A Farewell to Ireland

When I arrived here at the beginning of September, it was very much still summer. Now, some three weeks later, it is most definitely autumn. It’s not just that the temperature is falling, which it has, especially at night, but the quality of the light has changed. At times, there is a clarity now that was not present before. I feel like every day, I see hills, which I had not seen before. We are so much farther north here. We are essentially on the same latitude as Newfoundland, Canada. The colors have changed, too. Not as dramatically as in the Northeast, but it is noticeable. When I arrived, everything was a different shade of green, now there is much more yellow and brown. I will intersperse this posting with photos of autumn here at Glenstal.

Crabapples in the
Abbey garden

So tomorrow, I will leave Glenstal and head for the airport in Dublin, my last stop in Ireland. I’ll spend the night at an airport hotel so that I can catch an early (6:20 am) flight to Rome. While I am excited about returning to Italy, I am more wistful than I thought about leaving here. It is not that I

have done so much, but maybe that’s just the point. I did schedule the three weeks here at Glenstal intentionally. I knew that I needed to decompress and slow down after all the frenetic activity that preceded this time. Initially, it was hard. I was bored out of my mind by the lack of activity, but slowly I adapted to the rhythm.

The "back lane"

Then my days began to take on a pattern. I’d sleep until I awoke naturally, usually around 8:00 am. I would pray Morning Prayer in my room. Then I’d  go downstairs for breakfast. After breakfast, I would check email, though the time difference had a huge impact. Because we were 5 hours ahead of the East Coast, there was not usually anything significant in my inbox. I’d check a few news sites and make sure the world was still there. Then I would go for a walk (weather permitting). I started out doing the easy 2 mile walk down the abbey’s “back lane”. Gradually I began to lengthen that by walking on the streets. Eventually I got up to over a 3 mile loop that I did regularly. Upon returning, I’d do my stretching exercises and take a shower. At this point, it was time for Mass at 12:10 followed by the main meal of the day. 

Afternoons were often the more difficult part of the day. By the time I returned to my room after lunch, the East Coast had begun to wake up. That’s when the emails would begin. Most I could just delete, but occasionally there were actually messages from people I wanted to hear from. There were

The upper garden at Glenstal

also many plans that still needed to be worked out for the Italy trip, so I would work on that. I often spent time pursuing my genealogical research. That generally meant reviewing the dozens of “hints’ from Ancestry.com that would appear on my homepage. I never did much “searching” myself. In the case of our family, it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. If conditions were conducive (and they often were), I might take a nap. At other times, I just might go outside again for a while, often to the abbey garden. Then, before I knew it, it was time for Vespers.

Vespers were my favorite moment of the day. Here at Glenstal, they still use the traditional monastic office in Latin. This was not a problem for me, because I knew it from my many years at Sant’Anselmo in Rome. I loved allowing the beautiful melodies and sonorous words just wash over me. In those twenty minutes, all the stress or cares of the day would just seem to dissipate. 

An interval between Vespers and supper provided time do some spiritual reading. Then it was on to supper, which, I have to say, became my least favorite part of the day. The monks here have some arcane method for determining who sits where at supper. As a guest, the secret was never fully revealed to me, so I was never quite sure whether I was in the right place. Additionally, the evening meal is taken in silence and is accompanied by reading. As a result, the monks eat very quickly and I always felt that I was the last one finished. The only bright spot was the book they were reading. It was a biography of Benjamin Franklin and it was quite interesting. I had to                                                       come to Ireland to learn about U.S. history.

On the way to supper

If you’ve been reading this blog, you’ll know that I regularly joined a group of monks for Scrabble after supper. That was always an enjoyable experience. I loved the banter and the good repartee, not to mention the game itself. We rarely finished a game, because the bell would ring for Compline. In this regard, “saved by the bell” was not just a figure of speech. I did not join the monks for compline, but generally went back to my room. I used this time of day to work on the blog. This also helped deal with the absence of TV! Most nights I would quit around 10:30. A few nights however, it was closer to 11:30. By that time, it was usually pretty chilly in the room, so it was great to crawl under the duvet, read a few pages of a book and then turn out the light.

Like the gentle hills and gentle rain, I have had a gentle time here in Ireland. The days have been soft and easy, with time for prayer and rest. It has been a most restorative three weeks and I will always be grateful to the monks for opening up their home to me.

Cork- Day 2

I emerged from my hotel this morning and, as I turned onto the street, a very strong gust of wind hit me in the face. An Atlantic storm was moving across the Northwest of Ireland, and Cork was feeling the outer edge. The sky was a milky white, but at least it wasn’t raining. I made my way across the Lee and into the city center. I wanted to see Red Abbey, the oldest surviving part of the medieval city walls. On a whim, however, I turned down a side street that I hadn’t explored yesterday. Of course, I got myself turned around, but eventually I came out near Holy Trinity Church, on the other branch of the Lee.  Because of the Penal Laws, there aren’t many Catholic church buildings that date to before the 1800’s. This church was another example of Neo-Gothic architecture. I went inside for a visit. As in most of the churches I visited, there were a good number of people inside at prayer.

