Tipsy Tours of Speyside

Under pagoda-shaped cupolas all along the River Spey, goose-necked stills steam and gurgle.  This is whisky country at its most densely congested - a full half of Scotland's distilleries are found in the Speyside region.  Driving along the roads is like taking a quick tour of a bar shelf: there's Balvenie, here's Glenfiddich, now we're passing Glenlivet and Johnnie Walker.
We took tours at three distilleries over two days, ambling through forests of copper stills and dank, cask-filled cellars.  Our first was Glenfiddich, where the countryside around was full of shaggy Highlander cows.  Glen Grant, the second tour, was nestled by a little stream with autumn-brown gardens.  At Cardhu, on the day we left the region, the small clutch of stone buildings basically made up the entirety of Kockando village.

Of the three distilleries we toured, the Glenfiddich plant was by far the biggest and most commercial.  We were shown a sweeping, highly-stylized video about the founder of the company and the heather-filled highlands around the town (lots of slow-motion, rain effects and mist).  The video was more mythology than nuts and bolts, and made the process seem like alchemy more than industry.
The truth is, whisky is kind of a benevolent magic for the towns along the River Spey.  In the Cardhu tasting room we were shown a photograph of the distillery's founders.  The elderly, craggy-faced husband and wife wore muddy, peasant clothes and worn boots.  "They were arrested two or three times before they finally got a liquor license," we were told.  Distilling was that kind of game in the 1800's, one for half-outlaws in the highlands with little money and small operations.  Today, it's the realm of globalized giants.  Not only is whiskey from here shipped and revered all over the world, but the world comes tramping back to Aberlour and Dufftown to take a look.  Alcohol tourism is a major boon for the area, and the Speyside distilleries are big local employers.

The magical process is really pretty simple, even if it's carried out on a large scale - it's both romantic and mechanical.  "Malted" barley - which is grain that's been allowed to begin sprouting and then dried out - is put into huge wash tanks (called "mash tuns") and soaked in hot water.  Sugar is released from the grain and seeps into the water, which is then pumped into a big fermentation tank, where yeast is added.  Less image-conscious distilleries use stainless steel, but all three plants we visited had wooden tanks, which were almost thirty feet tall (what you can see in the picture is just the very top).  Some of these mammoth things were as old as fifty years; their wood was black and soft with age.
The sugary liquid is left in the tanks for a day or two while it ferments. When it's done, it's basically a strong beer, at about eight percent alcohol.  This frothy liquid is sucked through tubes and spat out into the stills, where the actual distillation process begins.

The deep luster of copper isn't all for show.  The metal helps remove impurities in the liquor, and it transfers heat well… but the dull, orangish gleam is also regally impressive, especially when it's executed at this scale.
The stills are heated from below and (I'm oversimplifying) the alcohol inside evaporates and goes up the neck into a cooling coil, where it becomes liquid again.  Because alcohol becomes a vapor at a lower temperature than water, more alcohol is removed from the "mash" than other liquids, which stay in the bottom of the still.  After the first distillation, the alcohol content of the putative whisky is about thirty five percent.  A second run-through, in a "spirit still" raises that number to about sixty five or seventy percent.  It's clear, strong, undrinkable stuff.  A few years sitting in a barrel mellows the taste, adds color and reduces the strength.

Down in a corner at one end of each distillery was a locked, brass and glass case, about the size of a coffin.  Inside, visible behind the glass, hot, clear liquid splashed and flowed from copper tubes. Beakers and hydrometers filled, emptied, bobbed and gave readouts. These were the most fascinating things, like relics of some fancy, 19th century laboratory - and we weren't allowed to photograph them.
"Nothing secret," our tour guide at Cardhu told us.  "But we can't take any chances with electronics."  They were worried, as all the distilleries are, about an explosion.  The hot liquid flowing through the locked box was new, very-high-proof liquor, and the air was thick with the scent of alcohol.  After a few minutes near the box, we began to feel slightly tipsy.  Any little spark ("faulty wiring" was what they worried about) could blow up the entire town.

The glass boxes are locked by the British government - the distilleries are only allowed to open them if something breaks inside.  "Every shipment of grain we get is recorded," the Cardhu guide told us.  "The government knows exactly how much whiskey we should get at the other end." They can't even taste their product until they've paid the tax.  When I asked the tour guide at Glen Grant about how the distillers knew things were going okay, he told us that it was all computerized.  "There are instruments inside the pipes," he said.  "We get feedback from those, and then we make a few decisions."
Really, there are few decisions to be made - the whole process almost runs itself.  At Cardhu we were told that it's possible for one person to run the entire distillery by themselves, at full capacity, for a whole shift.  That includes every part of the process, from the raw grain to the barrel-ready liquor.  "We're open twenty four hours, every day," she said.  "Even Christmas.  Even the royal wedding!"

