Clever Magazine, Vol IV, #8 "A Visit to Blarney Castle " (www.clevermag.com)

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Faith and bejabbers, if it isn't Blarney Castle
photo credit: Desiree Laub

Kissing the Blarney Stone
by Jim Marquez

I have just completed a two-week trek across Ireland, a land that is truly as magical and mysterious as the stories I’ve heard back in the States. I had a short list of goals to achieve while in Ireland, from something exceedingly epic like peering over the edge at the Cliffs of Moher, to something as soothing and contemplative as ordering up a pint of Guinness in an out-of-the-way pub.

Another one of my goals was, of course, to kiss the Blarney Stone. Now for some people Blarney Castle is nothing more than a tourist trap. Even in Cork at my hostel I heard a gaggle of backpackers and a few of the locals saying, “Blarney?! No real backpackers go there!” Yes, well, thank God I don’t pay much attention to people on the road.

Taking a bus out of Cork City Centre for a five pound return is a bargain. Less than 20 minutes later you’re dropped off on a narrow street next to two tourist-friendly restaurants. You have no more than a quarter mile walk up the road from there to reach the castle.

Immediately the splashing brook to the right and the sight of Blarney Castle far off between the scraggly screen of trees put me on a different planet. Dublin is one thing, a great town, so much to see and do, but out here, literally in the sticks was the first time that I felt I was in Ireland. I followed the stream of picture-happy gawkers and there she was: Blarney Castle, in all its gray, ancient, unassuming, silent, curious beauty.

The town of Blarney and its world famous castle
hold some of my fondest memories
because it was the most fun I had in Ireland.
Photo: Jim Marquez

It stands maybe five stories tall. And on top of the castle’s parapet is the world-famous Blarney Stone! One thing about Europe that still furrows my dumbstruck brow is that the coolest places require you to have worked a stair master for a month before you get there. Stairs everywhere! (Make a note to yourself : If, at the Eiffel Tower, someone says, “Hey, the elevator line is too long, let’s walk up to the second level instead," Ignore them. Wait in the elevator line.)

It’s appropriately cold and blustery on my visit, but, just for me I’m guessing, the sun decides to pop out and it is indeed a fine Irish day. From topside you can see miles of rolling green hills. In every direction you turn a postcard awaits your gaze. Panoramic shots even a drunken monkey couldn’t muck up.

Once on top though you are quickly shuffled into line to kiss the Blarney Stone. The line is a perfect rectangle around the rim of the castle. Noticeable gaps between the walls and the path you are on allow a good, hard look of the drop below. It's a long wait. Have patience. Enjoy the clean air. The scenery around you. Chat it up with the people in front or behind you. If you’re solo, as I was, you need somebody to take your picture as you’re planting that wet smack.

As you get closer, the stories you hear of having to bend over backwards while grabbing onto two metal bars embedded into the wall behind you while an old man holds you by the waist for dear life becomes increasingly clear. For that’s the only way it can be done.

Built in the mid-14^th century as a stronghold for King Dermont McCarthy, the castle has endured numerous additions and reconstructive work all the way up to the 17^th century. It wasn’t until the 18^th century that the myth of kissing the Blarney Stone became a reality. If you kiss the stone, the myth says you will be blessed with the gift of eloquence, also known as the Irish gift of gab.

I become as giddy as a school boy. It’s my turn! It’s my turn! Drop the daypack, hand over the camera, and the next thing you know I'm being pitched off the side of the platform like a sack of potatoes. The old gent clinging to my waist suddenly becomes my new best friend. The goal is to literally give a kiss at the bottom of this retaining wall which not an easy task.

The gray wall instantly blurs your vision and all those tiny pops and snaps of dots and sun flares you see as you shut your eyes tight become gray too; and, comically, on the way down, your lips are puckering up like it was your first date all over again. MY GOD DON’T DROP ME! DON’T DROP ME! That’s the only thing that ran through my mind. I’M FALLING! I’M FALLING! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAN, DON’T YOU BLOODY DROP ME! Next thing you know you’re being pulled to your feet, people are laughing, applauding; it’s all quite benign.