On the way to Red Abbey

Coming out of the church, I had to check Google Maps to see where I was. I should have just used my eyes. Red Abbey was clearly visible on the hill across the river. I climbed up and found the tower in a little square. A good historical marker explained the nature of the tower. Additionally, a map of the area showed points of interest, one of which was St. Nicholas Church. I followed the indications but was disappointed when I reached the church. It has been deconsecrated and presently houses the Cork Probation Offices! So much for that idea. Now it was time for a proper visit to the English Market.

Cheese purveyor

This was probably a bad time to visit a food market. I hadn’t eaten breakfast; I just made a quick cup of coffee in my hotel room. I knew I wanted an early lunch and it was now almost 11:00, so I resolved to be firm until making a decision. The market is not vast, like some other covered markets, but it’s a good size. Butchers feature prominently - some specializing in pork, others in poultry. The fishmongers are probably the most photographed vendors in the hall. There is also a nice assortment of specialty stalls – cheese, bread, and other delicacies. My first stop was for coffee. After being outside in the wind, I needed something hot to warm me up. I ordered an “Americano”, dark roast. I’ll just say this. I’ll be very glad to get to Italy and have some real coffee.

The fishmonger across
from the sandwich stall

I wandered around a bit more until I reached a sandwich stall. The display case was enticingly laid out, and I fell victim. I selected a gorgeous ham and cheese on a baguette. I sat at the counter and began eating my sandwich. Then I decided I wanted some soup as well. The day’s special was carrot and ginger. I must say, that was a treat. It had just enough spice to warm the cockles of the heart. I should have asked for the recipe. In general, I can say that the soups in Ireland have been among the most outstanding dishes I have tasted.

Next on the agenda was the Crawford Art Gallery, Cork’s public art gallery and museum. The core of the museum building is Cork’s former customs house, which became an art school and eventually a museum. The remarkable thing is admission is free. I was particularly interested in a current exhibit, 

 

“The Naked Truth: The Nude in Irish Art”. I spent a few minutes looking at the plaster casts of classical sculpture and some other sculpture, obvious holdovers from the museum’s art school days. I then moved on to the special exhibit. I was surprised to see how extensive it was. It covered most of Ireland’s history, but the focus was definitely on the last two centuries. The show was very well curated and documented. My confrere, Fr. Beatus, who took his lead from Sir Kenneth Clark’s distinction between “naked” and “nude”, would have had ample opportunity to explain the difference. After this, I headed back to the hotel to rest up for the evening.

While planning any solo trip to a major city, I usually check the music and theater venues to see if there is anything of interest. I did so with Cork and discovered that there was an interesting performance scheduled for the Cork Opera house one of the nights that I was in town. I hemmed and hawed, but ultimately bought a ticket. Once I had the ticket, I then made a pre-theater dinner reservation for 5:30. The afternoon seemed to fly by and soon I was out the door on my way to dinner. My reservation was at a place called Cornstore, which got very good reviews on TripAdvisor and OpenTable.  The Early Bird Menu (yes, they still call it that) was reasonable at thirty-two Euros. I started with the roasted parsnip soup, followed by a piece of cod over pappardelle with mushroom sauce, and a honey and rosemary crème brulée. It was all very tasty and I was done in time for a leisurely walk to the opera house, a modern building that replaced a much-beloved structure that repl
burned down.

The performance was by the Abbey Players of Dublin’s Abbey Theatre. The show was called “Jimmy’s Hall” and it is an adaptation for the theater of a film script by Paul Laverty. If you’d like, you can read more about it here. https://www.abbeytheatre.ie/whats-on/jimmys-hall/

The performance includes a good deal of live music, both traditional and contemporary. As the audience filed in, the cast was already on the stage singing and playing.

The Opera House

Finally, the actual play began. I’ll be honest, I struggled with both my hearing and the accent. After the first ten minutes I was discouraged enough to consider leaving at intermission, then the first big dance scene came and I was sold. My auditory struggles continued, but I was getting enough information to follow the action, until it veered off into the internecine struggles of Ireland's post- civil war. No matter. I was thoroughly enjoying the performance. While definitely not a true “happy ending” drama (this is Ireland, after all), the finale is nothing short of rousing. I left the theater both exhilarated and challenged.

Jimmy's Hall

Both the Crawford show and Jimmy’s Hall made me acutely aware of the troubled relationship that contemporary Ireland has with both the Church as an institution and its own history. As I strolled back to the hotel, I stopped to look at the River Lee, which was now as calm as a sheet of glass. The lights of the city reflected like jewels on its surface. It had been a great day. As I walked by the bar on the way in, I thought, “Why not?” A little Jameson was the perfect end to this day.

The River Lee at night

Hurricane Florence from afar and an excursion to Cork

I haven’t posted recently for a variety of reasons, mostly for lack of time. It’s not that I have been so

busy, but I haven’t had the extended periods of time which I need to write. I was also distracted by the fact that my youngest sister, who lives in Wilmington, NC, was a refugee from Hurricane Florence. Fortunately, she and her family were able to stay in Wake Forest, where my nephew lives.

