Cork in Photo

Feet

Walking to the gym this morning in the early afternoon, before the inevitable afternoon downpour and after the mid-morning chill, I felt as if I could walk forever. It is not a new feeling, but it seems more poignant now that I have faith in my own two feet.

I have always been slightly self-conscious about my feet, and on the whole I do not trust them much. I like the way they look, with their high arches, proportioned toes and pink nail polish, but they tend to flop when I walk like silly appendages, the left ankle rolling grossly as I trudge down the street. I am only truly comfortable when walking in bare feet, and that is a rare thing here.

But in the last five months I have learned to walk like I have never walked before. I have taken the walk to school as a normality, down damp paths in the morning or to the café in the afternoon. The walk back from the pub has become a mere trifle, tapping the stone in heels. I have gotten used to carrying my weekly groceries back from Tesco and the Market, familiar brass plaques lying under my Converse. But more than this, I learned that I can walk. That when all else fails, I am never stuck anywhere. Distance is relative, (and the distances I have walked have been long indeed) but I have learned to walk the kilometers without fail, to continue with no thought to how far, simply knowing that I will get there. I can walk. My mobility is never compromised.

In the states I am reliant on a car, my feet placed safely on the gas and brake, never forced to move much in order to go far, but to walk is a whole new discovery. This movement is a whole body experience, a sense of complete self, independent and integrated. No frame separates you from the world and no machine leaves you to be let down. Most mornings I feel I could walk forever, around the country and back to this wonderful city, and that I need nothing but my feet and my legs going on at my own pace; an off-centered gait that may not be economical, but it gets me there all the same.

The night outside Kerry airport I took to my feet in the same way I found my way through the streets of Dublin and Edinburgh and Rome. To walk, to walk to the bus station with a pack of all your possessions on your back, or simply to the gym with a towel, it is a state of perfect independence. You are walking on your own two feet! The world cannot stop you!

And I have come to love it. The days I do not walk are marked by restlessness, a supreme feeling of waste and dissatisfaction. I have even come to love my trod; slow, but more observant. There is more time to take in the birds on the Lee or the purple flowers that cling to stone fences along College Avenue. I see the world when I walk, I see it in its own time, coming and going as it does, as I do. To walk is a feeling of freedom nothing can match. I can walk the world if I wish.

I Corcaigh in éineacht le Muintir

I received a phone call around 2.00pm, which in itself was strange since I usually get text messages rather than actual calls, to find that my parents were already lost in Cork, standing outside the Waterstone’s on Patrick Street borrowing someone’s cell phone in order to contact me. I lugged on my shoes and headed out to greet them for the first time in three months. Really, not much had changed, but I had forgotten mom’s penchant for wearing fleece jackets and dad’s grey beard.

It had been a long drive from Dublin airport that morning and hard time finding me, much less their B&B, so we found the car parked over Tesco and went in search of the small, but comfortable B&B by the train station where my parents had a room. After a much needed nap (on all sides) we finally received a call from Barbara and David who had arrived in Cork as well, after an extra night in Dingle.

We met for dinner at a place called Bully’s by the Tesco- an area ripe with small café’s and restaurants that I have to admit I have rarely explored. It was a pleasant meal as we planned the next day, repeat with Cork’s most famous sights.

In truth, Cork’s not a very touristy city, and I like this about it. Whereas in Dublin tourist busses and people with cameras are a common sight, in Cork there’s not much more than the Beamish & Crawford Brewery (which was not open for tours yet) or the Butter Museum (yes, it does exist.) So we went up to see the UCC campus, fresh and green in the coming spring, and all the things contained therein; the Honan Chapel’s famous mosaic floors and the Gluckman Gallery’s newest exhibition, the quad and the seal and the Ogham Stones that line the hall of the Alus Maximus.

Afterwards we drove back into the city to see the English Market and buy loaves of fresh bread and scones and eat lunch at the FarmGate, a café situated over on a terrace, overlooking the market fountain. It was a good meal, but to top it off I decided to show then O’Conaill Chocolatier- famous around Cork for their supurb melted hot chocolate (my favorite being the dark chocolate) complete with little chocolate-pieces and enough to fill you up even if you haven’t just eaten a full lunch. Gourmet dessert in a glass.

