8: Hang Loose in Ireland
1991 Waterville Golf & Drive around Ring of Kerry
July 30-Aug. 11, 1991
Updated July 20, 2009
By LEWIS NOLAN
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Friday, Aug. 9, 1991 – (Betty’s account)
I got up at 6:30 a.m. to allow myself
time to dress before making breakfast and leaving for Waterville.
After breakfast in our rented cottage at
Lakeland Cottages just outside of Killarney, we left about 8 a.m. for the
Waterville Golf Course and the drive around Ireland’s famous Ring of Kerry. We
drove counterclockwise, taking the east side first. We enjoyed the foggy, misty
views of the Atlantic Ocean. We had hoped that it would be sunny, but we
quickly learned that you have to take Ireland’s damp and cool weather as it is.
We arrived in Waterville earlier than
planned, at 9:35 a.m., and the golf course management allowed Buzz and Casey to
tee off early. As they started their half-day of play, I went into town to see
if there was anything there to occupy me for four and a half hours. There
wasn’t. And it was misty and rainy outside. So I came back to the clubhouse to
read and stay dry. After taking a few pictures of Buzz, Casey and Dominic
(Buzz’s 14-year-old caddy), I retired to the restaurant and lounge.
I met a very nice Irish mother and her
three sons. Her name was Kathy O’Callahan and her
sons were Philip, 10, Ronen, 8, and Frank, 5. They live in the midlands of
Ireland and are on holiday near here.
There were quite a few French people
staying at the new Club Med on the other side of Waterville. A few Americans
were present among the many Irish who came to play the Waterville links.
Buzz, Casey and Dominic came in to the
clubhouse to have a drink and a snack at the end of the first nine holes. All
but Dominic, who had on a rain suit, were wet due to the constant mist and fog.
They are not shooting well. But they may never get the opportunity to play this
course again so they are going back out in the rain to finish the round.
Friday, Aug. 9, 1991 – (Buzz’s account)
It was a long and somewhat disappointing
day. We drove around the 110-mile Ring of Kerry, but light rain and heavy fog
along the coast and at the mountain tops obscured many views.
We played the famous Waterville golf
course, which is rightfully called “the monster.” Many of the Par 4’s were over
400 yards long and I didn’t make a single GIR (green in regulation), nor even a
par. I think my final score was a horrific 114, a dismal performance that was
not at all helped by a stiff back and sore arms from cycling the previous day.
Casey also had a bad round, but at least
he made three pars. The course had spectacular ocean views from atop the
beachside dunes. A tidal race showed a huge expanse of sand at low tide. The
fairways were often extremely tight and all the Par 3’s had expanses of
knee-high grass between the tee and the short grass around the green. If the
ball wasn’t hit either on or just barely off the green, it was lost.
Each hole had a name. There is a
fascinating story behind the “Mass Hole.” There is a metal plaque marking the
pit-like depression amid the dunes, which was used by priests to celebrate Mass
in the 1700s, during a dark period in Irish history when the ruling English tried
to totally break the subjugated Irish by denying them their religious life.
Celebrating Mass was a crime punishable by death. The “Mass hole” was used by
the Irish in the area because they could worship there out of the sight of the
feared and hated English.
When the Waterville course was designed,
the Mass Hole was planned to be incorporated into a green. However, the workmen
said it was a sacred site and they refused to continue construction. A
compromise was struck, resulting in the Mass Hole lying undisturbed and the
green being moved a few yards.
As it worked out, I hit a fat iron off
the tee and put my ball squarely into the Mass Hole, where I was finally able
to blast out with a high wedge shot up to the green 40 or so feet above me.
We had a fine lunch at the clubhouse (of
course I had fresh salmon), We bought some souvenir
golf towels and then pushed in the rented Renault around the rest of the Ring
of Kerry. We couldn’t see much and by the time we got back to our cottage in
Killarney we were all cranky. After some dispute, we ate in and spent the
evening getting ready to check out in the morning. It’s been a hassle today and
I’m sorry to see our last full day in Ireland end so unsatisfactorily.