At Glen Grant, in the village of Rothes, we took a tour with a group of Welshmen as the evening grew dark.   From room to room, warehouse to storehouse, the smell in the air changed.  In the beginning, the odor was of barley and autumn fields.  By the fermenting tanks and mash tuns, it was deeply sweet, a cross between a bakery and rotting apples.  In by the stills, the air was almost palpably thick with sharp, fiery liquor.  In the aging buildings it was rotting wood, old sherry and damp earth. Even though Glen Grant's a big business (and part of the giant Campari multi-national), it was a reminder of how pleasing the alcohol process can be.
And then there's the tasting.  Every tour included a dram or three, even Glenfiddich's, which is free.  Speyside whiskies are generally light, clean and have very little peat - much easier to drink than the smoke and brimstone stuff of Islay.

Something about distillery tours… they're all the same.  We came to expect everything about the routine, from the jokes about fermented grain waste being fed to cattle ("we have very happy cows in Scotland") to the familiar refrain about the evaporated alcohol that escapes from whisky casks ("we call that 'the angel's share'").  The mash tuns were the same, as were the fermentation tanks, and the stills differed mostly in arrangement.  The tastings had diffrerent styles, but it was the same general idea - swirl, taste, add water, taste again, agree that it was very tasty, say thanks and leave. Essentially, if you've been to one you've been to them all.  Which is to say, definitely go on a tour.  Just don't go to all of them. And don't try to do too many in one day, at least without a designated driver.

Edinburgh in the Rain

What is it about the rain that makes a European city feel more otherworldly?  I think that maybe it has something to do with drainage.  In America, all the water just runs off down well planned gutters and into grates and we never see it; in Europe, it sticks around while it finds its way through the old streets and out some old rainspout.  Maybe it's wet cobblestones, or dripping stone walls, or damp moss on an obscure monument.  In southern Europe, I associate rain with sitting under cafe awnings - people sit looking out, watching the drops splatter on dust.  Eastern Europe in the rain makes me think of splashing Ladas and loose paving stones that squish when you step on them.
In Edinburgh, the rain actually felt very natural.  It's part of the atmosphere.  Here we are in a rainy place.  It was rainy for Sir Walter Scott and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  It was rainy for Mary, the Queen, and Sir Sean Connery.  If we came to Edinburgh and didn't find it rainy, we might have been a bit disappointed.

In the airport, a woman was returning to Scotland looking like a modern Robin Hood - green leggings, a feather in her cap, tartan vest.  If you looked for Scotland in the food, it would be a tough search (tandoori and Thai are more popular than haggis, neeps and tatties), but the façades brood and the people are as brogue-tongued and ruddy-cheeked as you could hope for.  Some men even wear kilts, free of irony or pretension.

In the rain, it became a city of nooks and hideaways, especially the convoluted old town.  People hid under arches and bridges to smoke their cigarettes or talk quietly with a friend.  Tucked-away pubs beckoned down the alleyways.  It was all very secretive, wet and grey. 

Steep streets, keg deliveries, stately houses and bars full of concert posters.  It's a black-and-white, dark early, northern nights kind of city.  At five o'clock, the sky was approaching black and the bars were beginning to fill.

We played Scottish-version Trivial Pursuit at the Thistle Street Bar one night, just the two of us ("Who scored a career best 188 against Australia on 8 February 1975?").  The young bartenders were excited for us to try different microbrews, and to talk about foreign beer.  They had Red Stripe on tap alongside "real ales." Drops peppered the windowpanes and we had to sprint home in a downpour.

Edinburgh only has about 450,000 people, but it feels much more substantial.  The medieval city was squeezed within a city wall, so everything was built up into five and six story tenements that were pretty unusual for their day. The buildings are connected by shoulder-width "closes" and courtyards, and by high bridges that reach out and across narrow valleys. It's a very up and down place.  Everyone knows about Edinburgh castle - the mainstay, sure-thing icon of the city - but it's not the only rocky spire in town.  Walking around, one suddenly finds that the sidewalk looks out over rooftops and that traffic is some forty feet below.  There are gothic steeples and underground chambers (infested during the plague) that alternate between soaring and plunging.  It's what we like to call a city in three-dimensions, where navigation occurs on several planes.

The last evening we were there, the sun broke out for a bit.  Suddenly, the remaining autumn leaves were brilliantly yellow, hats were cast off and the city felt triumphantly regal.  Not much later, it was dark.  The November moon rises mid-afternoon in Edinburgh.  It's pitch-black by five or five thirty.  It feels like a last hilltop bastion on the edge of the real north.  For the Scots, Edinburgh is the holding wall against England to the south, but for us it feels like a gateway to wilder, rainier, mistier terrain further up.

