KILKENNY KNIGHTS…DUBLIN DAZE

I did not go gently into this trip to Ireland; there were miles of worry before I left. On the final day I had to decide whether to go or not, I saw a quote from 92 year-old Willie Nelson on how he came to the fine art of not worrying.  An art lost on me. This led to another admonishment from my younger son that I should go and stop worrying. He did point out that he understood that I couldn’t help worrying, because women are more emotional and more prone to worry, whereas men are more logical and so don’t worry much. Like it or not, I couldn’t argue with that. I tell him, though, you weren’t raised like me. Not worrying feels selfish. He convinced me anyway and so I shifted my worry to what I would miss should I stay home instead.

The plane ride to Boston gifted me a with a three-hour conversation with a 26 year-old guy named Guy from Israel here on a work visa. He had just discovered Ayn Rand. We covered so much ground; reading and literature and a bit of religion but not too much politics. It was the kind of conversation you can only have when it begins with the examination of Atlas Shrugged.  He liked most of it, but didn’t agree with it all. It brought me back to the time when I first encountered Miss Rand. I was just a bit younger than he was. Now this memory of mine couldn’t quote you a sentence from that book, but the feeling of how it shaped me in some way all those decades ago surfaced quite nicely.  He told me all about his life and his lady, as he called her, whom he followed to Hollywood so she could pursue her artistic director dreams. 

When I apologized for the third time for my exuberance at jumping in with my own thoughts before he finished a sentence, he laughed and gave me this. He said that most people just listen and then respond with perfunctory things like a nod or an agreeable ‘yes’ sound. He observed that my mind does something rare; it listens and analyzes what’s being said at the same time and so it can’t help but put forth the response as soon as it’s done, conversational pause be damned. He told me not to stop doing this, he welcomed it.  This was a far cry from the looks of irritation I usually get when I do that.  Now that’s a perspective I had not boarded the plane with. This young man, in a world where we label these kids as something they may or may not be, was just a breath of fresh HEPA-filtered air in the plane that night. We exchanged numbers that will never be used, as travelers are want to do in the midst of a shared pleasurable experience. 

I hopped the train from Dublin’s Heuston station for the ninety-minute ride to Kilkenny with a musical send off by a lad playing a wildly decorated piano in the middle of the station that said “Music can take you anywhere”. A fine find for any traveler who wanted to have a bit of the busk before boarding. Kilkenny had been tugging at my soul since a trip back in 2020 to see Bob Dylan and Neil Young play their Sports Arena had to be aborted for pandemic reasons. Now another concert tugged at me; the 25 year-old Kilkenny Americana Roots Festival. Kilkenny is a beautiful little city, steeped in history and drenched in music from the many pubs and venues that line its cobblestoned streets. A stroll through city centre that first night took me to a place called Rafters for dinner. I sat at the bar with a plate of fish and chips (something I never order in the States, but can’t get enough of in Ireland) and waited for the 10pm band to start. Dark Guinness-like beer has never been palatable to me, so the barmaid chose me a local brewer’s beer called Smithwick’s Red Ale. It also happened to be the music festival’s sponsor. This beer was so damn good, I even learned to call it a Smithy, like the locals, for the next umpteen times I ordered it. The band was good; the food and drink even better.  Kilkenny at midnight is like most cities at 5pm, a rush hour of revelers of all ages pouring in and out of all those pubs and clubs, with music seeping forth. Back at my hotel, I heard some music coming from the bar and stopped in for a whiskey sour nightcap and listened to this talented gent on guitar and harmonica and then called it a Kilkenny night!

Sunday morning, I ventured out to centuries old Saint Canice Cathedral and Cemetery. As crowded as the streets were last night, that’s how empty they were this morning. Not a soul in sight at 8am. I took my battered knees up the concrete steps and meandered around this beautiful ancient cemetery. A man pulled up in a car and I asked if the church was open. He said it would be soon for Mass and to come on in. The Cathedral was filled with effigy tombs dating back near five hundred years. He told me a story about two of them, Piers Butler and his wife Margaret Fitzgerald, buried there in the 16^th century. He said the couple had the tombs commissioned before they died, as they didn’t trust their offspring to spend their inheritance on something so elaborate. Then he handed me a prayer book and said Mass was about to begin. Now I confess (something not done in decades) that I had not been to one in as many years as it took to be a lapsed Catholic. The pews were far from the altar so they had set up two rows of five chairs facing each other in front of it. My presence made us nine at Mass that morning. There was no up and down kneeling or shaking of peaceful hands like the services we have in the States. A few standing and sitting prompts was all. The service was done in such lovely language. God didn’t speak here, He spake and Jesus didn’t sit, He sitteth at the right hand of God. When it came time for Communion, instead of lining up, one of the men just added an extra-large cushion at the front of the alter and all eight of them got up in unison and knelt. I contemplated going, but thought better of it. Not because I hadn’t seen the inside of a confessional for four decades, but rather because my knees absolutely refuse to kneel. It’s akin to genuflecting on broken glass. I’ve always had a theory, anyway, that God couldn’t care less about what you did last summer with the neighbor’s husband and that confession was created by priests just to get the good village gossip.