They were safe and sound, but there was still the question of their house. Finally, their neighbor was able to send a picture, It showed a large evergreen resting on the roof of their house. At first glance, it looked worse than it was, but they were still anxious. They were unable to get back to Wilmington because of flooding and so could not see for themselves. They eventually made it back to the house on Tuesday and began the work of cleaning up. My sister described the damage to the house as “manageable”, which is good, because our long-awaited family adventure in Italy is scheduled to begin next week.   I was worried that they wouldn’t be able to come, but I am more optimistic now. This trip has been in the works for a year now, and I really want it to happen.

Fish cake and salad for lunch

So, while they were making their way back to Wilmington, I was on my way to Cork, to visit Ireland’s second largest city. It is a relatively short trip from Glenstal to Cork, a little over an hour by train. I caught the train in Limerick Junction at 12:35 and by 2:00 I was having lunch in Cork. I dropped my bag at the hotel and went straight to the restaurant next door. Despite the dire predictions, it was a beautiful, sunny day; and, given how quickly the weather changes in Ireland, I wanted to see some of the sights while it was still sunny. Fortunately, my food came out quickly – a savory bowl of cream of mushroom soup and a fish cake and salad. The fish cake was the best I had ever eaten! Fortified by my lunch I began my explorations.

The River Lee

I came to Cork without much of a plan. I had done some homework on-line, but there did not seem to be too many “can’t miss” landmarks. I really just wanted to see what it was like and expand my knowledge of Ireland. They say that Cork is a city of bridges and I had to cross one almost immediately to get the “island” that houses the core of the modern city. This island lies between two branches of the River Lee and dozens of bridges connect it with the rest of the surrounding parts of the city.



My primary objective was to visit St. Finbarre’s Cathedral, the Church of Ireland’s cathedral in Cork. My route, however, took me initially along St. Patrick’s Street. My original idea was to follow this street along one side on my way to the cathedral and the other side on my way back. Before long, I was lured into the maze of streets and lanes between the main shopping thoroughfare and the river. Along the way, I came across the Crawford Museum and the Opera House, which also figured in my loosely outlined plan. I enjoyed the hustle and bustle of this very lively university city. The presence of so many young people certainly contributes to the atmosphere in Cork.

A partial view of the façade

As the afternoon progressed, I realized I needed to get back on track. With new resolve, I set off in the direction of the cathedral. It is an imposing neo-Gothic structure that sits on a hill, so it was easy to spot and keep in sight. The walk up is invigorating, but worth it. Unfortunately, the front of the cathedral faces an extremely busy intersection and there is really nowhere to get a good photograph of the entire façade. Although the church was built in the 19^th century, it truly is an homage to the workmanship of the mediaeval cathedral builders. The architect, William Burges, designed every aspect of the cathedral; and, even after his death, work was carried out according to his plans. As a result, there is a harmony about the space, which one does not often find in buildings where many hands have been at work. The stained glass windows were all crafted according to mediaeval standards. The colors are incredibly rich and vibrant. As the late afternoon light shone through them, I was grateful to have visited on a sunny day.

The interior

Sunny day in Cork

I made my way back down the hill. Clearly, the locals were enjoying the sunny weather as much as I was. Outdoor seating was at a premium everywhere. I meandered back towards the hotel, poking my head in here and there. I did come upon the English Market – another of Cork’s most famous sights – and made a quick pass through. I intended to come back in the morning and give it my full attention. I liked what I saw, though.







I eventually made it back to the hotel and checked in. I stopped at the restaurant attached to the hotel, Greene’s, and made a reservation for dinner. The barista was making coffee and it smelled so good, that I ordered an espresso. I sat down outside at a table in front of a small waterfall, which tumbles over rocks in an alley between the two halves of the hotel. I didn’t have the courage to take pictures, but some Eastern European woman was having head-and-shoulder shots being taken by a photographer. Her heavily-mascaraed eyes and her “come-hither” looks were hard to miss. I imagined these were being shot for some on-line escort service . . .

Luckily for you, dear readers, I left my cell phone in my room charging while I dined at Greene’s  that evening. It was an amazing meal, about which I probably could have written at length. But, as they say, one picture is worth a thousand words. So, without pictures, no words either. I’m sure that I will have a chance to make it up to you, though.

Inter-cultural exchange and a Scrabble© board

The Irish-American who comes to the modern Republic of Ireland, is likely to experience some cultural dissonance.  On many levels, much looks and feels familiar. The people look the same and many of the names on shops and signs are familiar to us, with a few exceptions - names like Eóghan, Ruairí, Saoírse or Ó Suilleabháin . There is, unfortunately, the inescapable issue that they drive on the “other” side of the road (it would be an assertion of cultural superiority to call it the “wrong” side) and the cars are really small. Moreover, despite all their protestations about being different from the British, they insist on using terms like petrol, biscuits and jumpers. If they didn’t want to be like the British, they could use our words: gas, cookies and sweaters. I’ve even heard of few of them say that they love the queen! So, fellow Irish Americans, if you are coming to the Emerald Isle for the first time, they aren’t just like us with that quaint accent that your granny had.

