Stardate: 18 May 2019 - Poor fellow my country

I'm done with politics.  I need a new interest.  And I'm glad that I will miss out on the gloating by the coalition and their media cheer squad over the next few days.

What a devastating day.  I know that Geoff and I are not alone in being completely shattered by this shocking and unexpected election result, and the prospect of three more years of this coalition of variously drunken, adulterous, racist, water-thieving, lying, grifting, rent-seeking, climate-change denying, coal-worshiping troglodytes is simply unbearable.  What the fork has happened to our country?  Who are these hillbillies and idiots, these dolts and nincompoops that voted against their own interests and against the interests of their children and grandchildren?  Shame on them all.  Shame.  I and virtually everyone else predicted a sweeping Labor victory.   We were wrong.  I'm not interested in any analysis by the pundits who also got it wrong - I'm done.

Geoff will not be contributing tonight.  He is too upset.

This afternoon we took ourselves over to the big 'ouse to say goodbye to our hosts as we're leaving tomorrow morning.  They gave us a tour of the house - quite a welcome distraction.  It's enormous and very lavishly-appointed with a wing set aside for up to 15 paying guests as long as they are in one group, although individual 'apartments' are available.  I very much doubt we could have afforded to stay in the big 'ouse even if we had wanted to.

I took this pic at the top of the tower that featured in our first day's post.  That's Lough Derg in the background.

While we were visiting, Jenny asked us if we'd been to the Norman castle in the village.  We hadn't, because while its direction is signposted,  there is a locked gate that says  "Keep Out", "Trespassers Prosecuted", "Do Not Enter" and sundry other messages in a similar vein.

Jenny said the side gate was unlocked and not to be intimidated by the signage.

So off we went this arvo and about 500 metres in, we found this.



It's called Oldcourt Castle and was built in the early 1200s.  It had various owners in its first 100

years.  It's described on Wikipedia as a 'four-towered keep' and the original owner had significant debts to Henry the Third who used the castle and surrounding lands as security against debts.

I'm not sure why it's now officially off-limits but as roon-fans, we were very pleased to have made its acquaintance.

Just one more of Oldcourt that includes beautiful Lough Derg in the background.











Sadly I think that's about it for our blog, as our trip home starts tomorrow.  We'll be home late on Tuesday evening.  I'm sorry the blog hasn't ended on a happier note.  I still cannot believe how self-interest won the day. Dutton and Christensen actually increased their majorities.  Jesus wept.

Also apologies to those friends who have emailed me and haven't had a response.  My Irish simcard is poop and while I can receive emails in a job lot once a day, I don't seem to be able to send with any degree of success - they just sit in the outbox.  I don't think this will change until I am home on Tuesday night.

Thanks for reading our blog and I hope it has been entertaining.  Apart from today we have very much enjoyed writing it and we have appreciated the comments we have received.

Cheers to all

Anne xxx

Stardate: 17 May 2019 - A Ferry Ride around the Cliffs of Moher (or Less)

Today's major outing was to Doolin in County Clare for a one-hour boat trip around the spectacular Cliffs of Moher.  As usual, the drive there (about 110 kms) was exhausting, even as a passenger.  The roads are dreadful, and I kept thinking the tracks, alleys and lanes we traversed today probably bear some resemblance to the Kings Highway between Canberra and Batemans Bay in about 1946.  Kudos to Mr Pants who did a sterling job as usual, not least by allowing two farmers to retrieve their livestock (a sheep and a cow) that were nonchalantly wandering down the road as we approached.

En route we saw signage to nearby Ennis, the original home of Geoff's great-great-great grandmother, Mary Neylon and also Muhammad Ali's great grandfather, Abe Grady.  Geoff and Muhammad could well be cousins and henceforth The Greatest One will be known by us as Cousin Cassius.  (Apparently the town claimed him as one of their own.)

I'm sorry to report that our Cliffs of Moher pics really are rubbish and do not do justice to their spectacular beauty.  It was hazy and they were mostly in shadow.  (I'm so embarrassed  I'm actually wearing my false moustache as I type.) 

Probably the least worst of today's pics, ⇉⇉⇉
a single apostle.

We were terribly excited when we saw that our leaflet advertising the boat trip promised we would see a puffin colony and the cave featured in the movie Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Well, we were at least excited about the puffin colony.

And here is a gaggle of puffins...

