to the train station to take the DART to Howth. The Victorian row houses gave way to greenery and, finally, the beautiful Irish Sea and Ireland's Eye. The air was heavy with salt as we left the train, and while the sun was shining through the clouds, we'd packed for showers. We noted Beshoff Bros fish and chips shop immediately, knowing how good that would taste after our cliff walk.
The harbour, Dún Laoghaire in the distance
Walking up the trail, the cliffs falling off to our left, reminded me of childhood walks around Cape Spear, and our recent trip to Cornwall. The cries of the seagulls and the crash of the surf accompanied us as the showers began. They were more cooling than anything; we really couldn't have asked for a better day. As we neared the top, a spectacular view of the town of Dún Laoghaire (which sounds like 'Dun Leery', I believe), across the harbour, greeted us. It was then that we noticed the houses, and the pub. It was a bit disheartening, thinking we'd conquered some significant mount, only to discover a thriving community in our midst. We attempted to cover our embarrassment by busily talking amongst ourselves, but a local quickly picked us out, stopping his car and leaning out the driver-side window with a friendly smile, "Do you know where you are?"
When we pointed at what we thought was the way down, he replied, "No, that's the boring way. What you want is there," pointing to a gap in a low wall that was in a similar, yet entirely different, direction. He said the way was intuitive: that so long as we were heading down, we were heading true. He emphasized that, while it was simple, we wouldn't see "any big German signs pointing the way," which had us in stitches for most of the way down -- Cee in particular, given his heritage.
Down we went, past row houses painted such bright colours you'd swear we were in St. John's. At one point we passed some guys unloading kegs from a flat-bed truck; they had this great system where one guy'd get a keg to the edge of the flat-bed before letting its weight carry it to the pavement below, and this little pillow they'd set for that purpose. The keg would bounce off that, turning on its side in the process, where the next guy would ensure that its momentum carried it right through the pub's side doorway. It was like something out of Donkey Kong!
The fish and chips from Beshoff Bros hit the spot, just as we'd imagined. Sated, we decided to pop into the tourist information centre quickly before heading back to Dublin. On the way, we noticed a crowd by the dock and were surprised to find a group of sea lions frolicking for the masses. A few people bought some bags of fish heads at the nearby shops, and the sea lions just went wild for them. Perfect timing!
Once back in Dublin, we decided to take the Laus (pronounced 'louis') -- or really neat, futuristic tram, as we liked to think of it -- to Abbey Street for more shopping. We were a bit confused about where to catch it, and ended up waiting longer than it would've taken to walk the distance, but it was worth it: we couldn't very well leave the city without riding it, after raving about it for days. While Cee went with Jae to buy his sweetie a ring, Tea and I crashed for a bit in St. Stephen's Green.
At Salamanca
We planned to meet another friend, Aye, who was returning from Prague, at the Spire around 6 p.m., so we headed back to the hotel to freshen up beforehand. That done, Cee and I were just finishing up a pint in the lobby when Tea came running back in, telling the staff to call an ambulance. She'd just gone out with Jae a moment before, so both Cee and I thought something had happened to her. As it turned out, they'd been standing on the sidewalk for but a moment when a cyclist flipped over his handlebars and landed horribly on his unprotected head, out in the street right in front of them. Some others trained in first aid took over from Jae, telling the man not to move (once he regained consciousness), as the rest of us directed traffic around him and tried to avoid looking at the pool of blood spreading around his skull. The ambulance arrived very quickly -- within five to seven minutes -- allowing us to gratefully take our leave. He seemed to be O.K. by then; undoubtedly concussed, but moving under his own steam. Always wear a helmet, kids!
We met Aye shortly thereafter and made our way to the tapas restaurant we'd spied earlier, Salamanca. The place was packed, so we put our name on the list and went to a different Porterhouse close by. Aye was shocked when they told him they didn't have Guinness on tap -- 'til we explained it was a microbrewery. The hilarity continued when we were seated in Salamanca, however, because they didn't serve it either. As he said, we probably found the two places in Dublin that don't serve it (and it was all he'd dreamed about having since his flight had touched down). We got the story out of the waitress eventually -- apparently you have to buy Guinness in such large quantities, that it doesn't make sense if it won't appeal to most of your clientele -- and consoled ourselves with a few Murphy's (and sangria for the girls, a Paulaner for Cee).
At the Mercantile
With a few dishes a piece, it wasn't long before our large table was full of delicious morsels. Tapas has to be some of the most fun you can have at a meal, picking and choosing, and all on those small plates that slows you down before you're ridiculously full. Sated again, we set out to get Aye his pint of Guinness. The Mercantile, while not much to look at (under construction as the façade is), caught our ear, so to speak. More pints, laughs, and a bit of air guitar for good measure, followed, into the wee hours -- and Aye didn't miss his flight home the next day!
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Match day!
It rained heavily all morning, which was just as well, 'cause Tea and I slept late. (Cee got soaked on his morning walk, though.) It started to clear up in the early afternoon, so we went to a pub for a late brunch before heading to Croke Park for the 3 p.m. hurling match. As we got closer, you could see the crowds converging, with plenty of supporters of the boys in blue: Dublin.
Hurling match at Croke Park
I had this big ole grin plastered across my face five minutes after finding our seats: there was this fantastic cacophony and barely concealed tension in the air. Both these matches, back-to-back, were play-offs: this was the GAA Hurling All-Ireland Senior Championship Quarterfinal was between Dublin and Antrim, to be immediately followed by the GAA Football All-Ireland Senior Championship Quarterfinal between Dublin and Armagh; as we found out later, the latter was a real grudge match: the last time Dublin and Armagh met in the play-offs was five years earlier, with Armagh clinching the victory.
