t’s Tuesday afternoon, just after 1, and I’m on board an Irish Rail train bound for Cork. We’ll change trains in Mallow for our destination, Killarney. The train was scheduled to leave at 1 and it pulled away from the platform promptly at 1. Apparently, the trains here run on time.
Heuston Station is a huge, mid-19th century rail station in Dublin, right around the corner from the hotel where we stayed. Outside, it’s a pre-Gilded Age granite and sandstone landmark and inside it’s a typical modern commuter and distance rail station, filled with coffee shops and bookstores and newsstands and lots of people.
I’m going to look at a map of our route now. We are passing through what most Americans think of as typical Irish countryside with rolling hills and farmhouses and contented Irish cows. I might need to take a picture.
An hour and a half later, and we’re still proceeding placidly through the countryside. We’re in a four-seat cubby with the pairs of seats facing a table, and my mother and I are riding backward. Poor planning on my part, but it’s not uncomfortable. Our seatmates are two young American students, a boy and a petite, dark-haired girl with glasses, obviously a couple. They studied and complained about their workload for a while, and then the girl took a nap on the boy’s shoulder, as he alternated between scrolling his phone and looking up birds in a field guide. When the dark-haired girl woke up, he told her that he’d seen a particular type of sandpiper that he’d been hoping to see. She seemed happy for him.
The Irish countryside is really just as beautiful as everyone says it is. And now we’re in the insanely picturesque town of Killarney. It’s too picturesque, in fact. It feels like a Potemkin village. Our hotel is very quaint and charming, and if it was a person, I’d want to smack it.
When we arrived, the innkeeper (I have to assume that he is the innkeeper) was busy at some paperwork. He held up a “wait a moment” finger and said “I’ll be just a tick, ladies.” He didn’t look up. After 90 seconds or so, I said hello again and told him that we had a reservation for two nights.
"Of course ye do,” he said, still not looking up. “Name?”
I told him my name. “Ah,” he said. “Here we are. Two nights. Have ye any bags?” And we did, of course. Another staff member, possibly his wife, bustled over, smiling and welcoming. She showed us to our room with its polished wood floor and flowered wallpaper and crushed velvet sofas and toile drapes and 25 pillows on each bed, and we settled in.
A few minutes later, I remembered that I had VAT refund forms to mail, so I went back to the front desk and asked the innkeeper if he wouldn’t mind sending them along with his outgoing mail.
“Well, I could,” he said, “but ye’d probably feel a bit more secure if you posted it yourself, wouldn’t ye? There’s a shop across the street, and a post box just in front. Ye can’t miss it.”
Actually, you can miss it, because I did, never having seen an Irish mailbox. I carried the envelope back into the lobby, hoping he wouldn’t notice, but he did. “Ye didn’t find it?” he asked.
“No, but I’m sure I will,” I said.
Heuston Station is a huge, mid-19th century rail station in Dublin, right around the corner from the hotel where we stayed. Outside, it’s a pre-Gilded Age granite and sandstone landmark and inside it’s a typical modern commuter and distance rail station, filled with coffee shops and bookstores and newsstands and lots of people.
I’m going to look at a map of our route now. We are passing through what most Americans think of as typical Irish countryside with rolling hills and farmhouses and contented Irish cows. I might need to take a picture.
An hour and a half later, and we’re still proceeding placidly through the countryside. We’re in a four-seat cubby with the pairs of seats facing a table, and my mother and I are riding backward. Poor planning on my part, but it’s not uncomfortable. Our seatmates are two young American students, a boy and a petite, dark-haired girl with glasses, obviously a couple. They studied and complained about their workload for a while, and then the girl took a nap on the boy’s shoulder, as he alternated between scrolling his phone and looking up birds in a field guide. When the dark-haired girl woke up, he told her that he’d seen a particular type of sandpiper that he’d been hoping to see. She seemed happy for him.
The Irish countryside is really just as beautiful as everyone says it is. And now we’re in the insanely picturesque town of Killarney. It’s too picturesque, in fact. It feels like a Potemkin village. Our hotel is very quaint and charming, and if it was a person, I’d want to smack it.
When we arrived, the innkeeper (I have to assume that he is the innkeeper) was busy at some paperwork. He held up a “wait a moment” finger and said “I’ll be just a tick, ladies.” He didn’t look up. After 90 seconds or so, I said hello again and told him that we had a reservation for two nights.
"Of course ye do,” he said, still not looking up. “Name?”
I told him my name. “Ah,” he said. “Here we are. Two nights. Have ye any bags?” And we did, of course. Another staff member, possibly his wife, bustled over, smiling and welcoming. She showed us to our room with its polished wood floor and flowered wallpaper and crushed velvet sofas and toile drapes and 25 pillows on each bed, and we settled in.
A few minutes later, I remembered that I had VAT refund forms to mail, so I went back to the front desk and asked the innkeeper if he wouldn’t mind sending them along with his outgoing mail.
“Well, I could,” he said, “but ye’d probably feel a bit more secure if you posted it yourself, wouldn’t ye? There’s a shop across the street, and a post box just in front. Ye can’t miss it.”
Actually, you can miss it, because I did, never having seen an Irish mailbox. I carried the envelope back into the lobby, hoping he wouldn’t notice, but he did. “Ye didn’t find it?” he asked.
“No, but I’m sure I will,” I said.
He sighed. “Well give it here. I’ll post it for ye.” Well, that wasn’t hard, I thought. I heard him mutter to himself as I walked away, “Ye can see it from here. I don’t see how ye can miss it.”
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| "I mean, this is supposed to be a hotel, not a Burma railway!" |
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