Mare De Deu Fiesta in Menorca

Hola Amigos! Island hopping in España!

So, upon my arrival in Valencia. I met up with fellow Australian mates, Karen and Doug, and after much arm twisting of their behalf ;-) I made the decision to join them on the beautiful Fiddler's Green, exploring the delights of the Mediterranean Islands. We started off in Ibiza, which appeared to be a jungle of discotechs and resorts, before escaping to the less crowded island of Mallorca. Simply stunning! I have completely fallen in love with the place. Time crept forward, and we had to keep moving onto Menorca, a smaller island but no less majestic. For a brief few hours, we were berthed alongside a gin distillery! Can you believe my luck! Hehe! We arrived in time for the spectacular Mare de Deu de Gracias Fiesta, which I suspect translates into crazy horse dancing festival (I will post some photos in a seperate link). Next stop- Sardinia.

Tomate!! Tomate!!! The Great Tomato War

On the last Wednesday of each August, thousands of people from all over the globe make the annual pilgrimage to Buñol to join the world's biggest food fight. After months of intensive training and mental preparation, I decided I was in peak condition to join forces with the ranks and throw myself into the front lines for Team Australia with my fellow comrade, Doug Watson. La Tomatina celebrates the end of the tomato harvest and all the excess tomatos (some 125,000 kgs) are paraded through the streets of Buñol in monster trucks to the chanting of "tomate tomate, quieremos tomate!!" (Tomato, tomato, we want tomato). I personally hate tomato, and spent the earlier stages of the festival meticulously scrubbing away any traces of the wretched stuff that happened to fly my way. Towards the end, I was shin deep in tomato puree, desperately scooping up handfuls of the slimy pulp to splash at the nearest victim. After an hour, the firing of a cannon signals the end of the war and the crowds disperse to the sangria stalls to quench their thirst, while the fire brigade hoses down the town. Here are some piccys for you all to see-


Doug and I, before the big event...

The trucks arrive...

The battle begins...

The Aftermath!!!

Farewell Ireland, Hello Duty-Free Whiskey!

Newgrange Burial Site...



Nouth Burial Site...



Carrick-A-Rede Rope Bridge...



Carrick-a-Rede...



Causeway Coast...



Giant's Causeway...

Bundoran… sounds like an interesting place. Yeah, well it’s not. Decked out with tacky arcades and icecream parlours, this resort town didn't offer much for us intrepid adventurers. Still, to the town's credit, we managed to find one very nice restaurant and had a well earned delicious meal. This was only a rest stop before heading further north to Letterkenny. Again, another fairly ordinary town, but a good base for exploring the area at large. We drove around the loughs (lakes), and the mountains for a day. I even rolled up my sleeves and rowed dear Nanny over to a fairytale castle ruin on a tiny island- with dangerous currents and swells I might add!

Heading into Northern Ireland was interesting. We didn't even know we had crossed the border until we got to a petrol station and everything was in pounds! We visited the town with two names Derry/Londonderry which is pretty much smack bang on the border with the Republic (don't mention the war!) which was actually a lovely town with gorgeous little streets and a beautiful river running through it.

We ventured on to Cushendall on the east coast of Northern Ireland and explored the nine Glens of Antrim- home to the fairies! And when you are there, is quite easy to see where all the myths and legends came from. In fact, ask any local if they believe in fairies and not one of them will be game enough to say no. Not surprising, given the amount of Guinness these people drink. Speaking of which, did you know that only 8% of the Guinness manufactured is actually exported? Guess who consumes the other 92%!!! No wonder they are seeing leprechauns and fairies.

Our visit to Giant's Causeway and the Causeway Coast was both wet (torrentially so!) and wonderful. The scenery was spectacular- check out the photos.

On our second last night in Ireland, we moved down to Navan, a delightful town about an hour north of Dublin. We had a wild night out at the local pub with some distant family relatives of sorts- Elsie and Deidre. As they say, it was good craic, and a good end to the trip through Ireland.

At the airport, Nanny and I hugged each other goodbye and went our separate ways. Nanny to Scotland, and me to Spain. But not before stocking up on as much Irish Whiskey as my bag could hold! Must be the Irish blood in me!

Farewell Ireland- I will be back one day.

Willie Daly the Matchmaker

One day, while driving Nanny out to a little town to do some background research on the family history, I decided to do a bit of detective work on a matchmaking festival I had heard about on the road. The history of matchmaking in Ireland dates back many years and most certainly came in handy when farmers felt the need to marry their daughters off in exchange for a prize winning donkey.