After an afternoon nap around the apartment, and a though cleaning of the kitchen by mom, we ate that evening at the Boqureia, a trendy little tapas place over the north river. While the seating was minimal, the wine was good, as was the food, salmon tartar and all. After dinner we took to find a pub where we could continue the evening, eventually wandering into a place a bit down the road for a final drink before we parted to get some sleep, ready for tomorrow’s journey.

While Barbara and David’s trip was over, mom and dad’s had just begun. The journey up to Galway took me back past the Cliffs of Moher and Poulnabrone on the Burren, this time the day being warm and sunny. From there we wound up to Galway where we stopped at our next B&B before heading out to dinner. It was amazing how much of the city I remembered after merely a weekend there three months before, but at the same time I had walked much of the city, again and again, and in the coming spring it was brighter, but still very much the same.

Flowers blooming at the Cliffs of Moher.

We took time in Galway to tour the Connemara, stopping at Kylemore Abbey along the way. The country was greener in the spring, although still holding on to visages of brown grass on the hillsides. At the abbey the gardens were now open, and while the plants weren’t yet at peak, it still had spots of color, the brick walls enclosing the perfectly planned grounds while beyond the mountains rose to the sky, overcast but not raining. I love the Victorian atmosphere of Kylemore, and while the glass houses are no longer standing the gardens retain much of that style. Grandiose and styled.

Purple lantern flowers at Kylemore Gardens.

We wound back around the Connemara, seeing the country, around the Twelve Bens, and back to Galway. It’s really an all-day trip, but when we returned we took a drive around the city square and went for dinner at a pub/restaurant near the shopping corner, where the same pedal-cars were available for hire as in February, and minimal crowds hung around the doors to pubs in the usual haze of cigarette-smoke and conversation. It is things like this that I will miss most about Ireland.

The next day was spent cutting across the Irish interior on the way to Dublin. New highways are a fine addition to the Irish infrastructure, but they are few and far-between, so small roads showed us the way, with minor stops to see if any of a number of minor Irish castles were open since mom had never been in one before. We stopped at two, but were out of luck thanks once again to the unopened tourist season, and while seeing them from outside was beautiful, it was not the full castle experience.

Around 2.00 we rolled into Dublin, which is quite frankly a small city all things considered- smaller even than Baltimore- but still the largest in Ireland and full of traffic. Passing the Guinness Brewery, we pulled up to the bus station I remembered so well from my previous weekend there. Managing to catch the 2.00 bus, I said goodbye to my parents and wished them well on their final two days in the country, touring Dublin city, while I took the four-hour ride back to Cork to prepare for my upcoming journey to the Continent.

Fishmongers

The English Market is deserving of its own entry, and here it is. This open-air market is wedged between a number of larger buildings in downtown Cork. There must be four or five different entrances and in order to get to there it seems you either have to know where it is or be willing to walk into strange alleyways of your own volition. Either way, you end up in a place that is neither indoors nor outdoors, crammed with people and foods and buying and selling. It has most everything, including a number of stalls selling fresh meats and vegetables, eggs, cheeses, herbs, vinegars- an olive bar- chocolates, wine, and fresh baked bread loaves for as little as 2 euro.

It’s like a place you read about in British Victorian novels, and sometimes I feel like I should round a corner and find a kitschy fortuneteller’s stall and some old woman inside. It by far beats the Tesco in price, freshness, and interest, that’s for sure. This is where I get my fruits and vegetables, bread, and the trout I bought for dinner.

The fish stalls must be the most interesting for me. At first I couldn’t find them, sitting on the far side of the market as they were, the fish laid out whole and fresh. Octopus, squid, whole shrimp line the open display and as I choose a fish I saw it laid out, gutted and filleted right before me- guaranteed fresh.

It’s always an experience, the English Market, and even today I found a hitherto unseen flower stall and a girl taking pictures. One day I’ll remember my camera too, it’s maybe the best place in Cork for photo opportunities.