The day was spread out before us. We had an invitiation from the neighbors to grill and chat in the evening until the wee hours (or later), to enjoy the craic one last time. I had purposely worked hard during the week to get things to a place where I could have a peaceful weekend to enjoy Ireland and my family; for I leave my husband to finish up here, and when he joins us again, we will be in school mode, not to mention the fact that there will be no megaliths to pursue.
We had one bead for the weekend: Heritage Week, an annual celebration of Irish heritage and patrimony (now, there's a word we don't use in the US of A!). The kickoff celebration was in the beautiful town of Kilkenny, on the castle grounds. It was an easy itinerary, and we realized we could find it without a map. Which is good, because the map doesn't have the shiny new motorway on it.
We woke the sore-armed teen (more on his tree-climbing adventures later) and piled into the people mover (still for sale--interested?). The town was abuzz, both because of the festival, but also because of the upcoming hurling game. Yellow and black flags, banners, shirts, scarves, pajamas everywhere. There was even an inflatable Kilkenny Cat on a rooftop, complete with hurley.
We both have fond memories of this town, having visited it as a young family 12 years ago, and Alfred a dozen years before that. In fact, he had bought a hat there that has become a favorite, and he wanted to duck into the shop where they were made. How sad to find that Frank Wall hats are no longer made anymore, but how lovely that his son, Michael, a spry white-haired gentleman, still runs the shop. We emerged with a few calendar cards for Kilkenny supporters. "Up Kilkenny!" they cry, and Americans should not be shocked; it translates roughly as "Go, Kilkenny!" (And it's really funny to hear the call when County Down plays: "Up Down!")
As we approached the castle, we could hear the music, and sure enough, a marching band was warming up the crowd, next to the medieval re-enacters and stonemasons. We grabbed some delicous food: falafel and dolmas, sausage roll and goat cheese and spinach pie, and a punnet of raspberries to fortify us for merrymaking.
We watched stonemasons cutting and piecing a wall like a giant, heavy jigsaw puzzle; butter churning, a drumming workshop with Brazilian bells and Irish bodrans. The castle was open for self-guided tours, and we meandered our way through the relatively modern splendor and enjoying the spectacular views of the river and town.
The day slipped away pleasantly enough, and as clouds gathered, we headed back up the main street, window-shopping (we had a gift card from Christmas that we had forgotten about), and zipped back up the Isle to our little village, where tents and umbrellas had been erected around the bonfire to protect us from the imminent precipitation.
A quick check of email revealed a shuffling of automobiles on the other Island, as friends help reassemble our lives Stateside. A few quick calls, and we have arranged our airport transport and greeting committee as well as a date for the cat to get some intense love from my brother.
Steak burgers with roquefort and avocado, cider and prosecco, great talk and laughter. One by one people peeled off to head to bed, and all to soon, I realized that the sky was light.
The day dawned wild and windy, Wicklow at it's most wild and envigorating. The neighbors are sure that I won't miss the weather, but I'm not sure, as I listen to the wind creep in and whistle around the doors while all hands put the yard back in order. We'll head two doors down and watch Cork against Tyrone in the Gaelic football semifinal this afternoon, pack the bags the rest of the way, and print out our boarding passes.
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