For the past eight years the lingering stupidiy of Temple Bar and dullness of Dublin bothered me any time the notion of revisiting Ireland was approached. An old man pub or two were the highlights, but nothing beckoned or called me to return. Everyone gushes about the Irish countryside and I had always remained nonplussed. But when our London friends announced a birthday gathering in Galway, it was the perfect opportunity to coerce myself to fall under the Hibernian spell.
Again, the trappings of Temple Bar made me unnecessarily stereotype Galway as a more condensed, Jersey Shore-like replica. Tired holiday homes, rowdy student-centric nights out, tourists condensed in a small, pedestrianized city center…were all gnawing little notions I had dreamed up, making Galway an anti-destination. Determined to give Ireland a chance, I put my snobbish hesitance aside and forged ahead. Connecting the dots of our trip, we would have to bookend in Dublin just like our trip of years past, and decided to spend a night in Limerick before heading to Galway. Unfortunate events in the airline industry led our flight to be rerouted via Oslo, and our journey was becoming even more ridiculously wonderful with each booking confirmed. I welcomed adventure on this trip, and that is what we got.
Spending seven hours in Oslo was enough to enjoy three key delights this city has to offer: cinnamon buns, design stores, and dill-coated delicacies. Kaffistova (Rosenkrantz’ gate 8, 0159) made for an ideal lunch spot. While being remodeled during our last visit, its new look was that of delightfully stylish, cafeteria-like environs for enjoying freshly made Norwegian food. Lovely ladies heap plates of meatballs, lingonberry jam, boiled potatoes and a surprisingly mountainous addition of mashed swede. There’s nothing like air travel to rev up an appetite, and I greedily enjoyed the seafood bisque with a massive hunk of salmon bobbing amidst lashings of dill. I was overjoyed. A variety of Scandi desserts beckoned, but I knew a cinnamon bun was the necessary treat du jour. Not lacking in lovely coffee shops, perching outside at Kaffebrenneriet (Akersgata 45, 0158) was perfect, while observing my favorite civic mascot: the Normal person. (see above photo). A quick stop (and by quick, I mean one hour) drooling within Illums Bolighus (Haakon VIIs gate 10, 0161) to get my design fix, and we were swiftly en route to the airport for our Dublin connection.
Nothing says “I have lived” [in the same outfit for 1.5 days] than having lunch in Oslo and dinner in Dublin – two cities not revered by the mainstream for their culinary might, but replete with many surprises around each corner. We threw our bags down at The Morgan Hotel (10 Fleet Street, Temple Bar), modern and centrally located in the aforementioned tourist wasteland. But, it’s an ideal locale to navigate the city, as you walk through the street as quickly as possible escaping the hell of dancing leprechauns and men singing “Sweet Caroline.” We made our way to International Bar (23 Wicklow Street), a charming Victorian pub-cum-entertainment venue. I love Irish music – whether traditional or modern [think Pogues/punk/indie], and my main goal for revisiting Ireland was to root myself in music as much as possible, to spend my days listening as much as visualizing. We made our way to the basement bar’s open mic night. I am going to gamble on the fact that The Cranberries’ “Dreams” is covered at least five times a day in Dublin, and what do you know, that was the first tune we heard. We made our way upstairs enticed by folkier sounds. Pitching up at the bar and [stereotypically] sipping a Guinness while listening to local lads impressively cover modern folks classics like Christie Moore’s “Ride On” was all I could ever ask for during my introductory Irish evening (despite my love for The Cranberries).
It was a quick and successful Dublin eve, and the next morning we headed to Limerick, sitting in the province of Munster. Rugby, the River Shannon… and to some, Frank McCourt define this city. Serving as the setting to his 90’s classic “Angela’s Ashes”, Limerick served as the backdrop to this quintessentially lighthearted tale of early 21st century childhood poverty drowned in alcoholism with lashings of Catholic guilt and buried in death. This book and those that followed generated many a McCourt enthusiast, to this day. I wouldn’t say I am a Frank McCourt enthusiast, but his work is painted with so many vivid, relevant themes about life, it was necessary to tour the places that inspired. Noel Curtin, Shannon tour guide extraordinaire, walked us through the city, recanting on Frank’s life and the places he spoke to, along with commentary on Ireland today vs. the 1940s. It’s not hard to imagine what life was like then, and you feel the incredibly stark difference of the liberated Republic it has become. The now-demolished medieval slums where Frank grew up near the harsh riverbanks, and the churches that shaped his life struck a chord. For a small city, the amount of functioning (and now defunct) churches that populate the center – and their impressive (some Italianate) architecture made you feel the heavy influence on Limerick’s Catholics, for the good and the bad. In honor of Frank’s life we enjoyed a pint at W. J. South’s Pub (4 Quinlan Street), despite it playing a central role in his father’s crippling battle with alcoholism. Taking in the heavy themes of the afternoon, we perked up and moved onwards to a joyous evening listening to traditional music and enjoying Atlantic salmon at the incredibly vibrant Locke Bar (3 George’s Quay). The beauty of Ireland is the general laid-back bar culture of staying open late where craic comes first – a comfort to this New Yorker. We nightcapped at Nancy Blakes (19 Upper Denmark Street) as super-enthused folks danced in the open courtyard and bouncers kicked us out at whatever time it was.