...and here is the Harry Potter Cave.

Both of these pics were stolen from the internet.  Although our boat had a working PA system and we received clear instructions about life-jackets, life-rafts etc on boarding, there ended the commentary and it was up to passengers themselves to guess which inlet in this five-mile stretch of Atlantic coast might host a puffin colony and indeed, which cavernous hole might have starred in a Harry Potter movie.  We will never know as we saw neither.

Mr Pants descends from the poop deck. 

Note the others all searching in vain for a puffin colony.  "Is that a puffin, Hal?" 
"Well, I dunno, honey.  It could be a seagull."
(It was, in fact, a seagull.)

All in all, we thought the Cliffs of Moher lived up to the hype - they were spectacular and ruggedly beautiful.  But I'm sure we weren't alone in being disappointed at the lack of commentary on points of interest from a crew member.


All was not lost however.  En route to Doolin we saw roons!  Roons everywhere!  Well five big ones anyway.  And we decided to reward ourselves on the way home with a stop at the one set of ruins that was accessible and not halfway down a sheep paddock.  Handing over to Mr Pants now for his eye-witness report on this excellent development.

***

Before arrival in Ireland, Hortense had promised me that I'd see roons by the side of the road everywhere we went.  But I thought she meant just the odd nondescript pile of stones here and there.  But today proved she was right.  En route this morning, we thought we spied something that looked quite spectacular just west of the metropolis of Gort.  I believe the Irish say that their land is gort by sea.  

Anyway, we promised ourselves we'd have a closer look on the way back.

And so we did, only to find that it's far more impressive than our initial glance from the road would suggest.  It's called Kilmacduagh.  Our first thought is that it looked a fair bit like Clonmacnoise, that we visited two days ago.  And indeed it is. It's a monastery first founded in the 7th century but established as an Augustinian abbey in the 13th.  Most of what you see now would be from the latter period (a mere 800 years ago).

From our perspective, the main difference between Clonmacnoise and Kilmacduagh was about 1500 tourists at the time we visited (1497 at the former, and 3 at the latter).  

Probably the most notable structure is the round tower.  It's easily visible from the road and the most obvious thing that makes you want to stop and see.  The other three visitors who were there with us agreed that they knew nothing about Kilmacduagh, and only stopped when they saw the tower from the road.

It leans two feet out from the perpendicular and would have been used by the monks in the event of attack.

And in keeping with local tradition, this is a multi-function facility - historical site and grazing property.  Fortunately the local residents were quite happy to share their home with us, and didn't even ask for a fee to have their photo taken.

We are incredulous that such an extraordinary attraction is not widely mentioned in tourist brochures.  Nor does it seem to be widely featured in historical information.  It's nowhere to be found in our Time Team book, that we have regarded as our bible for this kind of thing and that we have carted half way around the world to guide us in these matters.  Never mind; our good luck.

We're now in serious training for election day tomorrow.  The count starts at 9am our time and we'll be watching.  Probably a bit early for champagne, but who knows ...!

Stardate: 16 May 2019 - On Saturday, let's do it for Bob

Exploring much closer to our home base today, starting with a village walk.

Beautiful Lough Derg

We were actually looking for the two holy wells we mentioned earlier in the week but our first trek took us 500 kilometres in the wrong direction.  Never mind, the countryside was beautiful and was rather as you would expect it to be in nursery rhymes - think Little Bo Peep or Baa Baa Black Sheep. 

We also had the first of three encounters with Gucci the rescue Golden Retriever.

This is our local swimming hole - Lough Derg.  The River Shannon runs into it.

The "I've got a splitting headache" Well

Retracing our steps, and only a matter of metres from our original starting point, we finally found our first well - St Columb's Headache Well. The well itself has been a shrine of sorts for over a thousand years but the semi-circle fencing is relatively new I think.  We have deliberately not included the tree foliage in this pic, as like St Brendan's tree yesterday, it's covered in offerings, not all of which are holy.  There were actually a couple of used baby wipes hanging from a branch.
The well is supposed to cure headaches - we will never know as neither of us had one at the time. 


Quite fortuitously, Geoff's phone rang as we were sitting at St Columb's well.  It was an unexpected but very welcome Facetime call from Geoff's son Matt, his partner Clare and their two littlies, Isla and Ruby.  I say 'fortuitously' because on any other day at that exact time we would have been careering along goat tracks and narrow lanes on our way to the day's ancient monument and so the call (assuming there was actually a signal) would have been very short indeed.  A most welcome diversion!