Sunday, Aug. 11, 1991 – (Buzz’s account)
We drove from Killarney to Rathkeale
yesterday, where we found a non-touristy, working-class slice of Ireland. It is
the site of a “quaint” hotel mentioned in a guidebook we consulted back in the
tourist office in Killarney, so we took two rooms. Happily, we found that the
place really isn’t too bad even though it is inexpensive – 15 Irish Pounds per
person, including breakfast. The owner, Gerry Fitzgerald, is a pleasant fellow
who owns 27 racing greyhound dogs. (Ironically, many years later the Nolans acquired the first of their retired racing
greyhounds, who proved to be wonderful pets.)
During the drive to Rathkeale, we
happened upon some men with leashed greyhounds walking alongside the road near
Limerick. We stopped to take a picture and were told that time trials were
being conducted nearby, so we went to have a look. Could those dogs ever run!
They chased after a motorized, stuffed rabbit mounted on a rail that circled
the track, which was a quarter-mile long or so. It was a drizzly day but that
didn’t slow down the dogs or us.
Later, I was told that in some rural areas
they use live rabbits to spark the best runs out of the greyhound dogs. The
rabbits are given a head start and almost all are quick enough to scamper into a
safe area before the frantic dogs can catch them. Hearing that, I thought at
the time that the animal rights activitists back home
would go crazy. (I had occasional dealings with some of the most zealous of the
activists who would publicly wear rabbit costumes and march protest over
Schering-Plough’s occasional use of rabbits in carefully controlled
circumstances for drug testing.)
We poked around Rathkeale, which doesn’t
have much to offer tourists other than the ruins of a medieval Augustinian
priory and a tower castle. We had lunch in a pub populated by some
tough-looking young men, who were probably “on the dole,” the Irish term for a
combination unemployment insurance/welfare system that provides basic
sustenance for 20 percent of Ireland’s population. No wonder wages are so low
here and out-migration so high.
We then headed north for an excursion to
Adare, site of a medieval church and abbey, and some picturesque restaurants
and thatch-roof shoots and dwellings. Casey declined a chance to play golf on a
course by a ruin and we pushed on to Bunratty, site of a fine castle from the
15th Century and a reconstructed folk village that draws a lot of
tourists. The village featured a half-dozen transplanted 19th
Century cottages from various parts of Ireland. They ranged from a simple,
one-room hovel that housed a tenant farmer up to a spacious, story-and-a-half
cottage with a tile floor and lots of heavy furniture once owned by a
prosperous farming family.
We were told that it was common for 12 or
13 children to sleep on the floors of these cottages in the 19th
Century. I believe it likely that my great-grandfather John Nolan was raised in
a cottage like one of the ones that have been preserved in Bunratty. The folk
village was nicely done and I would recommend it to anybody in the vicinity,
which is not far from the Shannon airport.
We ate soup and fancy sandwiches at the
Arches Restaurant in Adare and listened there to the recorded music of Memphian
Elvis and another great rock-n-roller from our hometown, Jerry Lee Lewis. It
was a terrific place for us expatriates.
Back in the hotel in Rathkeale, we
watched the two channels on the lounge TV and had drinks. A man at the bar told
me about the “Travelers,” an indigenous population of Gypsy-like Irish, who live
in skuzzy travel trailers parked alongside the road and make their living by
their wits. I was told they will not rob anybody, but they will cheat and
connive to beat the system at every opportunity. A branch of the
self-sufficient, sustaining Travelers are based in Rathkeale, probably the
source of some pushy, raggedy children who swarmed as at the Augustinian ruin,
begging and wanting to pose for photos for pay. That was the only time during
our trip to Ireland that we saw anything distasteful; however, we also
encountered begging children in Dublin five years earlier, whom we had luckily
been warned were probably pickpockets trained by their Traveler parents.
The hotel bar was a social center in
Rathkeale and several families came in to drink and watch TV. An older man
peddling IRA (Irish Republican Army) newspapers worked the crowd. I bought one,
as did a local man at the bar, suggesting to me that the IRA is still alive or
at least has sympathizers in Rathkeale.
The publication was called An Phoblacht Republican News and claimed to be the biggest
selling, political weekly in Ireland. Sample headlines:
These stories were covered in a way that
Ireland and the conflict with Great Britain is never
covered in the U.S. The advocacy stories seemed generally well-written to this
former newspaperman (I served as Business Editor of the Scripps-Howard chain’s
newspaper in Memphis, The Commercial Appeal, and as a regional stringer for The
Wall Street Journal untiI I made a career change in
favor of corporate communications in 1984). But I didn’t have enough background
on Ireland’s current affairs to separate the truth from the propaganda. I did
wonder about one page of the newspaper being entirely in Irish Gaelic and a
listing of various protest events around the country and at the U.S. Embassy as
hardly being non-partisan.