Then the rain came. I realized that Irish weather is incredibly temperamental, and the sideways rain from that night was just the beginning. What to do in rainfall? Head to Supermac’s of course (Ireland’s answer to McDonald’s) with a menu that you want to forget you devoured, soaked and damp in the most unflattering light, ever. Off to bed, and craving breakfast at one of the cutest cafes I have encountered – Nelly’s Corner (46 Nicholas Street). I wish I was a patron of family-run businesses, or businesses that are generally operated with love, and Nelly’s has all of that and more. A portrait of the late Nelly sits on the wall, watching over you as you enjoy the strongest – and most comforting pot of tea. Thank you Nelly, your establishment converted me to drinking tea. Fresh traditional eats dot the simple menu, and a fry of fresh plaice and chips couldn’t have been fluffier and more perfectly golden, while the insurance of an all-day full Irish breakfast keeps the place full of happy patrons.
You can take a bus from Limerick to Galway in an hour or so, but being train lovers we opted for the rail. The views of the countryside and impending rugged coastline we well-worth the two hour journey. Arriving in Galway you feel the buzzy atmosphere upon stepping out of the station. Generally a walkable city, we pitched up in the city center at the 7 Cross Street Boutique Townhouse (7 Cross Street Upper). Sandwiched between a pub and an antique shop, this narrow inn was the ideal spot for exploring Galway and you could not be any more central. If noise and small spaces bother you, don’t stay here. The rooms are cozy and the staff incredibly welcoming – you feel like you’re staying at your Irish auntie’s tasteful townhouse. My generalization of Galway was slightly on par with the throngs of tourist-focused pubs that sit in the centre, but a gleaming gem for our group was Murphy’s Bar (9 High Street), a no-nonsense “old man” pub where the Beamish was cold and the tourists capitalizing on Irish stereotypes not apparent. The other bars weren’t awful, but if quiet conversation is what you want with an older crowd, Murphy’s should be your base. It was Pride weekend which was the perfect reason to celebrate – from when our friends formed a conga line, to carousing with the Pride celebrees, town closing a pub down with an Oasis sing-song. We soon realized that despite looking small, Galway pubs tend to be quite large and know how to pack in the party people.
I am sure that seafood enthusiasts must revel in Ireland’s offerings being on the Atlantic, and in the back of my mind I knew good eats would abound. McDonagh’s (22 Quay Street) was one part fish and chip shop [with lines out the door] and one part seafood shack-style restaurant. Enjoying some perfectly cooked dover sole, smoked salmon, and fried prawns was all I could ask for, and at the right price. To break up the seafood intake, The Dough Bros (Cathedral Buildings, 1 Middle Street) was a nice diversion with inventive pizzas run by a group of guys who clearly did their homework – as visibile by the Joe’s and Roberta’s memorabilia adorning the wall. Sunday lunch called for a steaming pot of moules marniere and fat, golden-fried chips at The Kings Head (15 High Street). But, my favorite discovery was Pleasure (24 Abbeygate Street Upper) – a coffee shop-cum-record store with a deejay spinning all day. This is clearly where the cool kids of Galway turn up, sipping flat whites and listening to amazing electro-dance music. The rain kept churning and I didn’t want to leave. Closing in the early evening, it made me wonder if Pleasure kids have their own private parties and/or are part of some underground scene – maybe I will find out next time, because Galway proved that it is definitely worth a return visit.
Our whirlwind journey was nearing an end, with a Sunday night in Dublin. Sunday night in the Irish/British Isles always meant curry time for me and Timbo, and that is just what we did – enjoying a traditional, lip-tingling meal at Diwali Restaurant
elbows on the table 