Travel
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Continued
      from
      Page
      7
     
    

    
     
      To
      see
      the
      real
      Ireland,
      you
     
     
      must
      get
      out
      of
      the
      city.
      My
      sugges-
     
     
      tion
      is
      to
      jump
      on
      a
      backpacker’s
     
     
      tour,
      an
      adventure
      guaranteed
      to
     
     
      amaze
      you
      -
      much
      like
      a
      sober
     
     
      Irishman.
      The
      west
      is
      dotted
      with
     
     
      desolate
      land
      transformed
      by
     
     
      countless
      centuries
      of
      blood,
      sweat,
     
     
      and
      beers.
      Property
      is
      divided
      by
     
     
      rock
      walls
      which
      curve
      over
      the
      hills
     
     
      and
      glens
      that
      shine
      in
      their
      green
     
     
      wonder.
      The
      trees
      are
      gone
      -
      all
      of
     
     
      ‘em.
      For
      heat,
      locals
      burn
      logs
      of
     
     
      peat
      moss.
      To
      stay
      warm,
      they
     
     
      drink.
      |
      tested
      this
      theory
      on
      a
      num-
     
     
      ber.of
      occasions.
      It
      works.
      Homes
     
     
      are
      built
      from
      rock
      -
      clearly
      the
     
     
      smart
      little
      piggy
      was
      Irish.
      But
     
     
      above
      all,
      the
      most
      amazing
      won-
     
     
      ders
      of
      the
      west
      coast,
      or
      even
      the
     
    
   
   
    
     
      P
      de
     
     
      Wwe
      The
      Warped
      end
      ;
     
    
   
   
    
     
      country
      as
      a
      whole,
      are
      their
      fabu-
     
     
      lous
      roads.
     
    

    
     
      On
      a
      map
      it’s
      a
      highway.
      On
     
     
      a
      sign
      it's
      a
      highway.
      From
      a
      car
      it's
     
     
      a
      goat
      path.
      Paved
      shoulders,
     
     
      lanes
      wider
      than
      a
      vehicle,
      and
     
     
      even
      painted
      lines
      are
      a
      luxury
     
     
      when
      traveling
      on
      the
      national
      road
     
     
      system.
      Our
      driver
      politely
      pointed
     
     
      out
      how
      to
      spot
      a
      tourist,
      and
      it
      was
     
     
      rather
      easy
      after
      awhile.
      The
      Irish
     
     
      don’t
      even
      blink
      when
      a
      bus
      passes
     
     
      their
      vehicle
      with
      less
      than
      an
      inch
     
     
      of
      clearance,
      but
      tourists
      close
      their
     
     
      eyes
      and
      pray
      to
      God
      while
      swerv-
     
     
      ing
      into
      the
      hedgerows
      -
      quite
     
     
      amusing.
      While
      in
      the
      west,
      do
      not
     
     
      miss
      Dingle,
      Kerry,
      or
      Doolin
      -
      the
     
     
      home
      of
      Irish
      music.
      Pop
      into
      one
      of
     
     
      their
      three
      pubs,
      they’re
      always
     
     
      busy,
      and
      set
      down
      next
      to
      the
     
     
      musicians
      table
      -
      you'll
      never
      forget
     
    
   
   
    
     
      :
      Who
      Brought
      You
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Check
      www.tribute.ca
      for
     
    
   
   
    
     
      searchiigntc
     
    
   
   
    
     
      STARTS
      FRIDAY
      FEBRUARY
      27"
      ATA
      AT
      ATHEATRE
      NEAR
      YOU!
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      it.
     
    

    
     
      The
      south
      is
      a
      land
      of
      myster-
     
     
      ies.
      To
      explain
      the
      mysterious,
      the
     
     
      highly
      fabled
      ‘culture
      of
      the
      Irish
     
     
      blame
      everything
      on
      the
      fairies.
      It
     
     
      must
      be
      the
      work
      of
      fairies
      which
     
     
      ensures
      every
      pub
      is
      always
      busy
      -
     
     
      day
      or
      night
      all
      week.
      Of
      course,
      it
     
     
      has
      nothing
      to
      do
      with
      alcoholism
      or
     
     
      boredom.
      Fairies...right.
      It
      must
      be
     
     
      the
      fairies,
      or
      the
      fact
      that
      men
      in
      the
     
     
      south-west
      outnumber
      women
      by
      5
     
     
      to
      1,
      that
      making
      going
      out
      such
      an
     
     
      interesting
      experience
      for
      ladies.
     
     
      Clubs
      there
      make
      our
      Myrons
      meat-
     
     
      market
      look
      like
      an
      over
      60’s
      social
      at
     
     
      the
      Legion
      (minus
      the
      bingo).
      Who
     
     
      can
      blame
      them,
      when
      the
      only
      alter-
     
     
      native
      are
      the
      millions
      of
      sheep
      -
     
     
      pays
      to
      be
      aggressive
      |
      guess.
     
