"You wouldn’t get this sort of hospitality in Kinsale, would you?", dad joked, prouder that he’d beaten me to the now regular reminder of that unplanned, late February weekend in Kinsale, than he was of the humour itself.
After being bedridden for almost two weeks with a virus (yes,
the v word) from hell and unable to travel to England for a cross country race
as planned, I made a last-minute decision to take the parents to Cork and meet
up with some friends.
Such rash, last-minute plans, well outside tourist season,
left us with zero choice in way of accommodation; we took the last room in
town. 'Reasonably priced family room.' 'Central location.' 'Harbour view.' What
could possibly go wrong?
After travelling across the south of the country with no
great hurry on us, we arrived in Kinsale as the light was beginning to fade. We
briefly stopped by the guest house and I ran in to pick up the key – we weren’t
going to waste time on idle chitchat, though it later transpired that the
landlady had a similar minimalist approach to her hosting duties – and we set
about exploring the sites of the area. Not for the last time that weekend, we
travelled all the back roads, this time via James Fort and Sandycove to windswept Old
Head.
With a strong family principle of never returning the same
way as we came, we took the only other road off the peninsula and returned to
Kinsale via Ballinaspidal and its once-famous grotto. Exhausted from the day’s
travels, it was difficult to conceive how busloads of Catholics, considerably
more committed than ourselves, once made the 400-kilomtere round-trip from
Wexford on a weekly basis and maintained a thriving local economy focused on
moving statues and the like.
Drive-by pilgrimage complete, we headed to Dinos for a fish and
chip supper. “The Irish don't play games with their potatoes”, one reviewer had commented online. “Their fish and chips are the bomb.com!” I need say no more.
With bellies almost full, and dessert procured from the
Centra across the road, we retired to our room-for-three to unwind.
Plans to enjoy aforementioned baked goods in a cosy room
with a warm cup of tea were, however, overly optimistic.
Not only was the room cold – read ‘Baltic’ – but we couldn’t
find the kettle. The heating, it seemed, had just been turned on, possibly for
the first time in months, so there was nothing to it but to climb beneath the
sheets, turn on the telly, and wait it out.
Only the telly didn’t work either.
I’m not sure who commented first, but
I’m glad, convalescent and all that I was, that I wasn’t the only one to notice
that the bed sheets were damp! The radiator – groaning to life as it was –
wasn’t going to be enough to sort out this mess. I could only hope that the clothes I’d left
on to keep me warm would also help keep me dry.
***
Thanks to body heat alone, we survived. And headed down to
breakfast with misplaced confidence that things couldn’t get any worse.
When the Weetabix wrapper, my cereal of choice, didn’t have
its usual crunchy feel to it, I quickly opted for the cornflakes, or own-brand
alternative thereof. Unfortunately the lifeless flakes were already in the bowl
by the time I realised they too were a relic of tourist seasons past.
“Excuse me, can we have some more orange juice, please?”, I
called after the landlady, attempting to procure for Dad some more of the one
consumable item we’d been carefully rationed.
“You can have this”, one of the guests at the table behind
us declared, filling the hesitant void which represented not so much a refusal
as a non-starter on the behalf of our host. “Our friend won’t be making it down
for breakfast.” Either he’d been forewarned, or he was quite partial to Kinsale’s
version of the waterbed!
“Grand” the proprietor declared, picking the glass of this apparently
valuable commodity and placing it in front of Dad.
The small victory, however, soon turned as sour as the milk
in our bowls, as our disbelieving eyes followed her towards the kitchen with
the remains of the half glass dad had earlier managed to barter from mam.
This was hospitality to make Basil Faulty blush.
***
There was a collective sigh of relief as we made it out to
the car, and set out on another day of adventure. I spent the following hours
taking finish-line photos of the hundreds of runners, walkers and strollers who
had completed the Kinsale 10 Mile – a race which my friend organises –
consuming triangular sandwiches, and entertaining her twin girls. There was
even tea, in Styrofoam cups, dispensed from a Burco boiler!
The parents, well and truly infected with the adventurers’
bug, headed to Galley Head, and took in all that the initial miles of the Wild
Atlantic Way has to offer.
Following our reunion later that afternoon, we said our
goodbyes to the Breens and O'Donoghues, and looked forward to all the athletics events
we’d see them at over the summer.
We took the High Road out of Kinsale, through the narrow
streets of Summercove, before stopping by Charles’ Fort. The unwritten rules
for such journeys are that mam drives where she’s told, I, with a couple of
maps on my lap, choose the route, and dad, with prime view from the passenger
seat, comments on the relative abundance or lack of sheep, cattle, and tillage
in each of the townlands we encounter.
And that afternoon there were plenty of directions given and
received, and much farmland to be commented on. Bellgooley, Ballyfeard, Meane
Bridge, Carrigaline. It’s as if we knew it would be a while until we could do
it all again. Passage West, and the bypassing of the daunting Jack Lynch
tunnel, was a highlight for our driver, as we took the ferry across the River
Lee. We headed back to the mainland past Fota Island, and resolved to return to
visit Cobh in the summer. We all agreed that these trips were going to become a
more regular feature in our lives.
***
Two weeks later, the world stopped.
It’s likely that in years to come time will be referred to as either BC – before Covid – or AD: after dat!
But for us, that weekend in Kinsale changed everything, forever.
We were reminded that the good life isn’t all about
meticulously planned vacations, luxury accommodation, and gourmet meals.
It’s about seizing every moment and ringing it for
everything it’s worth.
Just a shame someone didn’t do that with the bedsheets!
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