Anyway, I went to the local visitors centre in Lisdoonvarna, where the festival is held. Situated in a very stinky fish smoking house, the centre seemed to know more about smoked herring than the town's happenings. Still, they gave me one lead. "Go up the road to the second bridge, turn right at O'Reily's Hotel, three streets down turn left at the Bank of Ireland ATM, and on your right is the old Lisdoonvarna Hotel. Maeve at the counter will tell you all about the matchmaking."

So off I ventured, managing to get lost once or twice untill quite accidently, I found the old hotel and an even older Maeve leaning against the counter deep in conversation with the postman (who I suspect holds a flame for old Maeve). I waited patiently for their conversation to end, and realised some ten minutes later that I could be waiting a while. I boldly stepped up to the counter and cleared my throat. "Maureen from the smokehouse said that you know about matchmaking." The beginnings of a smile crept over Maeve's old face, but then she shook her head and said, "I might know a bit, but it's not my place to say. You'll have to ask Willie Daly."
The postman leaned in, "He's the matchmaker, he is. His father was the one to fix up Maeve and Tom."
"And it was a match made in hell!" cackled old Maeve. "But you tell Willie that my first great-grandchild arrived last thursday. An eight pound baby boy. He has a pub in the next town. You´ll find him there to be sure."
"Cool," I said. "So what's the name of his pub?"
Both Maeve and the postie looked at me as if I had sprouted another head. I self conciously rubbed my neck to make sure I hadn't.
"The name's Willie Daly's Pub," Maeve informed me very slowly. "On the main street, next to the turf accountant." (A turf accountant is a fancy Irish name for a gambling bookie).

So off I went once more, over to the next town- home to Willie Daly and his fine watering hole. Now I never got to speak to Willie Daly, but I spoke to his nephew Niall, who was running the bar while Willie was out of town. "It's an art, you see, this matchmaking business. A lot of folk think it's all bollocks, but there's something more to it than that. Willie, he has the knack."
"The knack?" I said.
"Aye, the knack. The gift."
"Aha."
"The gift of looking at someone and then looking at someone else, and then saying they be good or they be crap."
"Wow," I said deadpan. "That's really incredible."
"To be sure. Can I get you a drink."
I left Niall with my email address for Willie to contact me if he had time. I made my way back to the library where Nanny was conducting her research, and asked her if she had a successful day.
"Ooh, well I managed to find out a bit about the Daly ancestors."
Can you imagine my surprise to find out I could be related to a long line of Irish matchmakers! It certainly is a small world.

Week Number I Cant Remember!

I send you a thousand apologies for being incommunicado for the last couple of weeks. Internet to Ireland is what classiness is to Australia. Everyone has heard of it, but no one can find it, or knows anyone who has it. I will try to update you all on the happenings, starting from where we last left off… in the beautiful land of Kilkenny.

Our travels brought us over to the west coast of Ireland, to a little place called Tralee. Small though it is, it’s actually the capital of County Kerry. Some of you may be familiar with the ‘Rose of Tralee’ parade, and if not, the song with the same name which still hasn’t grown on me. We stayed at a cute B&B run by a terrifying lady who should have been head of MI5. I’m not entirely convinced that she’s not! She had a head full of peroxided hair which looked like it had been severely electrified by a five million volt prison fence. At breakfast, she would tell you where to sit and when. And if she felt like moving you halfway through breakfast, she would. If she told you to spend the day sightseeing in the mountains, and you placed any value on your life, you damn well went… and quickly. And only returned after dark, and only if you were sure she was asleep. We lived in constant fear, I tell you.

We drove out to Blarney Castle one day and I climbed the never-ending spiral staircase to the top of the keep to kiss the Blarney Stone. Called the ‘Stone of Eloquence’, the Irish believe that by giving the stone a good snog, you will receive the gift of the gab, and occasionally the lesser sought after ‘gifts’ of cold sores, rashes and mouth disease. Anyway, I gave it a good smooch and then set about writing the world’s greatest piece of literature ever seen. Once complete, I was naturally uncomfortable with my brilliance, and threw it in the bin at Tesco’s supermarket to avoid living the rest of my life in the public eye. Teehee!

Another day, we went to the village of Killorgin, where the hilarious Puck Fair is held. This is great. Every year, the farmers head out to the mountains to catch a wild goat. After much Guinness, Puck the goat is crowned King to the good people. The town effectively has three whole days of celebration where the law is upheld by a hairy horny goat. You can imagine what state the town is in by the end of the third day. This fair dates back to Pagan times when goats were considered powerful creatures of fertility. However the story gets a bit muddled. Some people say that the fair originated from the days of Cromwell’s invasion of Ireland. Cromwell’s troops were crossing the mountains toward Killorgin when goats were startled and ran to the town, effectively alerting the villagers to the approaching danger and saving their town from ruin. A yearly festival is held in honour of the mountain goat. One guy I spoke to reckoned that neither of these theories are legit and the fair was invented by drunks, for the drunks, as an excuse to get drunker. Who the hell cares! It was great fun!