This is the stream that feeds the headache well - we could hear lots of frogs. The area is also a bird sanctuary.

The pic below is St Augh's Eye Well. St Augh was a pious, 9th century youth who was ordered to blind himself by a Danish chieftain but allegedly had his sight restored at this very well (before it had the 20th century masonry).  Pilgrims with eye ailments perform a series of rituals at the well that include sprinkling the water in their eyes in the hope of a cure.  We thought the water looked a bit dodgy and may    well cause conjunctivitis.         

St Augh's Stye Well

                           
We then wandered back to the village and entered the Derg Inn for a cup of tea and a scone.  It was here that we checked our Twitter feeds and learned that Bob Hawke had died. We both got teary.  What a visionary. And what a huge loss to Australia.  Vale Hawkie. 

Mr Pants will be with you shortly with news of our excursion to the Portumna Workhouse, a very grim 19th century home for the impoverished, especially those affected by "The Great Hunger" which should never be called a famine because that implies there was no food.  There was definitely food.  But what didn't go to the rich mostly went to England.

                                                               ******

You couldn't call a tour of the Workhouse uplifting, but it's not meant to be.

It was opened in the 1840s.  What happened is that rapacious and heartless landowners were responsible for the upkeep of impoverished tenant farmers and their families.  To rid themselves of this unwanted burden, workhouses were established where the poor could be admitted, and 'looked after' in a rudimentary fashion. 

The workhouse idea originated in England, but was taken up with enthusiasm in Ireland, despite differing conditions at the time.  The Industrial revolution was a great influence there, providing employment, but never happened in Ireland at all.

Individuals could be admitted to the Workhouse, but in many cases whole families were accommodated.  Once inside, they were split up.  There were strictly segregated wings for men, women, boys and girls.  Children under two got to stay with their mothers until reaching that age.

This is a sleeping area in the women's wing.  Way down the end you might see a small fireplace.  This was the only source of heat, and was used only 3 months a year.

The Workhouse wan't a prison.  You could leave if you wanted, but conditions outside, particularly during the Great Hunger, were even worse. 












Although we didn't expect a guided tour, we got one anyway, and because of the time we arrived, our tour group was just us.  Once our guide realised we were Australian, she made the point that many former Workhouse inmates migrated to Australia, particularly women, some of whom were sponsored under the 'Earl Grey' scheme.  Yeah, the tea bloke.

This was an area where badly behaved girls  were sent to sleep as punishment.  It's outside, and right next to the communal dunnies. 

Bad behaviour could mean talking during meals or not being diligent enough with designated work, bearing in mind the girls' wing was for those aged from three to 15.








The Portumna Workhouse closed in 1921.  A grim experience, to say the least.  No wonder the Irish love a drink; who wouldn't?  Fortunately for them, the standard of living for the contemporary Irish is quite high.  Considering their history, they deserve a break.

Hortense again:  More cheerily, later this arvo our host Keiran came over  for a yarn and took us on a guided tour of the estate, which is enormous (100 acres).  Much of it was completely overgrown when he and Jenny moved in as caretakers and they have done a sterling job in restoring it to its former glory.  Keiran seems to spend all day on the ride-on mower!  There's a fairy ring on the estate which we may get a chance to explore. Keiran thinks it's a neolithic burial mound.  Woo hoo - just my cup of tea. 

Till tomorrow.  xx

Stardate: 15 May 2019 - When too many ruins are barely enough

Today we carted ourselves to Clonmacnoise - originally a 6th century monastery founded by St Ciaran that was expanded over 600 years.

But just before arriving there we saw this sad beauty precariously hanging off a precipice near the River Shannon.  This was an Anglo-Norman castle built in the 13th century.   

We had hoped that we would largely have Clanmacnoise to ourselves as it's pretty hard to get to and while it's in our handy Time Team book, we haven't seen it in any tourist brochures.

Alas, two busloads of Europeans had arrived moments before us and were milling around the entrance making entry for us difficult.  Then we finally got outside to the roons just in time for them all to light the first of several Stuyvos whose smoke and aroma they kindly shared with us.  Eventually we were shot of them and then three more buses arrived, full of Hals and Barbs from Minnesota.  Hal and Barb X 100 then elbowed us out of the way so they could get first dibs on seats in the theaterette for a 20 minute video.  I do think it's incumbent on tourists to behave with a bit of decorum as Mr Pants and I do when we visit ancient monuments. A cattle prod would have been handy today.