    

    
     
      On
      to.
      the
      Blarney
      Stone.
     
     
      Fabled
      to
      give
      you
      the
      ‘gift
      of
      the
     
     
      gab’,
      this
      was
      an
      opportunity
      that
     
     
      could
      not
      be
      missed.
      Once
      |
      climbed
     
     
      to
      the
      top
      of
      Blarney
      castle,
      |
      was
     
     
      able
      to
      watch
      the
      kissing
      process.
     
     
      Seems
      that
      in
      the
      old
      days
      people
     
     
      who
      kissed
      the
      Blarney
      Stone
      were
     
     
      simply
      hung
      by
      their
      heels
      over
      the
     
     
      edge
      of
      the
      parapet
      -
      a
      nice
      view
      of
     
     
      the
      200
      foot
      drop.
      Seems
      one
     
     
      measly
      death
      changed
      all
      this,
      nowa-
     
     
      days
      bars
      are
      fitted
      to
      the
      inside
      of
     
     
      the
      parapet
      for
      the
      kisser
      to
      hold
      on
     
     
      to
      and
      thus
      be
      saved
      from
      the
      risk
      of
     
     
      falling
      down
      through
      the
      gap.
      Each
     
     
      person
      has
      to
      lie
      on
      his
      or
      her
      back
     
     
      and
      bend
      backward
      over
      a
      large
      gap.
     
     
      However,
      this
      is
      obviously
      not
      con-
     
     
      sidered
      safe
      enough.
      Strict
      Irish
      safe-
     
     
      ty
      standards
      mandate
      that
      an
      assis-
     
     
      tant
      is
      provided.
      His
      job
      is
      to
      hold
      you
     
     
      by
      the
      waist
      as
      you
      bend
      over.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Interesting.
      It’s
      not
      exactly
      the
      most
     
     
      romantic
      of
      professions.
      Or
      is
      it?
      |
     
     
      suppose
      it
      depends
      on
      whose
      legs
     
     
      he’s
      holding.
      |
      wondered
      if
      one
      man
     
     
      was
      solely
      employed
      for
      this
      pur-
     
     
      pose?
      What
      would
      his
      title
      be?
     
     
      “Luckiest
      Man
      in
      the
      World”
      perhaps.
     
     
      Ah
      shit,
      the
      men
      outnumber
      women...
     
    

    
     
      Anyway,
      |
      kissed
      the
      stone
     
     
      and
      judging
      by
      the
      length
      of
      this
      arti-
     
     
      cle,
      it
      seems
      the
      gift
      of
      the
      gab
      has
     
     
      set
      in.
      But
      for
      those
      of
      you
      who
      have
     
     
      partaken
      of
      this
      Irish
      tradition,
      |
      know
     
     
      you
      walked
      away
      wondering...“How
     
     
      many
      people
      need
      to
      kiss
      a
      stone
     
     
      until
      it
      has
      become
      as
      smooth
      as
      an
     
     
      opal?”
      |
      doubt
      they
      wash
      it.
      |
      only
      fear
     
     
      that
      the
      Irish
      may
      be
      playing
      a
      joke
     
     
      on
      their
      English
      neighbours,
      cleverly
     
     
      smearing
      facial
      herpes
      all
      over
      it
     
     
      every
      morning.
      I'll
      let
      you
      know
      in
      2
      to
     
     
      4
      weeks.
      The
      fairies
      would
      do
      it.
     
    

    
     
      In
      all
      fairness,
      |
      did
      not
      want
     
     
      to
      come
      home.
      Luckily,
      the
      fairies
     
     
      brewed
      up
      White
      Juan
      for
      me
      and
      |
     
     
      got
      an
      extended
      vacation.
      Thanks
     
     
      guys.
      But
      seriously,
      my
      pointless
      rant
     
     
      does
      not
      do
      justice
      to
      the
      amazing
     
     
      country
      which
      is
      Ireland.
      Next
      to
     
     
      Scotland,
      (note
      obvious
      obligations
     
     
      indicated
      by
      last
      name)
      Ireland
      is
      the
     
     
      most
      beautiful
      place
      in
      the
      world
      -
     
     
      you
      just
      have
      to
      get
      there.
      Or
      fly
      to
     
     
      Red
      Deer,
      your
      choice.
     
    

    
     
      Note:
      For
      those
      offended
      by
     
     
      my
      horrible
      humour,
      I’m
      sorry.
      It's
     
     
      either
      the
      fairies
      talking
      or
      the
      hun-
     
     
      dred
      pints
      of
      Guiness
      still
      rotting
      my
     
     
      liver.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Irish
      National
      Highway
      System
      -
      Sheep
      and
      All
     
     
      2
      lane
      highway
      on
      the
      edge
      of
      a
      cliff!
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      UPEI
      Cadre
      March
      2,
      2004
      page
      12