I had shared with Michael, my new ad hoc tour guide, the story of the Jesse Malin concert I was there to see that night. What better place to tell the story of a miracle than in church. Two years ago, Jesse was stricken with a rare back stroke that left him paralyzed from the waist down. Two years of the most incredible will and determination and Argentinian treatment led him back to the stage for the first time in New York this past December and now to a stage at the Kilkenny Roots Festival. I was just as determined to see him back on the stage. Michael was intrigued by the story and so I asked him if he would like to go to the show. I had an extra ticket, because my usual modus operandi is to buy tickets and ask questions later as to who would go with me. It turned out that this time it was none of my usual travelers, hence the solo trip. Michael was a bit hesitant when he heard about the 10pm start of the show. After Mass, he tells me that maybe Father Pete would like to go, he loves music. But then again, who in Kilkenny doesn’t?  Father Pete came out to give Michael some closing up instructions and he introduced me, but said nothing about the concert. After the priest left, I looked perplexed and Michael says, “I want to come to the show. I’m going to ask my wife if I can go.” I chuckled and thought, I’m sure that conversation will go something like, “Are you out of your feckin’ mind, Mikey, me boy! She could be some pro-choicer Democratic for heaven’s sake!” Well at least she didn’t have to worry about me breaking the coveting commandment. Lovely man, but not enough great hair for that. We exchanged numbers and off I went for a much too hearty breakfast in a totally empty bistro and then a stroll along the beautiful River Nore. 

The Roots festival is set up with about 14 headliners at various venues throughout the city plus a host of local bands. I had sampled all of them and found two that I could stand to listen to for an hour. That led me to see a band called the Breeze at Billy Byrnes. The club had a host of people packed in front of the tiny stage with a door that led to an outdoor dining patio and bar. Not one to stand at any show anymore because my old knees just wouldn’t have it, I spent my listening time on the patio with a pint of Smithy’s. This crass consumerist American was quite taken aback by Ireland’s lack of selling you a souvenir at every turn. I so wanted one of the cute Kilkenny festival T-shirts the wait staff were wearing.  I inquired of one of the promoters who was sure they were being sold at Roller Coaster Records. The owner of Roller Coast Records was positive they had some at Ryan’s Bar, but by then I knew better.  All in all, the band was good, the beer even better and the souvenirs non-existent.

At 7:30, I had not heard from Michael, so I sent a text thanking him for the church tour and telling him I was sorry he couldn’t make it tonight. “O no,” he replied, “I’m coming to the concert. I just couldn’t find you on WhatsApp. See you at nine.” The Set Theatre attached to the gorgeous Langston’s Hotel did not disappoint. The area in front of the stage was standing only, so I had bought the seated balcony tickets instead. The venue holds about 400 people and includes two rows of seats in a u-shape above the stage. We snagged two on the aisle in the front row center. They also sell extra tickets for people to stand in the balcony behind the second row. It didn’t take long for people to sit on the steps next to me and everywhere else, blocking any attempt at a safe exit in case of a fire. It made me chuckle, that the land that spawned so many of our USA firemen, couldn’t be bothered with any type of fire code here! 

While we waited for the concert to begin, I came to find that Michael plays guitar and piano for his own musical benefit, not the public’s. He’s also a part time tour guide, hence the terrific tour I got of St. Canice’s. Michael also works on an organic farm part time and teaches English to the scores of Ukrainian refugees that Ireland took in since those new troubles began abroad. He offered to get us beverages, so I asked for a whiskey sour, forgetting that unless you are in a cocktail serving bar, they just aren’t done in pubs here. He came back instead with a shot of Jameson’s for me and a Guinness for himself. I don’t drink whisky straight and so he was kind enough to offer me his Guinness instead. Sorry, I don’t like Guinness, I say, to horrified looks from a few patrons nearby. Now the poor man had to schlep back and get me a proper beer and keep the Guinness and shot for himself. Quite a good sport my newfound Irish concert mate was!

The show began and the tears flowed. Jesse took the stage in a walker. He performed much of the show seated while playing guitar. Then he did the miracle thing, hoisting his paralyzed legs out of the chair and stood, yes, stood, at the mic for some of the songs. This night was so special to him you could feel it in every part of your listening being. He threw out the setlist and played non-stop for two solid hours. He told us the story, with humor and heart, of the night he lost the use of his legs two years ago this very night. What a show he gave us! It was just an extraordinary night of his musical talent and spirit. Michael was completely blown away by Jesse. Now it takes a leap of musical faith that no one but a few of my closest friends will take, to go to a concert of someone they never heard of, let alone listened to their music. What a delight it was for me to do this again here with a complete stranger. 