Seems innocent enough

Nowhere did this chasm become more apparent to me than when I was invited to join in a friendly game of Scrabble. It seems that, on most evenings, a group of monks gathers in the community room after supper for a game of Scrabble. On one of my first evenings in Glenstal, I walked innocently into the community room. “Do you want to play Scrabble?” they asked, before I was barely in the room. Not wanting to be inhospitable, I said, “Sure”, when all the time I was thinking, “Oh no, not Scrabble. I haven’t played in years. They are probably like my brother-in-law, who had the Scrabble dictionary memorized. I bet they see me as chum – they are going to chew me up and spit me out.”  I sat down with a sense of dread and a pleasant smile on my face. The bag was passed around and we picked our letters. When we picked our letters and revealed them, that was my first inkling that something here was very different.

The dictionary in question

Now, in my recollection of how the game was played, it was that the person whose tile had the highest value went first. Here, the person with the letter closest to “A” gets to go first*. “OK” I thought. “No big deal. I was in their country, in their house”, so I was prepared to go along. It didn’t really make all that much difference, It did strike me as odd, however, when each player was handed a dictionary. Now the rules say that there has to be an agreed upon dictionary for consultation. Of course, you need that to settle disputes. I just assumed that here, each player had his own copy of the agreed upon dictionary. Seemed like a practical idea, rather than having to jump up and consult one dictionary. Here one could check from the convenience of one’s own seat. So, you can imagine my astonishment when, in the first round, the player to my left picked up the dictionary and began thumbing through it before placing his tiles on the board. “Wait! That’s not allowed” I said, indignantly. As one man, all the other players turned to me and, in total innocence, said, “Well, that’s how we play here.” I felt a bit like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Everything was awry. (That’s a good word if, you can get it onto a Triple Word Score)

Consulting the dictionary

And so it went. Over time, I adapted to this new form of play. My virtue was short-lived; and, soon I was consulting the dictionary like the rest of them – though maybe not quite as much. At one move, I had the temerity to consult the dictionary for its original purpose, and, lo, “le” is not a word, even in those dog-eared dictionaries. If looks could kill! I, the intruder, the invitee, had the gall to challenge a word. I knew at once, that I had committed a gaffe (good word, if you end up with two “F’s.”)  I guess, if you can check the dictionary ahead of time, it’s unlikely that you will put down something that isn’t in the dictionary.  Especially when the dictionary is filled with archaic Scottish words that no one has used since the Clearing of the Highlands after the defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie. In the end, I acquiesced to all these new “rules”. I guess this is what they mean by “inculturation.”

Yours truly being shellacked

*(I have since consulted the official rules, and I have to concede that they are correct.)

A rapt monastic audience follows the play

Back to Glenstal and a quick trip to Galway City

After leaving my cousins, I dashed back to the hotel, picked up my luggage and ordered a cab. The cab arrived quickly and traffic was moving, so we made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare. Once again, I had a great Irish cabbie and the conversation flowed freely.  I found the bus departure point and realized I had plenty of time. I went into the terminal and used the ATM. I also picked up a sandwich and some water for the 2 ½-hour trip back to Limerick. 

I guess I was pretty pumped up after meeting the cousins or the cappuccino had a lot of caffeine, either way, I was not sleepy and made good use of the time. I actually made plane reservations to fly from Newark to Vienna and back. An ad from Austrian Airlines prompted me to check prices and I actually got a decent deal, especially for the business class seat for the 10-hour flight home to NJ. I will fly economy plus on the way over, but since so much of that time is spent sleeping, it should be OK. Before I knew it, the bus was leaving the highway close to where I would get off. I had arranged with the monastery that one of the monks would meet me at the bus stop on his way back to the abbey from Limerick City. All went smoothly and soon I was back in my comfortable room at the abbey.

When I woke up the next morning, I had the startling realization that this was the first day since leaving office that I had nothing on my agenda. There was not one thing that I ‘had’ to do. I lay in bed just thinking about that. It was a very odd sensation. After 10 years as headmaster, when there was never nothing ‘to do’, and the intense travel since then, I wondered what it would feel like. My reason for coming here to Glenstal was precisely that, to simply re-immerse myself in the daily rythm of monastic life and see what would happen. I knew that I needed not to force the issue. I also knew that I needed to be patient, because after so many years of hectic schedules, the measured routine of the monastic day would seem very slow.

Near Glenstal

 Fortunately, the monks here have also given me the freedom to come and go as I choose. While I do keep a good deal of the schedule, I don’t keep all of it. I am also taking advantage of the beautiful grounds and surroundings to walk two to three miles a day (weather permitting!) There is also a considerable amount of planning to be done for the Italy adventure that will follow in October. Between that and my ongoing genealogical research, I have enough to keep me busy.

On my second day of blissful idleness, one of the monks asked if I wanted to go with him and another monk-guest for a quick tour of Galway City. Never having been, I agreed readily. When the morning dawn, it was particularly gray (gray allows for multiple degrees here in Ireland!) and damp morning. The forecast promised rain, so I donned all the gear and set off. We hitched a ride with another monk who was heading into Limerick. He dropped us at the train/bus station where we would board the express bus to Galway. Our guide, Br. Colmán, is an authority in Early and Medieval Irish history. Along the way, he would point out various sights of interest. God is good. By the time we pulled into Galway, the rain had stopped. We fortified ourselves with a cup of coffee in a café built next to walls of the city, which were visible behind Plexiglas. This gave Colmán the opportunity to give us the background to the evolution of the city of Galway and its tortured relationship with the British.