12th century Temple Finghin

Sadly St Ciaran carked it only a matter of months after establishing Clonmacnoise but the monastery thrived between the 9th and 12th centuries and became a centre of learning, architecture and artistry.

Nothing survives from St Ciaran's time as buildings were then made of timber.  Most of the remaining ruins are 11th and 12th century.

From about 1000 AD onwards the site was attacked variously by locals, the Danes and the Anglo-Normans after which the monks said yeah, nah, it's all yours.  The final coup de grace was delivered by the English in the mid-1500s - they destroyed most of what was left during the dissolution of the monasteries. 

Cow custodians of Clonmacnoise

Shortly handing over to Mr P.  His driving skills this arvo on death-defying lanes and goat tracks en route to another ruin -  Clonfert  Cathedral - are worthy of thunderous applause.  I would also mention that today I was boss of the camera for the first time and all these pics were taken by me.  Normally I'm only allowed to take pics of Geoff sinking a schooner of Pigs Arse Pilsener at the local Slug and Lettuce.  😊

***

Final Clonmacnoise photo.  It's quite beautiful but, as Anne says, it's obviously well and truly on the tour bus circuit.  If you happened to luck out by being there more or less on your own, it would be an outstanding day out.

You can see part of the River Shannon in the background.  It so happens that in our meanderings today we crossed the river several times.  

The closest town to Clonmacnoise is Shannonbridge, which we correctly predicted is named because it features a bridge across the river (nothing gets past us).  Not only were we right, but we managed to find a pub right on the water where an excellent seafood and potato chowder was on offer for lunch.  This was the view from our table.  Excellent!

From there, it was on to Clonfert, which mercifully is a far less touristed attraction.  The site was originally a monastery founded around 560 by St Brendan the Navigator.  It's thought that he set out on a legendary journey on the Atlantic Ocean and some think that he discovered the Americas about 800 years before Columbus.  And who can argue?  

Anyway, the oldest part of the existing church is this Romanesque doorway, from the late 12th century.  The bloke in the photo isn't quite that old but sometimes feels like it.

It's also featured in the Time Team book, but fortunately for us the tour bus operators haven't read this part of it, because we had the joint to ourselves.

Near the church there's signage to the Nun's Walk and St Brendan's tree, and a very pleasant walk it is too.  We just walked for about half an hour, but never found where it headed, if anywhere.  Doesn't matter, as you'll surely agree based on the photo.

This is St Brendan's tree.  It's hard to miss, because it's the one festooned with religious paraphernalia.  And also with what looked to us like just plain junk, like an asthma inhaler.  Maybe the owner thought that making an offering to St Brendan would cure them of asthma?

A nice day out, where we were directed by the satnav along numerous secondary roads, which ranged in quality from maybe-just-barely-navigable to downright diabolical.  Still, we wouldn't have found our way without it, so it earned its keep today.  Oh, and I'm sure you're all wondering why the names of so many places in these parts start with 'Clon'.  It's because it means community.  Of course!

Stardate: 14 May 2019 - On the road again...

and here we are in Terryglass (or as we say in Gaelic, Tir Dha Ghlas - land of the two streams) in northern Tipperary.  In fact so far north that we just did our grocery shopping 10 kms up the road in County Galway.) 

Note our hired Beamer on the right!

This is our cubby until Sunday, in the grounds of the Slevoir Estate.  Our hosts, Jenny and Keiran live in the big 'ouse up the road.

They're a nice couple and, surprisingly, both Australian. They have lived in Ireland for three years, initially coming here to work in academia but are now retired.

They kept us yapping for ages when we just wanted to have a wizz and settle in but we figured they see so few Australians they were keen for a convo, especially when we established our politics are of a similar bent!

And this is a view from our place of theirs.  It's quite a pile.  They don't own it but have been caretaking for three years for the (presumably wealthy) friend who does.

It's not hugely old - 1870 - but quite impressive.  Keiran has his study in the top of the tower.  He'd have a lovely view over Lough Derg ('lough' as in lake) which the estate borders. 