Michael left right after the last note and handed me a white taped up envelope. It contained a pamphlet that said Why Jesus, not a thank you card as I suspected. I guess this is the Catholic equivalent of one of those Jehovah witness pamphlets they are so fond of. I had stayed back to wait for Jesse to come out and sign autographs and take photos at the merch table. I had met Jesse twice in Los Angeles, first in a record store, being one of ten winners of a contest and the other time at the Hotel Café show when he invited the audience over to the main bar for a drink afterwards. During Jesse’s recuperation, an organization called Sweet Relief did a lot of fundraisers for his medical help. I bought the Jesse wine, the Silver Patrons album with a host of musical greats covering Jesse Songs and the 8×10 glossy of him and Bruce Springsteen who did a duet with him years ago on my favorite Jesse Song, Broken Radio. So having nothing to sign and having bought all of that merch, I handed Jesse the Why Jesus pamphlet, briefly telling him the story of his new found fan I brought that night. I told him this is all I got, you cost me a fortune already! He laughed and said, “Finally, someone with a sense of humor!”  And Jesse should know.  You simply cannot get through what he did without that special New York kind of comedy. What a magical musical night this was and so worth the trip over for it.

Monday, the last day in Kilkenny, took me to the magnificent Kilkenny Castle. Give me a castle, and I’m a happy princess. I proudly traversed all four flights of medieval staircases to see it all. I forgot about the Irish anti-souvenir stance and asked the guard at the Castle where the gift shop was and he looked at me aghast and said there isn’t one, of course. Then on to a quick stop at the, luckily for my poor tired legs, very small Medieval Museum in an old church dating back some 1400 years, which was just enthralling. I had some bands lined up for Monday, but my afternoon nap lasted longer than usual so I missed them. At about 6pm I decided to go see St. Mary’s Church instead. I walked about eight blocks or so from my hotel and then turned into a side street that put me in a neighborhood of row houses devoid of any people on the street whatsoever. When I came upon St. Mary’s, there was a pub across the street with two men standing outside smoking. I asked if the church was open. They told me where the entrance was and assured me it was. I went round to the back of the church only to be met by a priest who said they just locked it up for the night. What now?  The pub, Sean Byrnes or Sean O’Brion, had two signs on it sitting side by side as if the owner couldn’t make up his mind. I suspected it was a local pub with nothing but men coming in after work for a pint.  As I approached wondering if I should encroach, I heard music. Well, that settles it, doesn’t it? In I go to find those same two gents sitting at a table in the corner, each with a guitar in hand just playing away. I sat at the tiny bar with five stools and ordered a Smithy’s. The four locals at the end of the bar, drinking and singing along, kept staring at me. I was getting a little bit uncomfortable until I realized the TV set with the horserace on was hanging right behind my head. These two guys were just terrific. They announced a song as another one by “Townes”.  Now the only Townes I know is Van Zandt and the only song I know by him is Pancho and Lefty thanks to my musical friends, Andy and Renee who cover it. These two songs that I had never heard before were beautiful. Not one to mind my own musical business, I asked if they knew Pancho and Lefty. Too many lyrics, they said, unless I wanted to sing it. No, thank you, that would empty the bar and permanently damage your ears. When they broke into the Beatles’ When I’m 64, a lovely red-headed lady in an emerald green sleeveless gown and a tiara got down from her barstool and danced away. Turns out she was another local here celebrating that birthday! I stayed for two solid hours listening and clapping. They took a break, went out for a smoke and most of the bar went with them. I went to say thank you and goodbye and turns out they were down from Dublin staying with family near St Mary’s, as they had married two sisters from here. They just decided to spend their afternoon playing in the pub. One was in a band and he graciously gave me a CD and wouldn’t hear of payment. The only other couple in the bar were tourists who wandered in by chance like I did. We spent time on a long Irish goodbye complete with recommendations for a few music joints in Dublin and off I went. Another musically magical night, courtesy of Kilkenny!

Tuesday came and I was back on the train to Dublin for one last Irish night before the return home. The pretty countryside we roamed through was filled with farms and cows and sheep and not a city in sight!  My Dublin to-do list consisted of a visit to Oscar Wilde’s house, one of my favorite authors, and the National Gallery of Ireland recommended by my new concert mate, Michael. Oscar’s house was closed last time I was in Dublin, so a visit this time was in order. Next up and right down the street was the National Gallery. I didn’t know any Irish artists really, so this was a special treat to discover works by Jack B. Yeats, the poet’s dad. I don’t like to go to museums with other people usually. My method is to scan the gallery quickly and when my eye catches the few paintings I like, to look at those further. This doesn’t sit well with a companion who wants to stop and stare at every painting as if they were all good. 