Our fearless leader

After our coffee, we headed off the see the remains of Medieval Galway.  Colmán is extremely knowledgeable and clearly loves the city. He grew up near Galway in Gort and was a university student here. I am sure we saw things that most casual tourists do not. To be sure, there is not a terribly large amount of Medieval Galway that is still visible. What fire and other calamities didn’t destroy, has mostly been covered by more recent buildings. Gradually, however, bits and pieces are re-emerging. When Colmán decided that we were sufficiently over-educated, we repaired to a local pub for lunch. 

He left the other monk, Kieran, and me on our own after lunch, because he was giving a similar tour

to a bunch of college students from the States. I guess we were the warm-up act. On Colmán’s recommendation, Kieran and I headed for the modern cathedral. It is an imposing stone structure,

finished in the mid-60’s. The space inside is vast, but well proportioned. One could well imagine

Street scene in Galway

grand liturgical events taking place here. It reminded me a little bit of the National Shrine in Washington D.C. Kieran and I roamed about the city for a bit more, before it was time to catch the bus back to Limerick. Just as we were about to board, the rains began again . . .

A family reunion . . .of sorts

Back in May, Ancestry.com had a promotion for their DNA testing kit. I had wanted to do this for some time; and, the price was as low as I had ever seen it. So, I took the plunge and ordered my kit. It came promptly and I sent in my sample. A few weeks later, my results arrived in an email. There were no surprises. I am who I always thought and been told I was. . .at least genetically. I leave the rest to your discretion. Not long afterwards, I received a message through Ancestry from a woman in Dublin who stated that we shared a significant amount of DNA. It turns out that she is related to my paternal great-grandmother, Mary Anderson, about whom we know almost nothing other than her name. Margaret and I exchanged more emails. Then, I mentioned that I would be in Ireland and did she want to meet. She did. Since I was flying in and out of Dublin on my way to and from Scandinavia, we agreed to meet there on my way back. Today was the day we were to meet.

Our meeting was scheduled for 10:30 a.m. at Bewley’s, an historic café on Grafton St. I had walked by the place the day before, just so I would know where it was. I checked out of my hotel room and left my luggage at the reception. I was somewhat nervous as I walked the few blocks to the café. I was a little early so I was still outside when I heard a voice say, “Paul?” I looked and there were three women, not just one. “Margaret?” I asked. And, of course, it was, along with Deirdre, her sister, and Esther, her sister-in-law.

We went inside and got a table. There was a lot of chatter as we perused the menus and placed our orders. We all introduced ourselves and told little bits and pieces of our life stories. I was amazed at how comfortable I felt. There were no obvious family resemblances, yet I felt an ease and comfort just from knowing that we were “family”. Then we began the work of exploring the connection. Deirdre was obviously the one who was doing most of the work. She brought out her laptop and I mine. My side of the story is much more straightforward. I, through the Lavelle side, am a direct descendant of Mary Anderson. Their maternal great-grandfather and my great-grandmother were brother and sister. According to Ancestry, we are 2^nd cousins, three times removed. (Whatever that means.)

Margaret, me, Deirdre and Patrick

At this point, our food arrived, as did their brother, Patrick. Patrick had contacted me, too, after I did the DNA test. I just didn’t realize that he was Margaret’s brother. Their family name is Conway. After Pat arrived, there was some renewed conversation about the family connections. The sisters were unfamiliar with both my surname and my mother’s, Lavelle. Pat, on the other hand, works with somebody named Lavelle and knows personally someone named Diveny. I mentioned that we have no idea where our ancestors come from. We know it is the west of Ireland, most likely Galway and/or Mayo. The DNA test bears that out. Still, we do not have any place names that connect us to our families. So, I have upped my subscriptions to both Ancestry and My Heritage in the hopes of turning up some additional information. I plan to use my time in Ireland to continue my research. Deirdre is also helping. But, now it was time to say goodbye. I had to leave for the airport to catch the bus back to Glenstal. We took our “family” photo. It was great meeting these long-lost cousins and I am grateful that we had this chance to get to know one another. I hope that our paths will cross again.

 In the small world department, one of their cousins* was a monk of Glenstal. I found his grave in the cemetery once I got back here and sent them a picture.

* Correction. It is not their cousin, but a friend's cousin. Deirdre corrected me!

La Maison – Dublin, Ireland September 2nd . . .and 3rd

Disclaimer: I have never dedicated an entire blog entry to food so far, but I am about to do so. I will not be offended if you skip ahead. I will also preface this entry, by saying that I often seek out French restaurants when traveling, because there is not a decent one within an hour of my home in Morristown.

I had made my hotel reservation in Dublin based on a previous stay, during which I enjoyed two wonderful meals at a different French restaurant. Because I was not sure whether this restaurant was

La Maison

open on Sunday, I checked my TripAdvisor app. Yes, it was, but as I was checking the times, my eye caught a number of negative reviews. As I scrolled through the recent reviews, many of them had not-so-nice things to say about the way customers were treated. As a solo diner, I am always wary.
The reviews were enough for me. I decided to look elsewhere.

