By the Gallon

While the snow blows in Minnesota, and the Red River pushes Fargo into Winnipeg, the weather has been cool, but decent, in Ireland. We finally tracked down the traveling septuagenarians (last week), who were riding shotgun with Seamus and Kate Melchior through the Wicklow Mountains. Kathleen had her fill of mountain passes and their ‘safety’ fences, which are typically made of rope and more a psychological barrier than actual protection against falling off the ‘road.' With our truant boys in tow, we drove from Galway to Dublin and then south to Glendolough to meet up with the others.

Glendolough is a spectacular seventh century monastery set in a deep valley in the Wicklows. The forest of ancient yew, scots pine, and birch whisper the names of St. Kevin and his ecclesiastical progeny as you wander throughout the valley. It almost makes a guy want to go to church. Sam and Theo insisted on climbing nearly to the peak of one mountain, leaving their parents with aching knees and super-heated quads as they finally reached the waterfall.

We hunkered down for the night in Woodenbridge, a tiny crossroads village nearby. After settling in, we enjoyed dinner at the hotel’s new Italian restaurant. Well, enjoyed might be an overstatement. More like tolerated. The place was run by the Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy of Italian cooking. Suffice it to say that the immense hunger generated during the 1.5 hour wait for our food only partially enhanced the mediocrity of the fare. At least it was expensive, though. There was much gnashing of teeth and cursing - lucky for us, Kathleen found a plentiful supply of Holy Water at a nearby grotto.

After a nice trip to Cong on Sunday (to see the setting of Seamus' and Kate's favorite John Wayne/Maureen O'Hara flick) and a relaxing day of power shopping on Monday, the four weary vagabonds left for Shannon on Tuesday, complete with a steamer trunk load of souvenirs. As we waved goodbye, Paul was amazed at how much a few weeks in Ireland had changed his dad’s appearance.