Little is as important to a body the morning after a six-course Thanksgiving meal as a hearty breakfast. Well, I’ll actually admit that I needed something. Even six courses couldn’t soak up the two sherries and three bottles of wine we split and the thankfully uncounted shots of whiskey of the night prior.
The castle’s buffet included fruits of the season as well as dried/stewed renditions of the out-of-season varietals. There were breakfast cereals and pastries fresh from the oven. I’m pretty sure we’d seen the bakers coming into the kitchen as we were finding our way to our rooms. And lastly, cheeses from local farms, and Limerick Ham—one of the great joys of Irish cuisine.
A question one does not expect to hear as the wait staff is clearing the remains of the second pot of coffee and dusting scone crumbs from the tablecloth is, “And what would you like for your cooked breakfast?”
The castle’s Irish breakfast appeared to have a cold course followed by à la carte selections that ranged from a full traditional breakfast with local black pudding—the pride of County Clare—or Irish beef hash with spuds grown on the property to poached wild salmon, or my favorite, lightly smoked, paprika-hued kippers with local eggs. Not that I needed, wanted, or should have had the second course. Still, the girls were slow to rise, and I wasn’t looking forward to moving from the table—or anywhere, really—in the foreseeable future.
Like a sailor on his second night of shore leave, I rallied when the two fillies finally descended to the dining room and requested hair of the dog in the form of Bloody Marys. I decided not to mix my liquors. Few enough hours had passed between my last dram and now that anything other than whiskey would be mixing, so I ordered a drop for my coffee.
I also took advantage of the fuzzy memory of absconding with the president’s stash and requested that the cost be added to my bill.
“Oh, Mister Gleason, our maître has already taken care of that. Said it was his pleasure, and he was happy to see ye three having such a fine time.”
Not only did we drink the president’s whiskey … we drank it for free.
I do love that place.
* * *
Leaving Sadie with the gamekeeper just a little while longer, we loaded the bags and their luggage (oh, they’re going to kill me for that one) into the skate-ball bag for one last trip in the abomination of a car. Dogs being strictly forbidden in hired cars, I didn’t want to jeopardize my already precarious positioning with Your Man down at the rental desk.
The trip to the airport for Sheri and Bridget was a good time to replace the skate-ball bag before ongoing chiropractic care would be needed. Also, my next trip planned for Shannon was a few days beyond the twenty-eight days, going over which would apparently land me on Interpol’s most-wanted list. So, we three set off for the airport: the return flight for them, a replacement auto for me, and the beginning of my first spell alone with Sadie since my parents had landed just days after my arrival.
The usual hugs and tears were usurped by the things one must focus on when traveling: which side of security to buy your €12 bottle of water, where to stop to get your VAT refunded, how to find out if the layover in Chicago is long enough to make the connection … those kind of things. I left the two in a state of pre-travel hysteria and swung the skate-ball bag into the rental return lot.
Planning on another twenty-eight day hire, I had to be picked up off the floor when Martin quoted me the price. (I didn’t want to familiarize myself with him enough for him to become “Your Man.”) Not only was it more than I was expecting to pay for a month’s hire, Martin was about to charge me more than I had been e-quoted for my entire three-month stay. Seeing that smelling salts were nearly in order, an older and sure-footed woman came to my rescue, albeit speaking in hushed tones with a wandering eye for eavesdroppers.
“Take a one-way hire to the Kerry Airport,” she said, “just for a week or so. I’ll text the manager down there and we’ll get you set right.”
With that, she backed away slowly, as if our conversation had never happened. Part of me wondered if it really had. She disappeared behind a door I hadn’t noticed before and I did not see her again. I had to wonder if, like the walking stick that made itself known when I was in need, she was sent to help.
Two weeks hire was all I could get at my old and I still thought “contracted for” rate. The Kerry airport was a MUCH shorter drive, only about fifty minutes or so, than the six-hour-plus Shannon round trip. Your one may not only have saved me money, but also a rather significant portion of my remaining months might be added back on to the visit. I had a lilt in my step as I walked out of the rental shed. Only the right, however, as my left leg was beginning to drag.
So much so, in fact, that I stopped and did a quick calculation of how much Your One had just saved me. I spun around and asked for an automatic transmission upgrade. (All right, I carefully made a three-point-turn with cane in one hand and the rental shed’s wall in the other.) If the curb from which I had been about to descend was a worry, I could not imagine having to work a clutch on my trip back to the castle to fetch Herself and then back down to Kerry.
We shortened the rental to a week—as the fairy lady had suggested in the first place—and even with the one-way fee, I wasn’t out any more money than Your Man must have saved me on the decanter of malt.
The Acne Carriage that awaited me in the appointed slot made me, once again, happy that I’d be turning it around in shorter time than expected. What was it with me and Irish rental cars?