If It Smells Like Peat, Ch. 2: Off to Cobh, prawns and kangaroo

If I  was not the best at following downloaded directions, I was even worse as a pimp.

I had joked I would find my buddy a redhead - like in a movie, where the brooding but happy go lucky American on the loose in Ireland finds true love, or at least a fine fling, before heading home, the better man for it.

But neither of us looks like George Clooney or even Rosemary Clooney, come to think of it. I could maybe pass for a Teamster in my usual trip outfit of black coat, hooded sweatshirt, stocking cap,  jeans and boots. Maybe.

Tom, well, he did have his sexy, long, black, leather trench coat with him. When he wore it,  I told people he was Keanu Reeves from The Matrix, off the wagon. Without it, he was just another big American tourist (a BAT, which is not to be confused with VAT, for which you could be refunded).

Surprisingly, the vaguely menacing garment didn’t get him stripped searched at the airport (or by a redhead), though security did take his 4-in-1 tool from his checked in luggage on the way back to Chicago.

Plus, it’s because he’s a Doctor Who fan. He bought  Jelly Babies candy along the way, per the show. I bought him a 1.49-euro Daleks Advent calender at an Irish version of Big Lots.

I’m actually writing this travelogue as the Doctor would go about one of his adventures, traveling back and forth through linear time. And this is getting way too pocket protector...

I am meandering again, like the roads along any given part of our journey. Where were we? Oh yeah, the redheads. There was a drunk blond the first night in Galway and her sister, in the hotel bar, on a shopping trip and chatting up us two tourists -  before the blond seemed to pass out and her sister took her up to their room. They were either married or engaged or both.

Besides, redheads were on Tom’s bonus list, not the bucket list, I find out. Never too early to start on either one, I guess. Anyway those ladies almost cost us eight more phantom drinks on the hotel tab, which could have been on purpose or because the bartenders at the Clayton seemed to be about as bright as Ashton Kutcher.

Put the Fiat in reverse. Day Two of the trip meant traveling from Kilkenny (named by the South Park creators) south, at the suggestion of Shay back in Dundee, to Cobh (pronounced Cove, thanks to the intricacies of the Irish language). We were gonna go to Waterford, but they don’t make crystal there anymore, and Shay said the tour is for grannies.

Cobh is a port from where the Titanic sailed, and where victims of the attack on the Lusitania were taken. It’s also from where a good many Irish left for good, including Annie Moore, the first person processed at Ellis Island.

I learned that from a Celtic Thunder song. I have a theory on them, too. Having recently experience one of their estrogen-tinged, fog-infested, purply-lighted shows  in person, with legions of women of all ages swooning, I am pretty much convinced it is a group made up of Irish vampires.

Back to Cobh. Given its history - and a slim hope to write off my vacation as actual work - I thought, hey, I’ve found a sister city for Elgin, Illinois, where I work.

With me as co-pilot,  instead of near the museum, we wound up at the top of a hill near St. Colman’s Cathedral. He’s the patron saint of lanterns and coolers.

Right now, you’re probably saying to yourself, They wound up by a Catholic Church in Ireland? No way!

Next thing we’re gonna say is  that brown bread was served with every meal and that Tom developed a taste for black pudding for breakfast. Call Mr. Ripley so he can believe it or not.

Still, the church was impressive and offered a good view of the coast. It had gargoyles and kindly older women working in the gift shop.

We were hoping the museum would have more records available, but Tom did find a pin in the gift shop bearing his mother’s maiden name, Owen. Even in Ireland you don’t find too many Danahey souvenirs.

After Cobh, we headed east along the cost to Youghal (pronounced Y’all like in a country song) for another of Shay’s recommendations - prawns at Ahernes.

Only thing is, they weren’t on the menu. So I asked, and wouldn’t you know it, they just came in, and there hasn’t been time to change the menu (or maybe run to the Tesco).

The host/waitress recommended a dish made with garlic and butter along with the typical prawn cocktail and served in a round, escargot dish.  It was my favorite meal of the week, the prawns a tender combination of shrimp and lobster.

While feasting, I notice a decided lack of customers. Off-season or not, the host talked to a patron, a local merchant who admitted things are very slow. The TV and the papers have been dwelling on the sorry shape of the economy (and pondering the fate of the euro).

It’s just like home.

But the roads aren’t.  It was  getting dark making it time to hit the road for Killarney. We didn’t want to spend too much time along the roundabouts after dark - fearing the spawn of Celtic Thunder might be ready to pounce on lost tourist.

Once in Killarney, despite a wind shaking our downtown hotel room window, we walked off to find dinner. A restaurant across from where we are staying is offering tournedo of kangaroo with braised red cabbage and raspberry and port reduction. At 17 euros, we passed, saving that gastro experience for another day