 
After we'd done our shopping in Portumna we headed in to Terryglass village for a bit of a recce.  This random cat took quite a shine to me and dispensed more affection in three minutes than my grandcat has in 18 months.  (No offence to my grandcat - I quite like her eff-you vibe.)

This village is a gazillion years old.  This is the only remaining wall of what was St Columba's monastery, founded in 549 AD.  It's mostly a cemetery for more recent (1700s-1800s-1900s) burials but St Columba is apparently in there somewhere.

And just a spit up the road but not yet visited by us is St Columba's headache well.  Drinking from the well is alleged to cure headaches.  There's also St Augh's Eye Well a bit further away but still walking distance.  Apparently believers visit the eye well every Saturday in May and perform a range of prayers and rituals and leave offerings in the hope of curing their assorted eye ailments.   Unfortunately we probably won't be able to observe from a respectful distance next Saturday as from 9am we will be glued to the TV screen here that Mr Pants has successfully harnessed to his laptop, watching the election results from 6pm EST.  No wine or champers for us though!  Perhaps a Bovril, some boxty and some barmbrack. 

Over to Snorkers now for spanner, chisel and other hardware news.

***

The journey here from Dublin was actually not too bad, at least by our standards.  Picked up the BMW from the airport, and after about half an hour of familiarising ourselves with its idiosyncrasies, away we went.  The reason we got a BMW instead of my real preference, which was either a Morris Minor or an Austin A30, is that we insisted on having in-car navigation.  This satnav seems quite OK, except we haven't yet worked out how to turn it off.  This is a problem only because if you decide to go somewhere other than the destination you last selected, it tells you every seven seconds to do a u turn if possible.  Yeah, thanks for that.

But the trip itself was OK.  Good freeways, greatly less congested than England.  Of course, once off the freeway you go straight onto roads about 6 feet wide that are two way, but we'll just have to get used to that.  

We'll be telling all our visitors that this is the driveway to our estate.  And so it is, as long as you ignore the fact that it's also the driveway to the big 'ouse.

First impressions are that this is a great spot.  The cottage itself is OK, but the real attraction is that there's so much to see within a relatively short drive.  We hope.  We'll have a better idea tomorrow.  And wish us luck with the feckin satnav.  

Oh, and I nearly forgot; when we went to the village (where Anne made friends with the black cat that definitely did not go to the Jessie Ackroyd school of deportment), we found the local, that serves an excellent Smithwick's Red Ale, that I really liked.  Hortense agreed. And we might even have another some time soon.

Stardate: 13 May 2019 - The Dubliners

Out and about early today as there was much to be seen and done on our only full day in Dublin.

First stop was for breakfast and I rather liked the look of my coffee. Tasted fine too but good grief, everything is so expensive in this town!  This small flat white was 3 euros 30 cents which comes in at $5.34.  Plenty of locals coming in and paying the same price so it wasn't just a tourist scam. Ditto their toasted cheesy breakfast offerings.   

Tram ticket and receipt

Next up we bought all-day tram tickets.  What we didn't know was that the ticket dispenser also dispenses a similar-looking receipt when you purchase your ticket. I'm not sure why, as surely a dated ticket is ample evidence for a ticket inspector.  Dubliners clearly feel the same way as they just leave their receipts inside the dispenser and when Geoff tried to retrieve his ticket he managed to shuffle all the old receipts (about 20) along with his ticket.  We then had the job of frantically sifting through all this detritus to find his ticket with the tram fast approaching. Memo to Dublin Trams: ditch the receipts! 

Purple poppies at St Stephens Green

Tram ticketing dilemmas resolved, we boarded and then alighted at St Stephens Green - a beautiful park adjacent to the Australian Embassy.  We had a lovely wander through the park which played a crucial role in the 1916 Easter rising against the British when it was commandeered by Irish patriots, of whom the second-in-command was a woman, Countess Constance Markievicz.  (She was actually Irish and was married to a Polish count.) The rising failed, the patriots surrendered and Constance was sentenced to death along with 16 others.  Her sentence was eventually converted to life imprisonment but she was released a year later in a general amnesty.  Several years later she was the first woman to be elected to the British parliament but refused to take her seat as it was against Sinn Fein party policy.  A magnificent woman.  

No, we did not wear our badges. 😏

Next we returned to the Australian Embassy across the road from the park.  I say returned because they had sent us away when we charged through the door at 8.30am, anxious to vote, when their voting booths did not open till 9am. (Can you see a pattern with our over-punctuality?  It's something we both suffer from and this foible keeps our 16-year relationship fresh and sparkling.)