At the Edge of the Ocean

It's easy to forget that the meeting of land and water isn't always gradual - that a coast isn't just beaches and harbors, docked boats and storehouse-lined bays.  You forget that the ocean is the most vast wilderness there is and that the people living on the edge of it feel governed by its every whim.  Even in the most remote mountain regions, you have a sense of the peak, of the beginning and the end.  But that's just not the case with the ocean.  We'd driven the Copper Coast with a setting sun in our eyes and no place to pull over.  We'd stayed in coastal Dungarvan, but tucked inland at Kilcannon House.  The Bay of Galway was a calmed pocket of coast without even the audible lapping of water.  So, our cliff walk in Ardmore was our first real encounter with the wild and woolly Irish coast.  Below this stone ruin, far down where seafoam marked the water level against the cliff, was the bent crane of a 1987 shipwreck.  A few minutes back, we'd found a notebook tacked to the outside of a simple wooden structure.  A whale watching station and logbook.  Five days ago, someone scribbled a report.  One minke whale spotted. 

With all the green, it's easy to forget about the blue.  But the blue is at the heart of the Irish identity, I think. "I feel for Greece," a fellow boarder in Kinsale named Michael told us.  "They're like us.  Most of its an island. And we're ancient civilizations, us and Greece.  We have our own pace.  We can't expect to be Germany with all its neighbors and its modernity."  He was talking, of course, about the economics and EU membership.  And though I understood his point about Greece, I immediately thought of Iceland - - and its No Thanks, EU! billboards.  For an island that has survived, by the skin of its teeth at times, self-sufficiency is key.  It's the exact thing that gets compromised when joining a coalition.  All of a sudden that precarious setting in the wild Atlantic doesn't just reap benefits for those willing to live on the brink of it.  Its bounty is available to trawlers just passing through.  Men spoke of the coastline like an alma mater, like other men talk about their college football team that's gone to hell.  Because as close as all Irishmen live to the Atlantic, there's also a huge number of them that have lived on the water itself.

"I miss the people.  The ones that take to the sea because they don't fit in anywhere else."  Pat Ormond was described as "the best sailor ever to come out of Dungarvan" to us by the town historian.  (A true historian, not just a guy with that nickname at the pub).  This was the first summer Pat hadn't spent on the water.  Money's dried up for a lot of the people who usually hire him out for the season.  So, he was around with the guests at Kilcannon House.  A lifelong transient among travelers.  We felt a kinship - often likening our own strange existence these past two years to living on a floating island, a deserted one with just Merlin and me.  Pat equipped us with hand drawn maps of the coastline in County Waterford and West Cork.  There were two rocks off the coast of Baltimore named Adam and Eve ("avoid Adam and hug Eve"), all the harbors were drawn in and the public restrooms on the dock, but no clear road to get there. "Oh, I've left those out haven't I?  I'm always looking at it from the sea!"

To borrow a term from Merlin, Ireland is "the breakwater of Europe," an island stationed in the thick of the Atlantic, after miles of unobstructed free rein.  The coast represents every obstacle and opportunity, and the dramatic shift between the two that life (and history) so often is.  Stories of the coast included boatloads of Irishmen setting off for America, pioneers of a sort, setting an Irish satellite in a far off land that still holds a deep connection.  News of hurricane Sandy played at a pub in Clonakilty, the waitress offered her condolences.  "If that'd been us, we'd just be gone.  8 million people in New York, there are only 6 in Ireland!  A storm like that would just swallow us whole."  The town had serious flooding earlier this year, more than once there was 2 feet of water in the pub's main room.  Storefronts had signs that said they'd be "closed indefinitely" due to the flooding.  Buildings still had sandbags at the base of their front doors. 

Clonakilty's claim to fame is its blood pudding, the best in Ireland, but what locals will tell you about first is the old carpet factory.  It supplied the Titanic, of course.  Titanic tourism is actually a thing.  For the Irish, death is just a part of a conversation.  You may describe what your grandmother looked like, they'll tell you how and when she died.  I can only think the coast has something to do with it (and the Roman Catholic beliefs about afterlife).  It doesn't really matter that the ocean took the Titanic, it left the land a majestic work of craftsmanship.  So, why not brag about a connection? A love leaving on a boat or leaving your love on land is the subject of 'lament' ballads.  The crown jewels of Irish sightseeing are on the coast. "You going to Kerry then?" Everyone asked when we said we were driving along the coast  Well, no, not this time...  Not going to County Kerry was a little like not having the dessert a restaurant is famous for because you're too full from the appetizer, entree, cheese and drinks that you enjoyed so immensely.  We have no regrets.

Kinsale would evoke dreamy emotion in everyone.   "Oh, you'll have to stop in at the Tap Bar," a man at the Ardmore craft shop told us.  Pat personally recommended The Spaniard pub, which wound up being one of our favorites of the trip.  A yellowed newspaper hung over the cash register shouted the news that the Lusitania had sunk only 11 miles offshore.  Their own claim to fame.  The bartender was an instant friend.  "Say hello to..." was a common addendum to a pub recommendation.  We wondered, often, how people choose their pub in Ireland.  The selection and prices are almost always the same - and in towns with more than one (and as many as ten) the regulars are loyal.  But we think it's about whose tending the bar more than the bar itself, what friend you can visit, whose ear you can bend.  On the coast this is especially important.  This is your time back on land to give confession or have a laugh; to flirt or learn or be silent with an old friend. 

