Charles Conoly - Cork City

Western Road

I remember the newness of that day. Groggy from the nine-hour flight from Austin to London, then from London to Cork City. Riding in the van taxi with several of my giddy classmates, eyes glued to the landscape on the other side of the window pane. Looking at Cork, Ireland was like looking at a rock covered in patchy moss, only inverted. Here, the foundation was green with gray and white buildings weaving throughout and the occasional patch of homes painted in summery pastels engaged my eyes even further. Despite two weeks having passed since that day, the feeling of a new beginning lingers. Today, the spaces around me remain as exciting as they were on arrival. The walk to the city center is one of my favorites. It seems to summarize my experience in Ireland, my five senses get a workout. What was once “Ireland”, is now Western Road, Cork City, County Cork, Ireland. This street functions as a microcosm of my other Irish adventures. Where on the first day in Ireland I compared new experiences to home, now I’m comparing them to the Western Road walk. Although I experience a mixture of people, I sense something fundamentally Irish about this experience. The first day I was here, it was my eyes doing all the work. Now I hear things, I smell things, I taste the spaces around me. The architecture, the flora, St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral watching me from a short distance. It’s a walk I make almost every day, and it makes the other spaces around me seem familiar

2:19pm

I turn right out of the gates of the UCC dorms to head toward the heart of Cork City. Each time I venture out, I discover something new. The start of the hike down Western Road is similar to a jaunt. I prance past the Centra grocery shop, which is about the size of an American convenience store. The road curves left, then right, then straightens out to reveal a long stretch before me. Quiet gated homes in shades of green, yellow, and pink remind me of various fruit-based desserts such as whipped strawberry yogurt, caramelized pears or poached apricots. They stand quietly and peacefully across a bustling river of speeding cars. 100 yards farther, more brightly painted hostels and B&B’s surrounded by speared gates divert my attention. These sharply topped gates are found throughout the city. I wonder why they’re so popular here. Ireland’s ugly history of invasion could be to blame. No Vikings to fend off these days, but I guess one can never be too careful.

2:22pm

When I’ve had my ocular fill of quaint/deadly architecture, sagging branches reaching over the fence to my right tickle my wispy hair, distracting me in a different way. My hair is getting too long. I always feel it flapping in the cool Irish wind like a giant feather. The cockatoo look pairs nicely with the pensive scowl I unintentionally plant on my face while walking somewhere. If my hair could talk, it would have Gilbert Gottfried’s shrill voice. I’ve noticed an excess of barber shops in Ireland, maybe I’ll get a “dry cut” for 10 euro. Or maybe Gottfried-head will live to fly another day. Ducking, I continue forward and start to notice the presence of nature. Moss, lichen, and ivy grow up the walls. The aging stones give way to new life in the form of brightly colored, foreign looking flowers and neon green leaves. Even under the dark shade of the trees, I’m greeted by a medley of vibrant green tints. Turning my head to peer into the deep olive hue of the River Lee I notice a cotton-white swan floating in what appears to be a cloud of perfect silence. Looking at it seems to turn the volume down around me. Cars are quieter, conversations of passers-by fade into a blur. Moments like this are found at multiple locations on Western Road. It happens when I see St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral. The top of the monument looks like it is being pulled into the heavens, stretched upward. At dusk, St. Fin Barre’s is one of the only buildings to remain bathed in sunlight. It’s magical, really.

2:30pm

As I continue, Western Road changes to Washington Street. The energy shifts. The compact cars in the street move slower with traffic, the amount of people on the sidewalk seems to double, and my pace quickens even more. I become more aware of my clunking American body weaving in and out of Irish locals who make short-lived eye contact with me as I pass them. A fleeting moment that seems to say “You’re not from around here.” At least that’s what I perceive.

2:32pm

Passing the towering courthouse is awe-inspiring. I bend my neck upwards to see the statue of Lady Justice, about the size of an SUV, holding the scales in front of her to represent fairness and ethics. They’re off-center, reminding the Irish of those injustices in the name of religion, times like the early 20th century, moments like Easter 1916, and people like Oliver Cromwell. Then I remember, Queen Elizabeth II visited Ireland a few years ago wearing green, so that should solve everything regarding the British, right? Yet the scales remain lopsided. Even a charming visit from a queen in green can’t bury the past. I spot the number 208 bus that travels up and down Western Road. It’s filled with about twelve silver-haired geriatrics peering out onto the busy sidewalk. So many old people! Was this a bus or some sort of municipal death chariot? I wonder what the inside of that bus smelled like. Apple sauce, plastic, and shoe-shine comes to mind, a smell I associate with retirement homes.

