If It Smells Like Peat It Must Be Christmas - or Get Off the Bus, Take a Picture: Tales from My Irish Vacation

Part I: Let's Begin in the Middle (but not in Middleton, as we didn't take the Jameson tour).

So we’re driving along in Killarney when the smell hits us. Tom thinks he might have burned out the clutch. Hey, he’s been driving a stick shift Fiat on the opposite side of the roads, some of which are the size of bike paths. And I had been flinching until I got used to this, fearing the rear view mirror was going to snap off on something or other along the cobblestones.

Plus, heading up from Cork to Killarney, we had to take a detour - marked by a solitary orange sign the size of a sheet of notebook paper - up and down narrow roads, in the rain and wind, with a couple trucks passing us, probably going 60 mph or whatever the hell the exchange rate is, as we hoped no spray-painted sheep got in our way.

“I’m glad it’s dark. I think we’re on mountain roads, and that would scare the shit out of me,” Tom says. (Though the phrase doesn’t really work that well in Ireland, given the effect of drinking substantial amounts of Guinness).

But out of the car, checked into the hotel, and ambling toward The Laurels (for lamb stew, fish and chips, beer and overhearing locals talk to New Yorkers) and eventually The Grand (for a minimum 20 euros worth of credit card charged beer, a band called The Waxies, and a disco in the back) we still smell it.

It’s not until the next day, doing one of those Claddagh Ring of Kerry tours - stopping at some thatched cottages outside the town of Killorglin, where they crown a goat king every year - that we figure out the omnipresent evening odor (familiar to whiskey drinkers) is peat.

At least that’s the way I remember things. It’s been about almost a week since the trip ended. Vacations are usually best remembered as dreams, anyway. One before Christmas, even more so, given the quality of light and the harried nature of the season.

The year’s just about over, almost as fast as the vacation went. Whatever happened to languid days? Were they just an illusion of youth, like being skinny or having a full head of hair?

But back on the metaphorical tour bus. The above picture is from toward the middle of the trip anyway.

It began in Dublin. Actually, it began in summer, at the Milwaukee Irish Fest, where they offer deals. My buddy Tom had never been to Ireland. I had never been on an excursion of this sort, covering four towns in six days, tooling about with a a pal but without GPS. I had been wary, per my insecurity that the quirks of my personality would cause someone who had to spend a week, 24-7, with me, to have me mysteriously be swept off the Cliffs of Moher. Or vice versa.

But Tom has a teen-aged daughter, which pretty much prepares anyone for anything. And though I’m not a fan of the term “best friend” (as if you should list the people you love like books on the New York Times Best-seller List), he qualifies, if just for feeding me dinner as many times as he and his family have.

Plus, he agreed to drive this Miss Daisy. I know my limitations, and we’d still be trying to get out of the Dan Dooley lot by the airport if I didn’t.

And from that lot, we made our way through the mist, getting our bearings in a town called Naas (named after the Celtic rapper, no doubt), having lunch at an outlet mall in Kildare, then making our way to Kilkenny.

And by now you might be asking yourself, “What’s up with all the ‘kil’ towns?”

Kil means church. Make your own joke. Make your own town name (Kilthebastards, Kilingmesoftly, Kilsatan, Kilbill, Kilswitch, Kilthisbit).

We learned that from Johnny, the driver on the bus tour - but we’re not there yet.

We’re in Kilkenny, where I am demonstrating my lack of navigational abilities, even with downloaded directions. The roads change names (M = motorway; N = national route; O = Oprah now owns this area). Worse yet: roundabouts, where locals tell you to “go straight through” or “take the third intersection.”

Still, getting slightly lost isn’t so bad - it gives an idea of where to head later. And that’s to the local brewery, which turns out to be on winter hours and closed, dammit, and to Kilkenny Castle, which turns out to be a yuppie kind of castle, filled with tapestries, huge tables, and portraits of inbred English who once ruled the place.

We find the Marble Bar - recommended by my West Dundee via Dublin buddy Shay Clarke - and grab a sandwich at about 3:30 or so, which actually is the edge of lunchtime in Ireland.

We run into a guy at that bar from Chicago who moved to the area to be close to his wife’s family. He and his live off a golf course, which seems like something an ex-pat American would do.

He does not try to sell us a time share, and we amble off for a walk, then back to the hotel, which has a big, outdoor hot tub and our room has a heated bathroom floor and a shower without a door, like something out of the Kohler catalogue.

Time for some burgers, brews, then two, big, comfy beds with duvets (which confuses us Americans at first, being used to cover sheets). Time to put on the Breathe Rights.

Next episode: I find a sister city for Elgin, Illinois, we eat prawns, and ponder kanagaroo and cabbage