But the dreamy sigh that would sound at the word "Kinsale" was almost always attached to one thing.  A quick facebook message from an Irish coworker of my father's had "Kinsale - the Irish Riviera - great chefs." Other people were more specific.  "You have to go to Fishy Fishy" - man in Ardmore.  "Now you're making me want to take the drive to Fishy Fishy!" - woman in Dungarvan.  "Of course, there's Fishy Fishy." - Pat.  The food scene in Kinsale is renowned and the mother of it all is Fishy Fishy, a seafood restaurant that's an institution in Ireland.  Their Surf & Turf is scallops and blood sausage.  Their daily specials outnumber the printed 'menu.  The monkfish and parsnip puree was an indelicate bulk of flavor, a sense of pub under the supervision of great chefs.  My sea bass came as a pile of three crispy skinned fillets, set atop a mound of mashed carrots and topped with fried leeks.  You have to go to Fishy Fishy.  And The Spaniard, while you're at it.

The Full Irish

This is what an Irishman eats in the morning.  A "full Irish breakfast." Variation may occur in the number of components, but usually not in the style.  Of all the full-Irishes we saw, this one was the most complete. Two eggs, cakes of potato "mash," sauteed mushrooms, sausage, fried ham, toast, cooked tomatoes, baked beans and black pudding.  Sometimes there may be white pudding too, or perhaps some pan-cooked kidney. Contrary to popular belief, an Irish breakfast is not just a pint of Guinness.
We found this hearty specimen at The Courtyard Bar in Clonakilty, where, like many places, they serve breakfast all day.  Clonakilty is famous for its black pudding - which is spiced blood sausage fried in a pan. It's delicious.

At Dublin's Heuston train station, on our first morning in Ireland, the ticket lady was apologetic.  "Train's not for two hours," she said, looking us up and down.  We were foggy-headed and grubby from a long journey.  "Why don't you go get yourselves something warm to eat," she said.
The station restaurant (called Galway Hooker) had all the worn, wood-panneled appeal of any pub in the country - tatty couches, framed oil paintings, the smell of cooking eggs and singed toast.  There were men drinking, and families with bags arrayed around them like the sides of a nest.  A man stood behind a high counter with steam rising around him.  He stirred beans, cracked eggs, flipped ham, served customers and took a little time to sip his cup of tea.  Each breakfast component was priced individually - so much for an egg, this many cents for black pudding.  A blank-faced girl rang us up.  She was utterly bored by the beer and bacon.

Breakfast on the island doesn't have to be heavy and meaty.  There were plenty of "mini-Irish" offerings, which might include one egg, toast and some bacon. Some people had yogurt and granola. We even spotted a few pancakes here and there.  In Galway, at the comfy Ard Bia at Nimmo's, a relaxed crowd sipped cappuccinos and browsed their table of baked goods.

If there's a really Irish breakfast food, though, it's got to be porridge.  On a wet November morning, with fog over the fields and frost on the windows, its a great dish to sit down to.  Our favorite version was made for us by Gertie Ormond, at Kilcannon House.  Simmered in milk, the oats were topped with brown sugar, whipped cream and a shot of Irish whiskey.  "I like booze in my food," Gertie told us, with no attempt at humor.  It was delicious, but it made me want to get back in bed.
It was important to our hostess that we apply the toppings in the right order - first the coarse sugar, then the whiskey to "caramelize" the sugar, then the whipped cream to melt down over it all.

Gertie's breakfast didn't begin or end with the porridge - it was a three course, stuff-til-bursting, early morning extravaganza.  She greeted us, when we came downstairs from our room, with a quivering plate of freshly-made panna cotta, which she served with four different stewed fruits: prunes from the garden, pears cooked with saffron, poached apples and late-summer rhubarb, sweetened and spiced with ginger.  There was also fresh melon and scones, of course, and a foursome of handmade preserves (gooseberry, blackberry, etc...).  After the porridge, we were given a choice of eggs - on a menu, no less - from the "chuck-chucks" in the barnyard.  The first morning we had an herb-filled omelette, the second day we were given a chive scramble.  It was a meal designed to prepare us for the day - we certainly didn't need lunch.

Much simpler and quicker, the ubiquitous Irish oven goods usually sufficed.  Scones (like the rhubarb ones above, at The Bake House in Cashel, where old men ate beans on toast), crumbles, pies, cookies, barm brack, brown bread, cakes... walk a few steps in any town in Ireland and you'll come across the smell of something baking.  It's hard to resist the baking-soda lightness of a raisiny soda bread, or the sugar decadence of a hot berry crisp.