2:37pm

I know I’m getting closer to Grand Parade street as I pass the deep red outer walls of Reardon’s Pub. There’s more to look at now, and the allure of the side alleys and backstreets is tempting. Even in the middle of the day, they remain shaded and look enigmatic. Winding just out of eyesight, leaving me to wonder what kind of brilliant eatery might be waiting for me just around that first bend. I turn left down North Main Street and find several thrift shops. Or, as they call them in Ireland, charity shops. Most of the proceeds, as you may have guessed, go to charities. It makes the mindless purchase seem like you’re giving back to the community. I’ll have to mark “Lacoste circa 1999” into my tax return. I think “charity shop” would go over well in America. Anything to make a self-serving purchase seem justified. They’re mostly filled with women’s clothes and old toys. Oftentimes, I’ll just wander around the store hoping that something brilliant will pop out at me. It never does. I just want something traditionally Irish, maybe some Gaelic lettering, not too old, not too bright, relatively high-end, and extremely low-cost. Is that too much to ask? I just want to give back to the community, after all.

2:41pm

As I exit North Main to return to Washington Street, a woman in a loud printed blouse, denim skirt and bright tights bounds out of a boutique leaving a cloud of sharp perfume in her wake, the smell reminds me of my mother. She’d add commentary to this walk, depending on how feisty she’d be feeling. Something like “Oh dear.” in response to the woman’s gaudy ensemble. If my father were here, I assume he would be wearing his perpetual gentle grin on his olive skinned, wise face. Not sure what his commentary would consist of. I’ll have to walk through a cloud smelling of Icy Hot ointment to induce more memories of him. Do they have Icy Hot in Ireland

2:46pm

I choose to go in to what looks like a gift shop/gypsy palace. After looking around for something quirky and traditionally Irish for my friend back home, I come the conclusion that I am uncomfortable. I guess it’s the environment. The floor is padded with thick teal carpet which makes everything sound muffled. I wander from the kitchen appliance section to the plastic fern section and can’t seem to pin their floor plan strategy. Despite it being a large store, I feel like things are closing in on me due to the cluttered arrangement of the merchandise. I feel my shoulders start to hunch and a worried expression reveals itself to me as I walk in front of a large oriental mirror. They sell unique animal themed china sets, various kitchen supplies, beef jerky, leprechaun heads, and the man at the counter has one white eye. The touristy gift shops might be a little predictable, but at least I can count on getting out alive. I appreciate the adventure and am more enlightened because of it, but decide to move on.

3:02pm

My legs are getting weak and so is my resolve. I still have a few weeks to get gifts, and this experience has been reward enough for trying. Or maybe I need to reward myself further for my efforts. English Market for some fresh pastry, perhaps? There’s a sweet shop I’ve never tried down the road a bit. I think it’s called Auntie Nellies. I really shouldn’t. I lost some weight when I got here and all the walking has made me feel really fit. Recently I’ve been noticing my waistband starting to tighten as I take advantage of all the food options. Yeah, I’ll just walk home and eat an apple or something. I don’t need any more chocolate. I give myself an implied pat on the back for my health-conscious and responsible decision-making and begin walking

3:10pm

The inside of Auntie Nellie’s sweet shop is warmly lit. It consists of two small, equally sized rooms, both shelved all the way around and floored with large panels of wood the color of milk chocolate. The shelves in the back room contain different candy variations with which you can arrange to form a “sweet bag”. The front room, the counter in particular, is where the real magic happens. This is when I know I’ve made the right decision by popping in. The entire wall, from floor to ceiling, is lined with large jugs filled with every flavor of candy you could imagine. Rhubarb and custard bon bons, orange pips, brandy balls, candy necklaces, and vanilla fudge are just a small selection of what you could find. I find a chocolate candy called “giant jazzies” which are just milk chocolate covered in sugary sprinkles. I also get some chocolate covered toffee for my dad. And a bag of strawberry candy canes with a blackberry and apple lollipop

3:30pm 

On my trip back to the dorms I think I’ll walk on the opposite side of the street. The images are different from that side and it’s a completely new experience. In the states, the fact that I had a mile walk back home would make me cringe. Here, what with the 65 degree weather and the inspiring architecture, it’s something I relish. Plus it gives me a chance to work off all these chocolate candies I’m eating. That leprechaun shot glass will have to wait.