The tabloid paper also contained a
recruitment coupon for Sinn Fein, the above-ground political arm of the IRA,
which says the party is “dedicated to forcing a British withdrawal from the
occupied Six Counties, the re-unification of our country and the establishment
of a democratic socialist republic.”
Monday, Aug. 11, 1991 - (Buzz’s account)
We’re airborne somewhere over the
Atlantic Ocean and on the way home. We departed the hotel at Rathkeale,
Ireland, at 9:15 a.m. this morning and had a leisurely drive to Shannon
Airport, where going through the VAT (Value Added Tax) refund procedure was
more of a hassle than it should have been. (Several months later, Betty got a
check for $15 or $20, refunding a portion of the taxes paid on several sweaters
and other purchases made in Ireland.)
The Air Lingus jet took off 30 minutes
later for the 6-and-a-half hour flight to New York’s Kennedy Airport. It was a
full plane. The Irish stewardesses seem much more accommodating to young
children than do their American counterparts, possibly because they are accustomed to big Irish families and the
teachings of the Roman Catholic Church. The Irish flight attendants seem to be
generally pretty and younger than those we normally see on American airline
flights. They speak in soft Irish brogues and are altogether charming.
The plane was equipped with
“baby boxes,” specially made cardboard boxes that can fit onto special folding
shelves on the interior bulkheads. Parents carrying infants on their laps are
seated in the front rows of each compartment so they can have the free use of
the shelves for baby naps and changings. It seemed to
us to be a very nice touch for traveling families that we’ve seen on no other
airline.
As the plane climbed and
flew westward over the blue water and white surf of the Irish coast, I
reflected on my impressions of Ireland and its wonderful people. What I saw and
experienced has given me a much greater appreciation of their character and
customs. Some observations about a few of the people I haven’t dwelt upon
earlier in this travelogue, but who helped form my new insights, follow:
Those
Irish citizens and others we had fleeting contacts with made for a wonderful
trip.
Monday, Aug. 11, 1991 – (Casey’s account)
As
I sit in the airplane seat on my way back home I am attempting to gather my
thoughts and impressions on this journey to Ireland. The first thing that pops
into my mind is all the golf I have gotten to play. I realize now that I have
played on three of the finest golf courses in the world.
I
hope to always remember the very last hole played in Ireland, on No. 18 at the
tough Waterville course. I courageously decided to play this monstrous,
582-year Par 5 hole from the Blue Tees (reserved at most courses for
long-hitting, skilled men). After hitting a mulish drive, I hit a mediocre
three-wood, leaving me 175 yards from the hole. After muffing a three-iron, I
stuck my next shot on the green with my eight-iron, about 10 or 12 feet from
the hole. I then tapped in the putt for par.
I
will also remember how warm and friendly the Irish people are. There were many
times the Irish would treat my father as a close friend as he asked for
directions. And now I come to think of Mary Foley. Not having ever met anyone
in our family, she treated us as her own family – always talking to us, serving
us a homemade meal and giving us a gift.
Now
my thoughts turn to driving in Ireland. I found it remarkable that we did not
see any wrecks. Even though all the cars are small, the streets are as narrow
as the alleys back home. Instead of roads going from one city to the next in a
straight line as at home, their roads tend to go around hills and blend in with
the contours of the land. I can understand why a person cannot have a driver’s
license in Ireland at the age of 16, as we can in Tennessee. This has been an
enjoyable trip.
Saturday, Aug. 10, 1991 – (Betty’s
account)
We
got up and had our Irish breakfast of Irish back bacon (similar to Canadian
bacon), toast, pastries from a bakery and juice. We put our luggage that had
been packed Friday night into the rental car, washed dishes and paid Mr. Brian
O’Shea for the utilities we had used in the rental cottage. We were then off to
Rathkeale. We found that Rathkeale, where we were to spend out last night in
Ireland, was a small village of regular Irish folk – not tourists. We went on
from there to Adare to see the sights.