At Lemon Leaf Cafe, in Kinsale, we had the inevitable full-vegetarian-Irish: peppered potatoes, mushroom, tomato and spinach, but, curiously, no beans.  It was also the only breakfast we had with tea, which is really more Irish than coffee (despite "Irish coffee").  People here drink more tea per capita, they say, than anybody else on earth, and they certainly like their brew strong.  After a few cups, we were more caffeinated than we should have been.  I had to have a raspberry tart to calm myself down.

Things Irish People Like

Butcher Shops.  Just about every town has one.  In villages like Golden, where shuttered businesses are casualties of the recession, the butcher shop is still up and running.  Sure, people shop at the supermarket and you'll see bags from Durres Stores or Supervalu in the hands of butcher shop customers, but some things you save for the people you really trust.  The local butchers.

Green.  While driving around, even on major highways, we just kept gawking at how much it all looked like the Ireland of our imagination.  A rainbow here, a double rainbow there, cows and horses in the mist and the brightest green you've ever seen absolutely everywhere.  The color occurs so often in the natural landscape of Ireland, you'd think they'd be sort of tired of it.  Nope.  It's a little like St. Patrick's Day every day.  The mailboxes are green, windowboxes, doors, houses are all different shades of it.  It's a favorite in clothing.  It's a national emblem.

Turf Fires.  At the back of every pub, there's a fire burning and if you have the luck of being welcomed into an Irish home, there's probably one going in the sitting room.  You won't smell coal or hear the cracking and snapping of wood, the flame will smolder steadily and smokelessly for hours.  Because they're burning turf.  Turf bricks look like solid chunks of earth - which is essentially what they are, but with certain scientific properties that make them efficient forms of energy.  Fossil fuel.  They smell subtle and lovely and are so much a part of Ireland that this exists (You know how you can watch the yule log on tv in America?  Well, it's a turf fire dvd - with complimentary turf incense!)  Ireland is actually the world's second largest user of turf fuel, after Finland, and around one sixth of their electricity comes from turf-burning power plants.

Guinness. This seems like a cop-out, I know, but it's still worth noting.  We figured Europe's 4th biggest beer consuming country would be more like the top 3 (Czech Republic, Germany and Austria) in that there'd be lots of local brews to try.  But microbreweries in Ireland really don't stand a chance against the loyalty to Guinness.  It's the best-selling alcoholic drink in the country.  It's the most popular beer by far and, in most places, the only Irish one on tap.  While we stuck with Smithwicks (an Irish red ale) and Bulmer's (an Irish hard apple cider), everyone around us drank Guinness.  Oddly, the other beers on tap were usually Carlsberg, Budweiser, Heineken and Coors Light.  It's like they're actively trying to make Guinness taste even better by comparison.

Vegetable Soup.  This isn't to say that Irish people like vegetable soup more than, say, steak & kidney pie or Irish breakfast.  It's that they like a very specific soup, called "vegetable soup."  In my experience, describing a soup as "vegetable" can mean any number of things.  Tomato based, cream-based, pureed, chunky, brothy.  In Ireland, vegetable soup is an orange puree, a mix of carrot, onion, potato - maybe some squash, maybe some celery or peas.  Spices may vary, but the overall taste and look is the same.  It's always delicious, always served with a slice of brown bread and some intensely good Irish butter, and always available.

Preserving Storefronts.  There must have been a time when walking down a street in Ireland was like flipping through the local phone book.  The old facades on pharmacy's, general stores, pubs and grocers spell out a family name. You didn't name your saddle shop "Horse's Friend" or anything like that.  You named it "Connolly's" if that was your name.  These storefronts are now like old family albums in many villages, towns and even cities.  No matter what's inside the space, the name is kept the same.  It may have begun life as R. A. Merry & Co. Ltd, but now it's a great gastro pub simply referred to as "Merry's."  Pat and Gertie Ormond's cafe is now a restaurant with different owners, but is still called Ormonds.  Their contribution to the town and place in local history remembered.

Honorable Mentions

Discussing Politics.  Of course, this is basically the only country we've visited where we can understand all the conversation going on around us.  But even context clues would have brought me to this conclusion.  It's rare to see more newspapers in hands than magazines, and not tabloid newspapers either.  The real factual stuff.  Pub interaction often involves an older (and drunker) man 'schooling' a younger (and soberer) man, who listens politely and very respectfully disagrees.  Specifics about EU policy, trade agreements, parliamentary salaries are all widely known and energetically discussed.  "Who are you voting for?" we were asked in the run-up to the election.  It's not a "personal" question here. (Should it be anywhere?)  It's a topic of discussion.  And boy were they informed about American politics.  Which brings me to...