To my delight, in the same general area, there was another French restaurant, which had much more positive reviews. Even better than that, it allowed me to make an on-line a reservation for one – something that many restaurants do not permit.

A nice young waiter promptly seated me. The restaurant was about 2/3 full. La Maison’s menu is typical bistro – 6-8 starters and 8-10 entrees. Being a fan of pâté, I ordered the selection of pâtés to start and the fish special, which was hake served over potatoes with olives and a bit of tomato sauce. The waiter brought some bread and sauce persilade and my nice glass of rosé wine. Then he brought a tray with five different kinds of pâté and asked which ones I wanted. Of course, I said, “All.” He then proceeded to slice and plate my dish to the delight of all watching. In fact, my fellow diners to my left decided that they would order the pate on their next visit. It was as delicious as it looked. 

The fish was superb, too. It was perfectly cooked, as were the potatoes. The addition of the chopped olives and the hint of tomato gave the dish a Provençal touch.

The fish special

To the dismay of the staff, I had no room for dessert, but I joked that I might come back the following night just to have dessert. I did enjoy a lovely glass of dessert wine, though.

I enjoyed my meal so much, I returned the following evening, something I rarely do.


On my second visit, I reversed the courses – I had the fish first and the meat second. To start, I had the scallops cooked in their shells with white wine and butter. "How can something so simple be so

The scallops

delicious?" I wondered. I thought about it for a while, as I savored each bite. Then I remembered  something that I once heard on a food show. The flavor has something to do with the heat of a commercial oven. Home cooks can only approximate, but rarely duplicate the effect. With that, I drank a Cotes de Gascone white.

 At my waiter’s suggestion, I ordered the duck breast, almond crust with carrot puree, polenta and orange sauce. He was definitely spot on. It was perfection. Again, at his suggestion, a Cotes du Rhone, which was great.

The duck breast

 I felt that I could not say no to dessert this time, so I opted for the crème brulée for dessert. To my surprise, a nice glass of Calvados arrived at my table. This is the way all restaurant dining should be.

In Dublin’s fair city . . .

In the Temple Bar district

There was a definite change in the weather overnight. It was raining some as I left the restaurant and walked back to the hotel. In the morning, though, the sky had been swept clean. The sun was brilliant and the temperature had dropped considerably. I spent the morning re-familiarizing myself with the area and did a good deal of walking. I was signed up for a tour with Context travel in the afternoon.

Context is an organization that provides local guides for small group and individuals who I would describe as “intellectually curious”. I had tried twice in Australia to take one of their tours and each time they had to cancel because of low numbers. In the end, the offered me a free tour wherever they were offered. Dublin seemed like a good place to collect. Initially I had signed up for one about the 1916 Rising, yet once again it had to be scrapped because of undersubscription.

The tour I was taking was called “From Medieval Mass to Georgian Splendor” and it was a walking tour focused on architecture. The meeting point was Dublin’s City Hall. Our meeting time coincided with an organized demonstration by women victims (and their supporters) of the Church’s sex abuse scandal. It was a bit awkward. There ended up being 5 of us on the tour – a young French couple, me and two guys from LA, though one turned out to be originally from Bergen County! Our docent was named Kevin McKenna, a PhD in Irish history and part time bartender. In all honesty, he looked like he had been more than a full-time bartender the night before, when Dublin won its 4th consecutive championship. But I digress . .  His hypothesis for the tour was “the one with the power controls the architecture” and his aim was to show us how that manifested itself in the cityscape of Dublin.

He began the tour with City Hall itself. The building had begun its life as the Customs House for the port of Dublin. From there we had, what I consider, the most interesting part of the tour – Dublin

Dublin Castle

Castle. In a sense, the entire history the English domination of Ireland is contained in its walls, beginning with the Norman fortifications and ending with the surrender to Irish Rebels in 1916. It was much easier to relate to the history when you can see it in bricks and mortar. Every epoch of British rule is present in this building, which is really an amalgamation of different buildings built over many years. The tour of the castle

emphasized political power.

The next part of the tour focused on economic power. He carefully walked us through the power of the moneyed class in British controlled Dublin. Here he used the examples of both bank buildings and residential structures to illustrate his point. He further showed us how that influence came almost to an total halt when the British and the Irish government of the time signed the Act of Union in 1801. In essence, the Irish parliament of the time voted itself

Our docent, Kevin.

out of existence and agreed to be ruled directly from London. Essentially this pulled the rug out from the Irish upper class, who had lived in Dublin because it was the center of political power in Ireland. Now that power was in London; and the Irish upper classes abandoned Dublin in droves, preferring either their country estates or returning to England itself. Dublin fell into a serious decline at this point and the poverty and squalor reflected in the song, “Molly Malone” began its ascendancy.