One highlight of Puck Fair was the ‘Gathering Day’ or first day of the celebrations. Never in my life have I seen so many good looking asses. Hehe! No joke, every breed of horse, pony, and donkey imaginable was present and accounted for. And only a handful of them are on leads or tied up. The rest are loose, chasing each other, running over small children and generally destroying the town. You have to see the pictures to believe it. It was truly amazing.

Speaking of horses, we decided to lash out during our visit to Killarney, and hired a horse & carriage to take us around Killarney National Park, which was beautiful. This is where they filmed the love scenes for that movie Ryan’s Daughter. It was so romantic with a plaid blanket draped across my knees, the wind in my hair, the gentle swaying of the carriage… and good ol’ Nanny sitting next to me. Yep! As romantic as it gets!

We also spent a few days driving around Cork’s stunning peninsulas. The Ring of Kerry is perhaps the most famous, but personally I loved the Dingle. To begin with, the name is cool. And to add to this, the coastal scenery is breathtaking. Enough so to convince me to pull over every few hundred metres to take another photo. Old ruins are scattered across the countryside and you can meander through 5000 year old stone forts and beehive huts. Very cool.


Next stop Bunratty, County Clare for a scrumdiddlyumptious medieval banquet.

Knock Knock Knocking on Heaven's Door

After Bunratty, we continued our journey North to the little town of Knock, County Mayo. And what a surprise we got when we arrived! Turns out Knock is a HUGE mecca for religious devotees who travel from lands far and wide to see the spot where the Virgin Mary appeared to the villagers quite a few years back. Luckily for us, we arrived smack bang on the anniversary of the apparition. The little town of Knock had grown overnight to accommodate a crowd of 60,000 nuns, priests and pilgrims. Never before have I felt so outnumbered. Admittedly, there were the odd smattering of bewildered tourists wearing the same facial expression as I… not dissimilar to a rabbit caught in the headlights of a 10000 tonne truck carrying cow dung.

Meanwhile, I took up power walking most days and managed to make friends with a farmer or two. We explored the area, and even ventured into the lunar landscape of The Burren. This area is made up entirely of rocks and is quite bizarre to behold, although far from beautiful.

Another day, we went to the Aran Islands to Inismor. This was fantastic, and definitely a worthwhile stop. Mostly a fishing island, the locals are great, the beer is great, and there is a mysterious quality to it, that makes people want to keep building stone walls. Seriously, the island is full of stones, and to clear the island to make way for pastures, the locals had to build thousands of kilometres of stone walls. On an island about the same size at Rottnest... you can imagine how funny it looks.

Next stop- Bundoran… in some county with a name I can’t remember.

Week Five: The Medieval Banquet

For one night only, I was Lady Jo. That’s right… a LADY. No burping, belching, snorting or farting. No jokes about boobs, bums, or bits. I laughed delightfully at appropriate intervals, and maintained a polite interest in the 40 head of cattle owned by the sweaty, red faced man sitting next to me. ’40 head. You DON’T say?’

My saving grace was the rather fortifying mead served in giant stone carafes. Thank god for the mead. A few glasses of the stuff, and voile!!- I’m a Lady… or maybe by then I was more of a Laydee. My snooty accent suffered somewhat, a side effect of the slurring no doubt. ‘I’m Laydeeee Joe. From Ooostraylya.’

Mead aside, I was a perfect model of decorum. The very essence of respectability and decency. Just the right amount of snootery and haughty-taughtiness to be unlikeable in the most agreeable way. The Ladies of yesteryear would have been applauding me with their white gloved fingertips clapping together in tightly reigned abandon.

Oh- I have also included a photo of the Castle’s butler, who wears VERY funny pantaloons. Check it out.

The next night, we were peasants. We ate in the corn barn with the dregs of society (no acting needed for this one) and again, we indulged in large amounts of mead. Both dinners were great, with singing, dancing, poetry and general merrymaking. Eating with cutlery was a big no-no and only a ‘dagger’ was provided to stab your meat. Apart from that, you had to tear your food apart and eat with your bare hands. Uncouth I know, but wonderfully liberating! Even ‘Lady Jo’ savoured the experience, in her own snotty-nosed way.
Next stop… the little town of Knock, County Mayo… where a HUGE surprise awaits.