On the walk up St. Stephens Green to the museums, a theater jumped out at me with the word “Gaiety” beautifully etched on an opaque glass marquee announcing a play called Myra’s Story.  The little wooden box office door was open, so in I went to see what was going on.  A happy chat with the chap and I had a ticket for that night’s performance in the eighth row of the orchestra on the aisle for forty bucks!! I asked him if it was a comedy or a depressing one, which with an Irish play is redundant, because it’s usually both!  It debuted at Edinburgh Fringe, went on to the West End in London and now it was touring here at the Gaiety Theatre for a week. Myra’s Story is a one woman play starring famous Irish stage actress, Fionna Hewitt-Twamle, and written by Brian Foster. It tells the story of how a 48 year-old woman becomes a homeless alcoholic living under the Ha’Penny bridge. The actress plays all of the 16 characters throughout her life that had a role in her now living under the bridge. It was one of the most extraordinary plays I have ever seen and I know a little something about that, as I spend more time than I should in a theater seat these days. We all have our own preconceptions on how the homeless become the homeless, but the perspective and insight this story gives you is one of those molecule rearranging moments. After the show, Fionna had us sit back down and gave us an impassioned donation speech as she was using the play as a fundraiser for a local charity doing God’s work here with their homeless.  This musical break for my other love, live theater, was the perfect ending to this trip.

Back to my hotel bar after the show for one last whiskey sour and I was a bit hungry. I asked the bartender to hold on to the drink while I run up the street for a slice of pizza at the only place that makes slices of pizza, Bambinos. The queue is ten people deep and the kid in front of me tells me this is nothing, the line is usually around the block. And lucky for me it was worth the wait, as it was a slice of perfect New York-like pizza. A night at the lovely Marlin hotel and off to the airport the next morning, but not without some contemplation about this trip.  Besides talking, thinking is my other most favorite thing to do.When we travel, as every Instagram post will tell you, we open our minds and hearts to fresh ideas and experiences and a little bit of the world we don’t get in our own backyards. The thing I found extraordinary in today’s tumultuous world is the reception we Americans are now receiving abroad. I had been to Dublin in 2023 and spent ten days in England in 2019. In 2019, the minute they heard our accents, the first thing they wanted to know was how the heck we ended up with this less than stellar leader. It was done with lightness and a bit of laughter. Our stock reply was, don’t look at us, we didn’t vote for him. From cab drivers to random strangers in bars, it was the usual exchange. In 2023, things were more relaxed, both in our government and in my exchanges abroad, so conversations were largely devoid of politics. This time was so different. First, not a one asked where I was from, then when I happened to mention I was from Los Angeles, they averted their eyes and simply changed the course of the conversation. After quite a few of these encounters, I suspected that it no longer mattered to them what lever you pulled in the last American election. They held us all responsible and rightly so.

At the top of my list of things I had worried about before taking this trip, was not the leaving of my precious pup and my offspring unattended with the hope that they could feed themselves, but rather of not going at all.  A solo trip at my age and circumstance is paramount now. I had been to Dublin a few years before for another concert and while it was great, I did faceplant at the show.  Luckily, this also led to a great seat in a box right next to the stage. But the November 2023 aborted trip to London, left me with the worry that flying solo would become a thing of my past. I caught a cold on the plane over and got even worse that night. Rather than tough it out, Delta Airlines did me no favors by allowing me to rebook my flight home the next day with a $100 discount. I’ve been on trips to Italy and New York since, but these really don’t count as family was waiting for me on the other end. My worry now was if I didn’t go on this trip to Kilkenny, I would be relegated to travelling only to those two destinations or only when I had a companion to go with me.  At my age, I certainly couldn’t wait for another life/travel companion to come along again. Let’s face it, the pickings are slim as one gets advanced in age and even slimmer when you have such a laundry list of ‘must haves’ in men. I needed to go. I needed to know that I could travel the world, or at least to the parts where I wanted to be, all by myself.  I succeeded. This trip was transformative to say the least. The concerts and the random play that dropped into my lap the last night, were proof positive that I could cross that worry off my long, long list. I found I loved the silence. I’m a talker. It’s a blood sport to me. On any given day I’ll talk to fifteen people about fifteen different things, whether I or they, want to or not. I loved the serenity of a museum without worrying I’m going way too fast for my travel partner. I loved the randomness of no discussion of where to eat and when and why a slice of pizza at midnight or a whiskey sour at 1am is necessary.  Don’t misunderstand. I’ve enjoyed my girl trips with the few unique ones who are brave and kind enough to accompany me, given my bossy penchant for deciding everything, but there was a calm and peacefulness to just wandering the street alone and seeing what will happen. And so many lovely things did happen on this trip for one. I owe gratitude for this one to my son who urged me to just go and get it done!