Almost as a separate chapter, we toured the grounds of Trinity College. This was a hoot, because it was registration day and the place was crawling with kids. The entire main quad was filled with tents and booths of student organizations and societies trying to recruit new members. I would have liked to snoop around and see what Irish college kids were up to, but we marched on. It was quite interesting and I probably saw more of Trinity College than most tourists do. It’s a very impressive place. Staying in the intellectual realm, the tour ended with a consideration of the Irish National Library and the Irish Museum of Natural History, twin buildings that flank a Georgian townhouse. These represent the last gasp of Irish ascendancy nationalism, which would all come to an end with the uprising of 1916 and the formation of the Irish Free State.

Heroes of the 1916 Uprising
in the windows

It was a very worthwhile tour, but my feet were tired and it was time to call it quits. Fortunately, we were not that far from my hotel. I was happy when I arrived yesterday to see that the bathroom had a tub.I indulged in a long, hot soak that relieved my aching feet and legs. I was now ready for a return trip to La Maison.

Morning in Copenhagen - Evening in Dublin

Pretty much packed and ready to go, I woke on Sunday morning to the most glorious day of sunshine in Copenhagen. I had breakfast, showered and set off for Mass at the cathedral. From a few blocks away, I could hear the bells. It was nice to hear church bells. I don’t think I had ever heard them anywhere else we were. There was a fairly large number of people already in church a little before 10:00. On the website, the Mass was listed as Latin on the 1^st and 3^rd Sunday. I was a little anxious that it would be the extraordinary form (Tridentine Mass); but it wasn’t. It was the regular Mass but with Latin chant music. The spoken parts were in Danish, though. At least I understood the Latin! As you would expect in a setting where Catholics are a distinct minority, participation was very high and people seemed quite engaged. I was surprised when I saw the time after Mass, I had to hustle back to the hotel and get to the airport.

St. Ansgar Cathedral, Copenhagen

I checked out of the hotel and had them call me a cab. Fortunately, Copenhagen’s international airport is relatively close to the city center, closer than almost any other capital that I can think of. I had a nice young cabbie and a pleasant conversation. Everyone speaks English so well! I was lucky enough to have enough cash to pay the fare. I didn’t want to have a lot of Danish kroner left over. 

Inside the terminal it was a madhouse. I was flying SAS and they only have self-check in for economy. When I finally got the kiosk to cooperate, it informed me that I was being put on stand-by and that I had a boarding pass but not a seat assignment. AAAARGHHHH! It also said that I had to see an agent. The flight was overbooked and they were looking for people to give up their seat. I was probably never going to be able to use an SAS credit, so I decided against it, even though I could have. Fortunately, I never had to worry about it. The agent told me that I would be given a seat at the gate. I mistakenly thought that I was going to have time for a leisurely lunch at the airport, but then I saw that I had to go through passport control, which was odd. That was another mob scene, especially for non-EU citizens. By the time I got to the gate, they were almost ready to begin boarding. I retraced my steps (Copenhagen airport is really spread out!) and grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of water. Boarding had already started when I got back to the gate. My seat was in the last row – but at least I had a seat. . . and my lunch.

Sunny Dublin!

The flight was fine and uneventful. We landed in Dublin under sunny skies and warm temperatures, high 70’s. You can log some miles on the ground in Dublin’s airport too. Of course, there’s no air-conditioning and even though it wasn’t hot, hot, it was still uncomfortable. Once again, I had to go through passport control, and once again, it was a zoo. Just like in the supermarket, I always seem to get in the wrong line. The two college-aged girls ahead of me seemed to be having some entry/visa issues. It took lots of chatter, inspecting of papers, stamping and more chatter before the issue was resolved. I walked up to the window and slid my password forward to the agent. She looked at it and said, “Paul, I’ve been waiting all afternoon for you to show up.” To which, I said, “Is that why you took so much time with the girls ahead of me?” When I saw the smile, I knew I was OK. This is what I love about Ireland - the verbal play that is so much a part of the culture. After a few more questions, she stamped my passport and I was on my way.

We were in passport control for so long that most of the bags from our flight were already gone. I grabbed mine and headed outside to grab a cab. The line for cabs was unbelievable! It took at least 20 minutes to get one. When I was finally inside, it was a relief. My cabbie was great! He was your stereotypical Irishman – a great talker. By the time we got to the city, he knew my life story. Besides the beautiful weather, Dublin was in a festive mood, because their Gaelic football team was in the midst of the championship match with Co. Tyrone. Every drinking establishment we passed on the way was festooned with the colors of one or the other (or both) teams. At this point, he asks, “So, d’ya drink whiskey?” To which I reply, “I’ve been known to take a drop.” He then lists several pubs

Did someone say "Guinness"?

where I should go and taste. To which I say, “In this heat, I really want a cold beer.” “A Guinness?” he asks. I say, “Not in this weather, but I don’t know what to ask for.” He says, “Sure, all you have to do is ask for a pint of lager.” As we turned the corner towards my hotel, he pointed out the window at “The Long Hall” and said. “If you want a pint, that’s where I’d go.” For that tip, I gave him a nice tip. In parting, he said, “I’ll have a pint on you.”