The Irish-American Connection.  Sadly, we were just about the first American couple most Irish people had met without a smidgeon of Irish between us.  (Even President Obama has a distant Irish cousin. I know this and that his name is Henry Healy, because he was the talk of the pub). But, we're still American, which made us kin anyway.  "There are 70 million Irish descendants in America," one man said proudly, acknowledging that the wealth of Irish in America has made the scope of Irish culture in the world larger than its geographic size would suggest.   At a pub, a young man asked for the tv channel to be switched from soccer to US election coverage.  They take what happens in America personally.  We're family.

Castle Hunting: Cahir Castle

Having brought the Army and my cannon near this place...  I thought fit to offer you Terms, honourable for soldiers: That you may march away, with your baggage, arms and colours; free from injury or violence. But if I be necessitated to bend my cannon upon you, you must expect the extremity usual in such cases. To avoid blood, this is offered to you by, Your servant,
Oliver Cromwell.
On the 24th of February, 1649, a fifty year old religious zealot - who was banging around Ireland with the full strength of the English cavalry - conquered Cahir castle with a letter.  It was one of the low points in the island's history, and one of the most embarrassing moments in the history of a proud fortress.

We first saw Cahir castle in the rain, as we were waiting for a bus to Cashel.  From across the street, in the dry confines of a local cafe, it didn't look like much more than a small keep and scattered towers.  It's not until you go around to the back that the full size of it is apparent.  This isn't huge for a castle, but it's very expansive for Ireland, where fortresses tend to be small and simple.
Built in several stages beginning in the 12th century, Cahir occupies a rocky position on a small island in the River Suir.  With water on two sides and a strong foundation, it was an obvious place for a fortress; hill-forts built of both wood and stone had occupied the spot for at least a millennia before the current keep was erected.

Oliver Cromwell was a curious man. Born into a middle-class family, he became one of the most powerful civil and military leaders in British history.  His bludgeoning style of warfare was at the center of the English civil war, and by the 1640's and '50's he was perhaps the key figure in the conflict.  His was the third signature on King Charles I's death warrant.  But perhaps the most well-known aspect of Cromwell's personality is his severe Protestant puritanism.  The man simply hated Catholics.  This meant that his invasion of Ireland bordered on genocide.  When he did "bend" his cannon, very little was left afterward.
With several overlapping curtain walls and a convoluted gate system, the central part of Cahir was designed to be very difficult to attack.  Despite rough masonry (some of the inner chambers look like they've been pieced together with field stones) and a highly desirable location, the castle was never taken by an invading army before the advent of gunpowder.

That all changed in 1599, when Elizabeth I sent troops and artillery onto Irish soil.  After a three day bombardment, the castle was captured for the first time in its existence.  Back in Irish hands soon after, Cahir was expanded and "improved" during the first part of the 17th century.  The outer walls were lengthened (I have no idea why) and rounded fortifications were added at the gatehouse and at the rear of the keep - rounded angles held up better against cannon fire than the older, square designs.
A great deal changed between 1600 and 1650, though, and the architectural disadvantages of the fortress became more and more apparent.  When Cromwell invaded Ireland, he came with lighter and more maneuverable guns that could be brought into range quickly and more easily than the mammoth siege weapons of the past.  Also, the new guns were actually being aimed, which sounds simple but was actually a departure from tradition.  A great deal of thought had been put into cannon warfare by the British, especially by the Englishman Nathaniel Nye. A science had arisen around the triangulation and mathematics of gunfire.  Instead of just lining up guns and hoping to hit something, Cromwell was battering fortresses with a smidge of accuracy.

Cahir remains one of Ireland's best preserved castles because - in short - they gave up at the right time.  Cromwell's forces were much stronger and more modern than anything the Irish had encountered up to that point, and the castles he was conquering weren't designed to hold up against gunpowder weapons.  High towers, square angles, a tall keep; what had been effective against previous generations of assailants were now a liability.  Large guns could attack from a greater distance, out of range of the castle's own weapons.  The high crenelations that had once provided a height advantage now made for especially large targets. Tall towers could be knocked down fairly easily, presenting the defenders with an additional danger of falling stone. Thin, walk-along ramparts offered no room to maneuver cannon, and so the garrison inside had to rely on antiquated crossbows and scattershot, underpowered muskets. Despite being somewhat "modernized," the Irish stewards hadn't really addressed any of these issues. Cahir was, in the 17th century, a dinosaur.
The motley group of conscripts who were defending Cahir had never seen cannon, and were terrified of what might happen to them if Cromwell did attack.  They gave up quickly and the Governor of Cahir turned over the fort to the English without a fight.  It's lucky for us castle enthusiasts.  Other Irish forts didn't fare nearly as well.