In
Adare there was an old Abbey we visited and we also saw the Adare Manor House
and church. We decided to drive to Bunratty and visit the castle and folk
village there.
The
castle at Bunratty was interesting, but very tight in its tiny, winding stairs
(designed for defense against attackers, not tourist egress and ingress). The
Irish don’t seem to be as organized in these kinds of things as are the
British. It would have made sense to have different entrances and exits to
avoid backlogs of people trying to get in and out of the same small door and up
and down the tight stairs at the same time. I don’t believe I would have
enjoyed living in such as castle, even as a queen.
The
folk village was very interesting, with people doing things in the cottages
similar to that demonstrated in the Ozark Folk Center in Mountain View,
Arkansas, back home. The cottages were very small. We learned that they had 12
or 13 children in a family over a century ago and they still lived in a one or
two-bedroom, stone, thatched roof cottage. Similar cottages to those on display
seem to have been in use throughout the portions of Ireland we have seen. One
lady from a rural area said her neighbors only got electricity last year.
Perhaps
Buzz’s great-grandfather (John Nolan) grew up in a cottage like one of these
before he came to
America in 1843. If I had grown up in such a crowded, primitive
cottage as these, I would have wanted to leave also.
Two
ladies were making demonstration apple pies in one of the larger cottages,
using a wood-burning stove and methods in practice 100 years ago. The pies
smelled good. Peat, or turf as they call it, provided
heat for the cottages. We burned pressed peat to take the chill out of our
rented cottage back in Killarney.
There
was a re-created village at Bunratty that included a pub, where we stopped to
have tea and drinks. An Irish lady said her young son had landed in Memphis the
previous Friday, on his way to Mississippi State University in Starkville where
he was going to teach American history. He has an assistantship to work on a master of arts degree. Small world, but that is where Buzz
graduated with a bachelor of arts in English and History in 1967. She was
inquisitive as to how her son would be accepted. I tried to assure her that we
Southerners are warm, outgoing and very hospitable, much like the Irish.
We
went back toward Rathkeale for the evening, but stopped to eat dinner at The
Arches Restaurant in Adare. Adare is a very old, touristy village. The
restaurant was new but had wonderful homemade soup and desserts out of this
world!
At
Rathkeale we retired to the communal TV lounge for drinks and Irish television
programming, which includes some American re-runs.
After going to bed early, we could hear the hum of chatter below in the bar
since Irish people seem to socialize in the pubs and bars and definitely stay
up late.
Sunday, Aug. 11, 1991 – (Betty’s
account)
We
got up earlier than planned and had the Irish breakfast that was included in
the price of our stay at the hotel. We then left for the drive to Shannon and
the airport.
We
went through the routine of VAT (Value Added Tax) tax refund paperwork, which
definitely is not worth the trouble. We shopped for gifts in the duty free shop
and at last went through immigration to board the plane.
On
Aer Lingus, it seems the flight attendants all have some shade of blue eyes and
are very nice. They even got a special cardboard box and lined it with a wood
tweed blanket for the baby on the aisle seat across from us. The Catholic faith
of the Irish resulting in many children and kindness toward little ones was
evident in all the attendants.
The
meal on the flight home was better than most we’ve had on domestic flights. Or
maybe I was more hungry since I’d not eaten since 8:30
a.m.
We
are on our journey to New York from Ireland and hopefully we’ll make our
connection in New York to get home tonight (the connecting flight to Nashville
was already boarding by the time we got to the gate, but we made it to Memphis
on time.)
This
has been a great trip. The Irish people are friendly, the country is beautiful
and the flowers, especially the roses, are beautiful. I would not mind coming
back again. Renting a cottage was really the way to go and a car is a
necessity.
January 19, 1992 – (Buzz’s account)
That
concludes the Nolan family’s travel journal from our grand trip to Ireland in
August, 1991.
Six
months later, I’ve done all the follow-up I’d intended. I’ve written all the
Nolan’s listed in the phone directory for Athlone, a source of much Nolan
family history verbally handed down the generations. I was pleased to hear back
from some of them, whose comments were incorporated into my book, “Nolan-Miller
Family History” published later. But I’ve yet to definitely locate my
great-grandfather, John Nolan, and his family to a precise location in Ireland.
Of
course, that’s all the more reason for yet another trip to this beautiful and
magical land.
Continue with Part 1, Flights
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