The two most iconic images I had growing up of Ireland were of countryside smelling like Irish Spring soap (It doesn't. It either smells fresh and clean or like... animal byproducts) and the Blarney Stone. So although my guidebook recommended spending time elsewhere rather than this tourist-laden, lipstick-covered site, I had to make the pilgrimage there. Kissing it is supposed to grant the gift of "flattery sweetened by humor and flavored by wit." I'll take two orders.
I arrived Saturday evening, after the gobs of tour buses and associated lines had left, so things were looking good. The grounds themselves are gorgeous, with expansive lawns and flower beds (and even a poison garden!), but who has time for that? I bee-lined it like a kid at Disneyland to Stone Mountain to the castle.
In general, I'd say that many Americans' expectation of a castle is shaped largely by Disney. That is: huge halls, grand staircases, and spacious rooms. This 15th century castle--at least the part that's open to the public--consists of a very steep spiral staircase that acts as a hallway to connect a vertical series of rooms. It didn't exactly follow today's trend of 1.5 baths for every bedroom, but did provide the Lord with the ability to observe and shoot enemies. In fact, the Blarney Stone itself is a head jam for a battlement from which arrows or other weapons could be discharged.
The Castle is described as being in a state of "semi-repair"(read: "do not enter if you fear buildings crumbling"), and at times it was slightly disorienting, with floor-less rooms and a staircase that you have contort in the final stages to emerge on the top.
After walking around the perimeter, I approached the Blarney Stone (in mythology, it was a stone on which Irish Kings were crowned [one might ask how it became part of a window]). There was an older man there to assist who impatiently called for the next smoocher... even when the line consisted just a few people. (Gosh, you can't rush these things!) The ritual involves laying on one's back, worming through a space between the floor and wall, tilting the head backwards (enabling one's eyes can look out the window to the world five stories below/above), and kissing the stone (not unlike my stunt at the Cliffs of Moher). I followed suit, puckered up, and kissed the same rock that hundreds of others had that day.
Was that dew of eloquence I felt distill upon me? No, more like dizziness, laced with the aftertaste of others' chapstick.
I arrived Saturday evening, after the gobs of tour buses and associated lines had left, so things were looking good. The grounds themselves are gorgeous, with expansive lawns and flower beds (and even a poison garden!), but who has time for that? I bee-lined it like a kid at Disneyland to Stone Mountain to the castle.
In general, I'd say that many Americans' expectation of a castle is shaped largely by Disney. That is: huge halls, grand staircases, and spacious rooms. This 15th century castle--at least the part that's open to the public--consists of a very steep spiral staircase that acts as a hallway to connect a vertical series of rooms. It didn't exactly follow today's trend of 1.5 baths for every bedroom, but did provide the Lord with the ability to observe and shoot enemies. In fact, the Blarney Stone itself is a head jam for a battlement from which arrows or other weapons could be discharged.The Castle is described as being in a state of "semi-repair"(read: "do not enter if you fear buildings crumbling"), and at times it was slightly disorienting, with floor-less rooms and a staircase that you have contort in the final stages to emerge on the top.After walking around the perimeter, I approached the Blarney Stone (in mythology, it was a stone on which Irish Kings were crowned [one might ask how it became part of a window]). There was an older man there to assist who impatiently called for the next smoocher... even when the line consisted just a few people. (Gosh, you can't rush these things!) The ritual involves laying on one's back, worming through a space between the floor and wall, tilting the head backwards (enabling one's eyes can look out the window to the world five stories below/above), and kissing the stone (not unlike my stunt at the Cliffs of Moher). I followed suit, puckered up, and kissed the same rock that hundreds of others had that day.
 |
| It's probably a good thing that I couldn't see the spit stains at the time. |
Was that dew of eloquence I felt distill upon me? No, more like dizziness, laced with the aftertaste of others' chapstick.
No comments:
Post a Comment