Embassy staff were all charming and efficient and we were surprised to be handed what seemed to be original ballot papers rather than printed-off copies. Although perhaps they have fancy printers.  If so it was all done very quickly as it was only about 2 minutes between verifying our credentials and being handed our ballot papers.  They even had proper cardboard voting booths, just like on election day!  No democracy sausages though, although we were offered a lamington and a badge on departure.  10 points to the Dublin embassy - very professional, efficient and charming with it.  Well done.  

Shamus O'Shamrockpants will be with your shortly to tell you how completely whelmed we were by our Book of  Kells experience at Trinity College.  But the afternoon's excursion for half the cost was extraordinary.  Stand by for his penetrating and insightful commentary! xxx

***

The Book of Kells is possibly the single most popular tourist attraction in Dublin.  If Trip Advisor says otherwise then I won't argue, but it's certainly in the top 5.  We thought we'd done really well when we found an electronic ticket machine at Trinity College that allowed us to purchase tickets 

for a particular time, so that we didn't have to line up with the great unwashed to get in.  The earliest time we were allowed was 12 noon, so we happily accepted.

You can imagine our excitement when our entry time approached, particularly as there was a queue of  several hundred metres of those who had no advance purchase tickets (OK, maybe a slight exaggeration there).  So with great anticipation in we went.

Well, us and several hundred others that is.  You do actually get to see the Book of Kells (under several feet of reinforced glass of course) and, look, it's impressive enough, dating from 800 AD as it does.  But you have to compete with the hordes to get near it.  And you're not allowed to photograph it.  You also get to see the Long Room (see photo), which is in effect a library of many thousands of ancient tomes.  It's pretty impressive too.  The 3000 others who were allowed in with us agreed.

We have to say that if you come to this part of the world to see ancient books, the Treasures Room at the British Library in London is better, by a factor of, oh I don't know, maybe a thousand.  Much more to see, and infinitely fewer pesky tourists (like us, we have to acknowledge).

The highlight of the day was undoubtedly Kilmainham Gaol.  The gaol is now a national monument.  It was first commissioned as a gaol in 1796, and closed in 1924.  It was rescued from decay by volunteers who thought that its story should be told to future generations, and of course they were right.  

The oldest section is still there and part of the tour.  Here's door of one the cells.  It was designed for one inmate, but during the Irish famine of the mid-19th century it was hugely overcrowded.  This part of the gaol is grim, to say the least.  The other point to note for we antipodeans is that some inmates were transported to our shores. [Possibly including Mr Pants's Irish ancestor Samuel Sloane who was done for insurrection - Ed.] This eventually ended in the 1840s.

Later, a new wing was added to accommodate those imprisoned after later conflicts such as the Irish War of Independence, before its eventual closure.  This is the newer section, that has been featured in numerous movies, including In the Name of the Father.

Here's another view of the same section.  In its day, it was regarded a state of the art.  Looks a fair bit like prisons depicted in many later American movies, doesn't it?

Of course, executions were also carried out at the prison, initially in public.  Here's a memorial to some from 1922.  These patriots rejected the live-on-your-knees ethos of the Irish Free State, imposed by the British.  

We found the tour quite extraordinary.  Not a necessarily pleasant experience, but enormously informative and an invaluable history lesson.  Highly recommended. [And certainly more illuminating than the feckin Book of Kells - Ed.]

Yes, Hortense here again.  Tomorrow we hit the road to Tipperary!  (It's a long way, you know!) 

Stardate: 12 May 2019 - "Whale oil beef hooked!" said Paddy...

...our Dublin taxi driver, as he drove us from the airport to our hotel.  And what a wag he was.

Our day started very early in Buxton  and we were on the road to Manchester airport at 6.30am.  And a good thing too as it gave us plenty of time to twice circumnavigate Manchester airport via the handy ring-road, as we searched in vain for the airport rental car drop-off place.  Done and dusted, we then amused ourselves for three hours in the departure lounge, breathing sighs of relief that we'd just got there in the nick of time, as always.

Our Aer Lingus flight was fine, about 55 minutes, and a food and drink service was offered but we declined paying the equivalent of A$10 each for a kit-kat and a cup of coffee.  So we were starving when we got to our slightly quaint hotel - the Amberley in Dublin's Lower Gardiner Street around 2.30pm.