Fans pile in for the football match
We still found so many opportunities to laugh, though, like when the five-year-old behind us squeaked, "Take their heads off!" Another time, as I was just about in the lou, this giant of a man grabbed me by both shoulders, and, staring down most earnestly, said, "Is there anything blue on my face?"
As if the question weren't strange enough, his heavy accent really threw me. "Anything blue?" I said.
"Yeah!"
"U'm, no." (I decided to ignore all the little bits of paper towel all over his face; the guy had obviously been scrubbin' somethin' fierce in there.)
"Ah, bless you!" he said, taking off for the stands.
I saw him again later as the last match was letting out, and noted that he was sporting no colours while being harassed by a crowd of his friends, all dressed in blue. Cee had speculated earlier that supporters of the boys in blue had painted a rival fan -- against his will, shall we say -- and this gave weight to the argument.
I'll close out this section with a video clip from the football match. Just after it ends -- with Dublin winning, as should be obvious -- the guy in the middle of the frame turned to us and said, "We've waited five years for that!" Awesome!
At Chameleon
For our last supper in Dublin, we decided to try an Indonesian restaurant called Chameleon. Our good fortune continued as the host said that we'd have to sit on cushions and be on our way by 9 p.m. (still two hours away). We heartily agreed and were soon reclining in our cushions like so many sultans. Another fantastic meal followed, and we were asking for the bill with mere moments to spare. (And then had to walk through a significant line of waiting diners!)
The raucous Temple Bar then greeted us, in full swing by this time, and we set a meandering course. A few streets later our way was blocked by a crowd. Peering over heads, standing on tiptoe, we picked out the band and stopped to listen. Folks of inner circle were dancing as that song finished, and then a haunting tune was struck up. We were mesmerised by the crescendo, swaying, and then clapping, faster and faster, when suddenly this "Wop! Wop!" of a police siren pierced the bubble. Against the odds, they'd decided that this was their best bet of getting through Temple Bar to whatever crime was in progress. I took a hasty video of it, and, as you'll see, they did make it.
And that, other than momentarily losing the girls as we walked along the Liffey, thanks to a series of well-built gentlemen deciding that ironing in the buff in their well-lit apartments was the best way to spend a Saturday evening, was our trip to Dublin, done and dusted.
We decided to take a break from all the prep. work -- just a few more weeks! -- and headed down to Lebreton Flats to meet Kae at Bluesfest. The name is a misnomer -- even the organizers joke about it now -- with Sam Roberts and Jackson Browne on the bill that night.
The bus was packed with riders carrying folded camping chairs by the time it reached the venue. We joined the throng that was being directed away from the busiest entrance, and were in and outfitted with our "of drinking age" bracelets in no time.
The array of food stands was really impressive. I don't remember having that wide a selection in years past, although the last one we went to was in front of City Hall (a few years ago now, I guess). Tea and Kae had hot dogs -- Tea, with poutine, and Kae, with sweet potato fries -- and I had a fantastic turkey and pancetta panini with a pasta salad on the side. The Indian food -- Rose's, I think -- looked great and seemed very popular, The Works was there; it was all very expensive, of course, but really tasty and well organized. We also enjoyed Kettle Corn popcorn and a Nutella-topped Beavertail before the night was through.
They had a bigger selection of beers and wines at "The Lounge", so I found myself there regularly. One of my many runs stands out, though: I was in line for another beer -- they had Creemore Springs Lager, which, unlike their pilsner, I really enjoy -- when I saw this guy making his way back down the line asking a question. When he got to me, he asked, "How many are ya gettin'?"
"One," I said.
"Would ya buy me one?" he said.
"Sure," I said.
His eyes had looked a little glassy, but that perked him right up. Clearly he hadn't had much success with the venture, and had expected more of the same. After a bit of head bobbin', chuckling, and muttering "Great!", he realized he hadn't given me any money and began patting his pockets. Coors was $6, so the five- and twenty-dollar bills to his name brought on a deep pondering as he tried to figure out how to ensure we both had enough legal tender to complete our transactions separately. Before I could tell him the fiver was good, he ran up to the front of the line to bum a loonie off his buddies.
That settled, Stephen, as he introduced himself, looked much relieved, commenting, "That's really good of you. I mean, I'm not a bad guy; just looking to get a bit more beer is all." -- the policy was two per customer per transaction, as I later found out, although I still kept buying one beer at a time all night for some reason.
So Stephen and I were chattin' away -- turned out he's a Newfie too -- and we're about two-thirds of the way through the line when he got that concerned look again. "Hang on now; what'd'you get outta this?"
"Don't worry about it, man," I said.
"No, no; you were nice enough to help me out, so I wanna do something for ya," he said, and wouldn't be dissuaded.
Funny enough, what he finally settled on -- again, after much deliberation -- was to buy my beer. This turned into a double rye 'n' coke once we were at the counter, but, hey, I wasn't complaining. We chatted a bit more after that, and, before breaking off to go back to our groups, Stephen said, "Good eye contact, man; keep it up." Hilarious! The kindness of slightly-inebriated strangers prevailed again!
Oddly enough, it was the festival atmosphere that really captured my attention that night. Sam Roberts put on a really good show, and we did wander over to take in some of Jackson Browne's performance, but, for the most part, we just hung out, chatted with other friends we ran into there, and made runs to The Lounge. After the bus ride home, we capped off the night with more good times and music in the form of drunken Rock Band! Superstar!