In all, some one hundred fortresses were destroyed by Cromwell during his campaigns.  He blew them up for harboring Royalists or ordered them "dismantled" so that they couldn't be used by the opposition.  Some see Cromwell's reign as the true end-point for the medieval castle in Ireland and Britain - the older style fortresses were simply out of date.
Cahir is now - as it has been since it surrendered - a very peaceable place.  It's hard to call it peaceful, because of the traffic that booms through town and over the castle bridges, but the setting is pleasant and the walls are sunny.  Ducks and swans paddle in the river-bend, a small farmers market was happening when we visited.  Cahir town is a pretty, colorful collection of old houses and pubs.  One can't help but think that the town is better off for having given up - they still have a castle, at least.

The Belvelly Smoke House

"We make smoke, that's what we do."  Frank Hederman had just walked in to greet us at Belvelly Smoke House, his smoke house and the oldest - and only - natural smoke house in Ireland.  He couldn't have come a moment sooner, as we'd just had a rushed interaction with one of his colleagues who, outfitted in gloves, white coat and hair net, had opened the door to the cold smoker, pointed in, closed it and unceremoniously given us a taste of their smoked salmon.  It had taken us quite a while to find the place and we were a little crestfallen about the blink-and-you'll-miss-it tour.  So, like I said, Frank couldn't have shown up at a better time.  With him, we lingered at the door of the smoking room.

A batch of smoked salmon had just been brought out and, with us out of his hair, the white coated gentleman of few words was going about the business of checking for stray bones and sealing the gorgeous orange slabs in plastic.  Now hanging in the smoker were sides of haddock.  On shelves beside them were all sorts of other treats, which Frank introduced to us one by one.  "We smoke butter, sun-blanched tomatoes, garlic."  He took one of the heads in his hand and showed us its slightly bronzed color.  Mussels, hundreds of them, covered long trays.  "The way they hold flavor..." he gushed.  They even smoke oats for a man who makes oatcakes.  "We're like Tabasco or Lee & Perrins," he said comparing his smoke to a condiment.  "Just adding a little bit of flavor."

The difference here is that they're not bottling the smoke, they're letting it waft over salmon, haddock, whole mackerel, silver eel (Frank's favorite) and all those other non-fishy delights.  And even if he is kind of "in the business of making smoke," what Frank Hederman's renowned for is his smoked salmon.  So, maybe the Tabasco reference is more apt because of the unique mastery of that little bit of flavor.  There's hot sauce and then there's tabasco.  There's smoked salmon and then there's Frank Hederman's smoked salmon.  After you've tasted it, it's hard not to feel like all the other smoked salmon you've had has been too salty, too oily, too strong, too smokey, "messed with too much" to borrow a phrase from Gertie.   There's a reason gourmet shops in London, fine dining institutions and even the caterers of Queen Elizabeth's birthday party, all call on Frank for his salmon.  It's sorta perfect. 

"Salmon gets you access," Frank said with a wry smile after a string of stories about boating with the Kennedys, staying in a London penthouse on the dime of Russian restauranteurs, inking a deal with gourmet markets in Dubai.  At a pub, I may have joked, "are you blowing smoke?"  In his smokehouse, after tasting the product, it was pretty clear that he wasn't.  The stuff is that good.  The anecdotes were regaled with a normal-guy-in-extraordinary-situations candor.  I mean, as 'normal' a guy as any minor celebrity who was profiled in the New York Times as the Steinway of smoked salmon.  ("Mr. Hederman smokes fish, which is a little like saying Steinway makes pianos")   Frank's been at this for 25 years, honing the craft/perfecting the science/mastering the art/making a name for himself and his product.

It starts with the fish, of course, farmed in Clare County, on the western coast of Ireland.  Sometimes he uses wild salmon, but the sustainability of the organically farmed fish is appealing and the quality more consistent.  Of course, they've been treated like gold.  Only the best.  Then, within 24 hours of being fished out of the water, they're in Belvelly Smoke House, near the southern coast, being filleted, salt cured and hung up in the cold smoke room.  "Did you notice how it wasn't oily at all?"  Oh, did I.  Hanging keeps the fish from developing an over-smoked crust and from sitting in its fat. Suspended, the salmon bathes in smoke piped in from the next door burning chamber.  Instead of oak, Frank uses beech, a wood with less tannins for a much more subtle flavor.  The beech chips come from the UK, all a specific size for precise burning speed.  Then, anywhere up to 20 hours later, the famous salmon is done.

Belvelly Smoke House is tucked at the end of a gravel drive away, just a few feet away from an old stone arched bridge and a ruined castle tower.  It doesn't get more Irish than this.  Frank lives in the house right beside it with his wife and children - he swears he can't even smell the smoke anymore.  It's a small batch operation, a careful, thoughtful business that turns out a luxury product at its most delicious.  We had our Irish-smoked Irish salmon this afternoon for lunch, at a picnic table on the side of the road, on crackers with English mustard and an avocado from who knows where.  We were sure to cut it just like Frank told us to, not at an angle or by skimming off the top, but in a slice straight down top to bottom.  "That way you get all the layers of flavor."  My jacket still smells like beech smoke.