After dumping our bags (as well as Geoff's skis, hatbox and piano accordion) we headed round the corner to The Celt, a traditional Irish pub recommended by the receptionist.  Here's Mr Pants and a half-pint of Guinness. 

And here's our very late lunch - a haddock and veg chowder and sweet Mary, Jesus and Joseph, it was delicious.  The accompanying Guinness bread was curious though - incredibly sweet and it tasted like banana bread to me.  Not to worry, we still ate it.

We quite liked The Celt and may well return there for a refreshing ale tomorrow.

We then did a 1000 kilometre trek around the Dublin CBD getting our bearings.  As some may know, there are European Union elections coming up, and the Irish take them very seriously, as indeed they should.  I liked the sound of this candidate, Rita Harrold, and if I was Irish I might well vote for her.  Behind her poster (or should I call it a corflute?) and down the street a bit you can see several other posters spruiking the credentials of different candidates for election to the European Parliament.  Mr Pants will shortly share an encounter we had yesterday in Buxton with a charming gentleman seeking a people's vote on the Theresa May Brexit deal.  We completely forgot to report on it yesterday, instead virtually rewriting Day 2 of our Buxton sojourn.  As I have done before, I blame Scott Morrison for this lapse.  He has much to answer for.

And (almost) finally from me today, about 750 kilometres into our trek, we came across the birthplace of Oscar Wilde.  Just a pic of the plaque and not the actual building as it was a busy street and we would have needed to cross the road to get a decent pic.  But anyway, cheers to Oscar.

And definitely finally, Newspoll - no change.  Pfffft!  You're wrong, Murdoch lackeys!  And this will be proved beyond any shadow of a doubt next Saturday night when Antony Green calls it for a landslide Labor win by 7.15pm.

Over now to Mr Shamrockpants.

***

In chronological order ... yes, on our last stroll through Buxton yesterday we were accosted (very politely) by a proper English gentleman exhorting another people's vote on Brexit.  Even though we told him up front we were bloody colonials and so were more interested in the chances of Dutton losing his seat (please, is there a god?), he insisted on advocating his cause, which is:  a new vote, where the options are 1. Accept the Government's preferred deal, or 2. If this isn't acceptable, vote to remain in the EU.  Makes sense to me.  Of course, not acceptable to hard core Brexiteers, who'd be happy to leave with no deal at all..  Yeah, great idea.

OK, on to Dublin.  Our taxi driver from the airport was indeed a great source of entertainment.  You could have just sat in his cab by the kerb for an hour and not moved anywhere and happily paid his fare.  His favourite words were Jaysus and feckin'.  We're fast learners, and will be sure to use them liberally while we're here:  'Jaysus, whaddayer mean 25 Euros; you're feckin' kiddin'!'

We didn't have time for a proper outing this arvo, particularly after our sojourn to The Celt, which we thought was quite excellent,and well within staggering distance.  But we did find Trinity College (hard to miss really).  We'll be going back tomorrow, but here's an early photo.  The monument's called the Campanile and the figure on the left is Samuel Beckett.  On the right is a recent PhD candidate whose thesis was on Beckett.  Some might say that giving her equal billing with the great man is a bit generous, but who would be so uncharitable?

On our way home from Hortense's 1000 kilometre trek we crossed the River Liffey (actually re-crossed it) and captured this view heading east.  You can just see a new building that seems to be an attempt to recreate the leaning tower of Pisa in Dublin, except theirs leans more.

The day ended much better than it began, and tomorrow promises to be better still.  Specially if we get to go back to The Celt.

Stardate: 11 May 2019 - Under the Dome

Our last full day in Buxton before we head to Ireland tomorrow morning and we spent it on foot, promenading around town.  Partly because Buxton is mostly pleasing to eye but also because parking in our very narrow, two-way traffic street is an absolute bastard.  For inexplicable reasons, parking is allowed on both sides, leaving about 2 metres in the middle for traffic (no exaggeration) and getting a spot is a first-in-best-dressed thing.  More than once we have had to park quite a distance around the corner in a pay-parking lot.  Managed to score a spot an hour after paying 3 pounds up the road yesterday arvo and we haven't budged since! This is probably the only thing we won't miss about our otherwise excellent accommodation.

