Ireland: My First, My Only Love

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Ireland: My First, My Only Love

June 7, 2007

By Cahir O’Doherty

WHEN the e-mail appeared in my inbox I thought it must be a joke.

“You are invited,” it read, “to join us on our inaugural flight to Ireland, taking part in a three-day tour of this ancient land of unspoiled beauty and splendor, of four star hotels, stately homes and wonderful landscapes, where shimmering rivers, lakes and forest parks abound …”

You had me at “four star,” darling. It was an offer that was hard to refuse (free stays at high end hotels, each with massage and microdermobrasion spas attached? Oh my!) Inevitably there were lots of takers. Almost all of them, it turned out, were of the hard bitten, seen-it-all-before New York journalist variety, each of them eager to discover what this new, improved Ireland West Airport, Knock and the flights from Flyglobespan and tours that have sprung up around it were all about.

But I wasn’t so sure myself. I mean, I’d been to Knock once before, on a bright cold day when the whole of Ireland had joined me, it seemed.

It was, I remember, an afternoon in late September, 1979 when Pope John Paul II — a tiny white dot on a far away stage — stepped out of the basilica they had built to honor the Virgin Mary, and waved to the 500,000 Irish people who had encamped on the nearby bog to hear him speak.

It wasn’t a glamorous event by any means. That day I had arrived in a backfiring minibus with a troop of scruffy Boy Scouts.

While listening to the Pope, we’d all been stung repeatedly by angry ants whose homes we had disturbed on the heather. I vividly remember how the enterprising locals had dug steep latrines out of the bog, charging 10 pence a visit — just one false move and you’d be up to your neck.

It wasn’t the sort of attraction the Irish Tourist Board would have made a fuss about. Midway through the Pope’s long sermon one Boy Scout fainted, another puked.

Two weeks before the papal visit the IRA had killed Lord Mount-

batten when his boat exploded on Donegal Bay. So, I had lots of memories, and none of them were particularly beguiling.

But we all have our vices, and mine is curiosity. What, I asked myself, would it be like to land in Knock? Would there be painted statues and holy water next to the magazine racks and rental car stands? Would the airport staff be especially pious?

And wasn’t I just being overcautious? Shouldn’t I just say yes?

After a little hand wringing I sat down in front of my computer and I wrote a note to Ireland West’s marketing executive, Donal Healey. Yes, I told him, I’d be delighted to attend.

One week later I’m standing at the check in at JFK Airport as the other freeloaders begin to arrive. To my delight they’re a cast of characters straight out of Agatha Christie.

One is a three times divorced New York psychologist and travel writer, always dressed in black; another is a fast talking, free thinking documentary film maker; one has dyed her hair neon pink and wears outrageously loud, colorful ensembles; and one barks out orders at her husband that are always obeyed.

Great, I tell myself, a bunch of wacky broads and their enablers. This is really going to be interesting!

And it is. I am seated next to the New York psychologist and travel writer on the inaugural flight.

“What the hell is Knock?” she asks me, mystified.

“It’s a village and a Catholic shrine,” I reply.

“We’re landing in a Catholic shrine?” she asks.

I nod my head. “Near to one.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh brother, you Irish,” she says.

It turns out that Flyglobespan, the distinctly no frills carrier flying us to Ireland, are experiencing a slight communication problem with the airport’s marketing department, because our snooty English cabin crew have no idea who we are.

“Can I have a pillow and a blanket, please?” the New York psychologist asks a passing air hostess.

“Well, I’m afraid we don’t have any,” she sniffs, and walks on.

This does not impress the New York psychologist. It’s one thing to rough it for a few hours with the gombeens in steerage, but this woman owns entire buildings on Central Park, for God’s sake.

“Well when are we going to eat, already?” she gasps, looking incredulous.

The answer is that we’re not scheduled for a meal on this flight. There follows a massive diplomatic incident as true identities are revealed and hot dinners are insisted upon, and I have to admit this part of the journey does feel a little under rehearsed.

But just as in Dante, there are many levels to air travel. In Flyglobespan you can travel business class, premium economy class or economy — they just mistook us for the latter, that’s all.

I don’t grumble because secretly, in my heart of hearts, I along with almost every Irish person alive share two basic assumptions: sure say nothing, Ireland is the best little country in the world like, and sure no need to brag, doesn’t the place sell itself, like?

And the thing that’s surprising about these two rather pompous assumptions is that in many respects they’re often true. (But it’s not a good idea to rely upon them).

In any event, the approach to Ireland West Airport at Knock easily ranks alongside the 10 most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my life – and that includes my partner, the work of Leonardo Da Vinci, and the entire city of Venice, say.

I was rendered speechless by the sheer magnificence of the landscape, and believe me that takes some doing. The way the sun glints over the water on the final approach, while far below the drumlins of Connaught rise in little hillocks covered with lush grass and white and yellow daisies.

If you don’t respond to such ravishing beauty you simply don’t have a pulse. Seamus Heaney said it best, there’s a quality to the air and the light there that can “catch the heart off guard and blow it open…”

Even the New York psychologist looks impressed. But not too impressed. “It’s something you learn in high school,” she tells me dryly. “Being cute ain’t enough, you gotta have an edge.”

The welcome laid out by the Ireland West Airport staff is impressive well-appointed hotels, tours of stately homes, visits to upscale local restaurants, illustrating the best of the North West.

The Sandhouse Hotel in Rossnowlagh, Co. Donegal for example, and Castle Dargan Hotel, Spa, Golf Course and Wellness Center in Sligo are among the most unforgettable retreats you’ll ever visit (and I heartily recommend you do).

But then again, we’re all traveling for free. Each time I stepped off the official tour to do a bit of exploring on my own I couldn’t help noticing that a cup of tea cost the equivalent of $3, or that a modest Chinese take out for two cost $50. It seems the fumbling in greasy tills has reached a new plateau.

Looking around at all the conspicuous wealth, the landscaped public parks, the endless rows of identical bungalows, and most especially the steep price tag on everyday products, a line from James Joyce kept coming back to me: “Oh Ireland, my first and only love, where Christ and Caesar are hand in glove.”

Socially, things are changing very fast too; the comely girls in the local villages now wear Laura Biaggiotti wrap around sunglasses, and tote Louis Vuitton handbags. Boys drive their cars fast and overtake you.

Others told me that you might not know or even talk to your neighbors nowadays. And everywhere you go you will overhear grousing about the immigrants, a lot of it depressingly racist, night and day.

But if Irish tour operators really want tourists’ hard earned bucks they’re going to have to realize that others don’t always share their opinions, their proclivities, or their desire to spend $3 on a cup of tea. These are New Yorkers after all, possibly the most exacting group of people on the entire planet.

If you want them to come – and return again in the future – you have to offer them value across the board. Due to a terrible exchange rate and a plethora of genuinely outrageous mark ups for goods and services, Ireland’s pricing itself out of the market for many visitors, I feel.

Being cute ain’t enough. You gotta have an edge.

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