Gypsy Kitchens: Baking with Gertie

"Gertie is responsible for bringing lasagna to Dungarvan," Pat told us proudly, but she's really famous for her scones.  In a local pub, we were told we just had to try them.  "You're staying at Kilcannon House? You have to have Gertie's scones."  Pat and Gertie Ormond had a cafe in town for years, one which churned out hundreds of scones and breads per day along with full breakfasts and lunches.  That sort of thing can get exhausting and, unfortunately, none of their three children had an interest in carrying on the family business.  So, now, it's the guests at their in-house B&B, Kilcannon, who get the honor of enjoying Gertie's cooking.  And, in our case, a cookery class with the master herself.

Baking with Gertie wasn't as much instructional as it was experiential and recipes were certainly not the focal point of the session.  In fact, the first lesson we learned was that there doesn't need to be anxiety about the exactness of baking or bread making.  There's always this feeling that 'baking' is more precise, scientific, mathematical than 'cooking,' and that a close focus and carefulness are key.  Gertie's school of thought was much different.  Sure, she knew all the measurements by heart, but questions about if a spoonful should be 'heaping' or 'leveled' or a 'handful' was the right size were always shrugged off with a "that's perfect!"  If we get our hands in there, she stressed, we'll feel that it's right.  Her process was one based on physical memory and an interaction with the ingredients.

Really, we were moving too quickly to take full head of every step of the process(es).  You see,  in about an hour and a half, we made two types of scones and two types of soda bread simultaneously.  One of us worked on one while the other was given a task for the other and all the while, Gertie moved between us taking our hands to help or taking over altogether.  It was more Show than Tell, more Feel than Measure.  She wasn't trying to teach us how to make scones or soda bread, but really how to bake.  Like pushing someone on a bike and then letting go, she was gave us the feeling of doing it, of hitting the sweet spot and trusted that we'll be able to get back there on our own.

This isn't to say that there was anything absent-minded or lackadaisical about baking with Gertie.  There was a process and a science, just one that had less to do with measurements and more to do with the chemistry of it all.  There was never a direction without an explanation, which is a hallmark of good teaching.  You've gotta understand to remember.  She stressed never letting your dough sit too long after adding baking soda, because of the chemical reactions.  Also, adding too much baking soda to white soda bread will make its color brown, because it burns.  A left hand was submerged in the dry mix before buttermilk was added with the right, that way we could feel our way to the perfect amount of liquid.  Something that was of the utmost important was air, "letting lots of air in."  The white flour was sifted three times to get as much air in as possible. 

Ingredients were combined with a soft touch for more air.  Instead of breaking the tabs of butter up inside the dry mixture or folding the raisins or cheese in, we were told to put both hands down deep into the bowl and bring the mixture up and out, letting it all sift through our fingertips.  It was a motion akin to tossing spaghetti, intermingling ingredients instead of mushing them together.   Another trick of the trade was to be careful about adding too much flour.  "That's what makes scones too hard."   This meant minimal handling of the dough once it was plopped down on a floured surface.  Messing with the dough too much also hardens it

Gertie's methods ensured that the scones wouldn't be hard and the soda bread wouldn't be dense.  What's funny is that we always thought hard and dense were words that were supposed to be associated with scones and soda bread.  It was a little like going to France after a lifetime of eating croissants and having someone tell you that they shouldn't be moist or doughy.  Because it's only the real deal croissants that are crusty and flaky.  The ones you don't come across all that often. At the end of our whirlwind baking session, we had a dozen cheese scones, a dozen raisin ones, a loaf of white soda bread and a load of brown.  Every morsel was fluffy, airy, pillowy.

Pat came in just as we were setting ourselves down beside the heaps of warm baked goods and afrench press of coffee.  "Did a little cooking?" he asked, bemused.  "She does this every morning," he said rolling his eyes and slacking his jaw, an expression of bystander fatigue and marvel.  And, indeed, as we said our goodbye the next morning, with a dozen or so scones and a loaf of bread still left over, Gertie went into the cupboard and got her handy 3 gallon container of cream flour.  "The kids are coming over for lunch, so I've got to get started!"

Tricks of the Trade

Sift your white flour three times for airiness
Once the baking soda is added, don't let sit too long
If you're white soda bread isn't perfectly white, there was too much soda in it
Never add egg-wash to the sides of your scone or pastry, it will weigh it down from fluffing up
Or just skip the egg wash altogether. "I wouldn't crack an egg for it.  It's only worth it if you have some egg left over or if you really want to impress someone. " - Gertie
Cut the X into the top of a round loaf with a scissor.  A knife will tear the dough.

Gertie's Top Five Baking Tips (which could also be general advice for life)

Lots of air
Don't mess with it too much
If you feel it, you'll know
Gotta get your hands dirty
Show it who's boss/Handle it gently (whichever is applicable. choose wisely)