I checked into the hotel where I have stayed before. It’s a pretty basic place, but it’s in a great location. I was half hoping that there would be a mini-bar with a beer in it, but alas. As it turned out, though, there was a pub on the same corner as the hotel. I went in, sat at the bar, and noticed that I had just raised the average age by about 40 years. Oh well. The pub had a great assortment of artisanal beers and I ordered a local India Pale Ale. There is nothing quite like the first swig of a cold beer on a hot day. Despite being a little out of place, I enjoyed my beer and went back to the hotel to take a shower. 

The last time I stayed at this hotel, I discovered a very nice French bistro just one block away. I liked it so much that I ate there twice. Since it was Sunday, I decided to check and make sure that it was open. When I did check on TripAdvisor, I saw that it was open. I also saw that there were a lot a fairly negative reviews – not so much about the food, but about the way customers were treated. As a frequent solo diner, that was a red flag for me. Any place that feels it can turn away customers is not likely to want to give a table to just one customer. I decided to look elsewhere. Fortunately, I found another French place almost as close. It had great reviews and even allowed me to book a table on line. I was all set for this evening.

A Visit to Roskilde and a lovely evening

 I was excited about my visit to Roskilde. It’s about a half an hour train ride from central Copenhagen. It was for several centuries the capital of Denmark. The red brick cathedral is one of the most important buildings in all of Denmark. It is the final resting place of many of the kings and queens of this monarchy. I arrived at the station and purchased my ticket. The train was right on time and there were plenty of passengers. I have to admit, the ride out was not the most scenic. Seems as if the train travels along an industrial corridor. We arrived in Roskilde and it was sunny and breezy. I followed the signs towards the cathedral – the town was very well marked.

 

Town square - Roskilde

It was Saturday morning and I was walking along the main shopping street. Many stores had wares out on the sidewalk and the locals were out in force shopping. It was fun to be out of the city and see people in a small town setting. Saturday was also the farmer’s market day, so I also enjoyed seeing the local produce, which I must admit was rather limited compared to New Jersey at this time of year. Roskilde was definitely a quaint town.

As I neared the cathedral, I could see a rather large group of well-dressed people coming my way and one of them was carrying a baby. “A christening” I thought. “How nice . . .at least it’s over”. When I got to the door, my heart sank. “Cathedral closed for religious services”. I made my way back to the Tourist Office where the very nice woman there explained to me quite apologetically that the

Roskilde Cathedral

cathedral would be closed the whole day for christening and weddings. Of all the bum luck! I had even checked a website on the train that gave no indication that the cathedral was closed. Obviously, the woman could see my disappointment and began ticking off all the other sights in Roskilde that I might want to see. Well, there was the Viking ship museum and I was in Roskilde, so I thought, why not. I was in no hurry, so I continued walking down the main drag, stopping every now and then to look at this shirt or jacket only to see the two most dreaded words in the English language – slim fit. Oh well, it didn’t hurt to look.

The museum sits right on the edge of a bay. By now, the sky had clouded over and the wind had  

Viking ship replicas tied up

stiffened. There were sailboats out on the water moving at a brisk clip. You could take a sail on a Viking ship replica here. I looked at the chop and thought to myself “No way.” I headed to the ticket window and paid the fairly hefty entrance fee. The nice young woman informed that an English language tour was starting in 10 minutes, so I decided to go along. That was a good move. The tour was extremely informative and I learned so much more about Viking ships than I did in Oslo. The museum houses the remains of five ships, some in better shape than others. We learned about the different types of ships the Vikings built; and, how they were different from each other. It was also interesting to discover that from dating the wood, we learned that the Vikings recycled parts of their ships. They were part of the sustainability movement back in the 10th century! Way to go, Vikings!

Inside the museum

I had lunch at the museum’s café and it was quite good and very reasonable. I had taken a table outside. I figured if the Danes were tough enough to eat outside in 55º weather, so could I. Of course, it started to rain lightly before I finished, so I just pulled my table under the roof of the little shelter. After lunch, I walked back towards the center of town through a lovely city park. It was after 3 by now and most of the merchants had taken there things inside. The weekend was upon us. I caught the train and was back in the hotel by 4:30.

Ham and cheese sandwich and a local brew

My plan was to attend Mass at Copenhagen’s Catholic Cathedral on Sunday morning. According to Google, it was a 10-minute walk from my hotel. I decided to try it out on my way to dinner. Google was right! It was almost exactly 10 minutes. Mass was at 10:00 and I needed to leave for the airport by noon, so I knew this was doable. My dinner spot that night was a place called Vinvaert – it’s a kind of wine bar with a twist (pun intended!). The only food is a charcuterie platter. The server asks you what kind of wine you are interested in, then, after the conversation he goes off in search of wine. In my casee, he came back with two bottles; one a Valpolicella the other a Chianti. I opted for the Valpolicella. The twist is, he opens the bottle and leaves it on your table, but you only pay for what you drink – one glass, ½ a bottle, the whole thing. The charcuterie was very high quality; the Valpolicella was just OK. So, when he came back, I asked him what his second choice was and he told me a little more about the Chianti. It was from 2003 and should have been past its prime, but it wasn’t. He let me taste, and it was sublime. When he left me with the bottle, the couple that had taken the table next to me struck up a conversation. They were Danish and that conversation lasted well over an hour and was extremely interesting. Moments like these remind me why I enjoy traveling so much. It was a great evening.