Standing in line

But kissing the Blarney Stone, I discovered, isn’t the only thing to do there. While some dash off, you must spend time exploring the castle and grounds. I love castles, fell in love with them in Scotland. I found myself giggling as I trampled through Blarney’s secret rooms, passage ways, an immense dining hall, a deep, dark, ominous dungeon (that was pleasingly frightening, a claustrophobic’s nightmare), and inhaled that musty mist of time, ancient time.

Being an American, we don’t get that aura of history. Our culture refuses to celebrate its past. Merely reissuing a fashion trend makes not a reverential statement. The motto MUST TEAR DOWN! MUST BUILD OVER! is loud and clear, and, unfortunately, pounded without resistance into our collective consciousness But I digress…

Once the castle is finished you have the grounds. I didn’t think the statistic of Ireland having over fifty shades of green was remotely true, but soon that fact is verified by taking an hour’s scamper through some of the ground’s lush plants, wild bushes, colorful flowers, flowing brooks, and gnarled, fairy-tale-like trees that must date back as far as the castle itself.

I lost myself on purpose, occasionally bumping into a retired couple I met on the bus over, but for the most part had the woods to myself. I forgot time and place. No worries. No hustle and bustle. The sun had crawled behind encroaching rain clouds. A stinging breeze filtered through the forest. An absolute perfect setting. It could’ve been four hundred years in the past for all I knew. I had wished all my childhood friends were back again, we could’ve had a grand game of hide and seek here. Or telling ghost stories, or just letting the leaves slap against your face as you run head-on with total abandon. Whoosh!

You can peer into the eerie Witch’s Cave or make a wish walking backwards down the Wishing Hole. Want to skip stones across a silent pond or traipse through a muddy bog? I didn’t want to leave, but, as always, my hunger got the better of me.

On the way back to town you can’t possibly miss the side trail leading directly to the equally famous Blarney Woolen Mills. It's a warehouse shop where you can buy Traditional Irish Clothing at 50%-75% off prices from the rest of the country, which makes this place the haven for bargain hunters, as evidenced by the armfuls of bags carted out like prized game on safari. Along with sweaters there are tons of shirts, coats, hats, and football jerseys; my mouth didn’t close for an hour after seeing that collection. My baby nephew back home made out good with a football jersey for a measly 3 pounds. Anywhere else triple that price.

If you're getting hungry, try the Blarney Castle Restaurant. It’s warm and quiet and it's pub food. Most importantly though, on this Good Friday, it appears that this establishment is the only place in Ireland to be serving alcohol. On that virtue alone, I must give it the highest marks.

Time to go. I’m all set, but I have this little ritual of mine: I like to send a postcard to my mother from every city or town I visit on my travels right before I leave the place. Her wall has almost two dozen. I have no time to look for a post office at the moment because I’m afraid of missing my ride. It’s a simple card, with the standard picture of Blarney Castle on the front. Behind me is a bank, closed. All the shops on this tiny street are close. Darkness is fast approaching.

I toss the postcard through the bank’s mail slot, hoping that they’ll have pity on this poor traveler, do me a favor, and post it for me. I want to see how courteous people can be. I know in America that postcard would be promptly tossed out with the rest of the trash, but, to my refreshing surprise, my mother receives it almost three weeks later. Unscathed. Ready to adorn her wall, right next to those from Dublin, Cork, Doolin, and Galway.

Plan at least four hours at the castle and grounds, and shops. Relax. Breathe in. Breathe out. Far too many people are on their cells making arrangements for the next day’s car hire. Remember, you’re in Ireland. It’s said there are two ways to keep time: the regular way, and The Irish Way. Take advantage of that as much as you can. Ireland is not an amusement park. It’s a people, it’s a land, it’s a way of life.

Contact Jim at forzelda@hotmail.com He'd love to hear from you! Or check out his "adult-content" travel writing at SinglesFaq or 3amMagazine