Our first outing today was to the Dome. There's a story attached to the Dome but I have no idea what it is. Am sure Mr Pants will provide the details.  I do know it was originally built in the late 1700s but is now mostly Victorian and had something to do with the several dozen dukes of Devonshire who seem to have intruded themselves into every aspect of Buxton life for three centuries.  Why aren't/weren't they based in Devon, you may ask.  Not sure, but their family estates have always been based in Derbyshire. 

The outside of the Dome.  We were lucky we got inside at all today and only did so because the University of Derby and Buxton College were having a student Open Day there so we wandered in and made like we were recently-graduated high school students looking to pursue further education.  I think we were convincing as nobody harangued us about our presence.

We also went back to the Buxton Opera House for another gander.  Unfortunately the reception person (whom some might call a door-bitch, but not me) only allowed us to stand in the foyer and not wander around at our leisure. There are designated tours that are booked out until mid-June.  I think Geoff mentioned previously that this was another 'gift' of one of the Devonshires to bring a bit of culture to the town in Victorian times.

While loitering in the Opera House foyer we did manage to snap a pic of a coming attraction that we will miss - the Red Hot Chilli Pipers. They play hits from ACDC, Coldplay, ZZ Top and Queen among others, using guitars, drums, keyboard and bagpipes.  Truly.  And I don't think they're a comedy act. 

They seem to be popular too, with nine gigs on their current tour. 

As it's our last full day in the UK, we're a little sad to be leaving.  But one thing I find odd is how behind they are with credit/debit card Paywave transactions.  While most UK supermarkets use Paywave, many other shops and restaurants do not.  And where Paywave is available, the limit is 30 pounds, about $60.  At home it's $100 and you can still Paywave as long as you provide your PIN.  If you go over 30 pounds here you have to show ID with a signature and then sign a docket.  Pretty sure Australia did away with that nonsense years ago! 

We have enjoyed our week in the English Midlands - an often overlooked tourist destination with some gorgeous scenery and some absolute gems like Bakewell.  [If I could I'd insert a musical note here...] Farewell, Union Jack. I know we'll be back.  xx

***

Not sure I have much more to say about the Dome.  It's referred to locally as the Devonshire Dome, owing to its connection to various of the Dukes of Devonshire that Anne has mentioned.  Their main activity seems to have been to build monuments to themselves, of which the Dome is one.  It dates from 1779 but has been refurbished several times since then.

But it is pretty impressive.  This photo shows a section that is about 30 feet above ground level and extends all the way around the inside.  It's inscribed with details of its history, consisting of yet more tributes to those self-aggrandising dukes, just in case you'd forgotten about them.

It's now part of the University of Derby, and seems to be the place where students would meet to drink coffee and discuss matters of state.  Doesn't resemble anywhere that I remember from my uni days back in the dark ages.

We briefly mentioned The Crescent a few days ago, and went to have another look today.  It's basically a smaller scale copy of a renowned street in Bath that is also crescent-shaped. The Buxton version looks kind of like this.

Were it not for the fact that it's now a building site, it would look a fair bit better.  It was built in 1789 as a monument to ... you guessed it ... a Duke of Devonshire (the fifth to be exact).  It was originally hotels and private houses, and would have been a very fashionable address if you could afford it.

The present renovation started in 2003 and will see it converted into a mega luxury spa hotel.  How quintessentially 21st century.  Now nobody other than Saudi oil shieks and Russian oligarchs will be able to afford it.  The only saving grace is that you wouldn't think there'll be a Betfred on the ground floor.

Did we mention the Buxton Bath House the other day, that is now a shopping centre?  I think we did, but here's the outside, mercifully pretty much untouched.  It's impossible to get photos of ancient buildings without latter day intrusions like cars and tourists getting in the way.

And finally ... deep breath ... a long range view of part of the centre of town, dominated at the top by the Palace Hotel (which will no doubt lose its title as the grandest place in town once The Crescent reopens).

Yes, we'll certainly miss it here when we leave tomorrow.  Buxton does have the most extraordinary attractions for a moderately sized town that nobody who doesn't live with a hundred miles or so has ever heard of.  We only knew about it because of an episode of Michael Portillo's Great British Railway Journeys.  He came to sample the famous Buxton spa water, and didn't like it.  Never mind; we did.

Passports at the ready, off to Ireland tomorrow.