County Cork and a How-to with Tools

One thing I know I will miss after leaving Ireland will be the very low tool factor at bars here. At home, I am immediately defensive when a new person, especially one who is alone and male, strikes up a conversation at a bar. This is not homophobia, as it is not the potential for being hit on which bothers me. It is not tool-phobia, either, since the fear is rational. The fact of the matter is that a fair percentage (a third?) of the people who would initiate conversation without reason at home are either hammered or unable to socialize well. They are tools. I presume this is absent here because pubs are such an integral part of the culture. It's not just a gathering spot for drunken youths, or even drunks at all. Sure there are bars here that cater to that set, but your typical Irish pub will have a range of people from 25 to 75, sober and drunk, male and female, single and in groups. If someone starts up a conversation it gives you no indication as to their tool factor. It's refreshing. I suspect it also has a lot to do with why Ireland strikes most Americans as such a friendly place.

Unfortunately I was reminded of this by an exception to the Irish rule. The weekend before St. Me Day I went down to County Cork to see Cork City and the Town of Cobh. My goals had been simple: I wanted to see the Cork City Gaol, a 19th century prison, Cobh's Queenstown Experience, which tells the story of Irish Emigrants at their last port of call, and hopefully, a couple pubs.

In short, I was successful in those goals. I walked around both of these municipalities, and if you plan to follow in my footsteps, be ready for a workout. Both these seaside spots are hilly on the order of San Francisco.
The prison sits on the crest of one of these hills. The Cork City Gaol was a very cool experience, perhaps enhanced by my own interest in prisons and punishment. For six euro, I got to tour a prison erected at the turn of the 19th century. The upside was the ability to roam freely, even in and out of cells; downside was that only two wings were open on two floors out of six wings on three floors. Included in the entry fee was a set of headphones to guide you along and impart information; a nice touch. Plus both the headphones and the prison itself had sound effects to add to the atmosphere.

My one confirmed communist reader will probably not be surprised to learn that the vast majority of prisoners were the poor and unemployed. The prison logs are filled with petty offenses like theft of sundries, unpaid debts, and public drunkenness. There were a few especially poignant stories: the youngest prisoner, a nine year old sentenced to two weeks jail time and twice-daily whippings for thieving brass fittings. A man with over thirty public drunkenness convictions; each time he would serve a few weeks to a few months only to get re-arrested a few days after release. A pregnant woman convicted of stealing cloth for her fledging seamstress business - they commuted the last month of her sentence so she could give birth. One looks at today's mandatory minimums for drug users and wonders if we've learned anything. Especially troubling is the fact that a former Irish High Court Justice Fergus Flood was on the radio during my trip down, opining that Ireland ought to introduce mandatory minimums and a lowering of the burden of proof for drug crimes.

At the risk of being a public drunk myself, I stopped into The Avenue Bar on my way back down the hill to town. Here is where I noticed the Cork accent. It is almost sing-songy. If I had been in a more touristy spot I would have been convinced it was fake. But this was the type of place where eight men and four women all sat against one wall of the pub, facing the one telly watching Ireland pummel Wales in the Six Nations Rugby Tournament. If you'll forgive me a far-flung reference, the Cork accent reminds me of that part in Trading Places, when Jamie Lee Curtis' character pretends to be Inga from Sweden - "please be helping me with my rucksack?" It's like the long vowels are held out for three beats. Very cool.

On my way to my B&B, I found the Hibernia Bar (aka the Hi-B), recommended by Frommer's as "a real insider's place." And boy was it. It was on the second floor above a pharmacy, about the size of your living room and similarly furnished. For some reason it had the faint odor of talcum powder. I only had time for a quick pint before getting to the B&B - last check in at 8pm, plus I was catching the early train to Cobh the next day. But I promised to come back. As I sat at the bar chatting and drinking, four French tourists came in with packs and settled onto one of the beaten leather couches. The one who seemed to have the best command of English came up and ordered four cups of coffee. The bartender looked at the clock, then said, "no. It is much too early for that."

The Frenchman waited, then asked, "are you serious?"

"Yaa. I'm noot pootin oon coffee at half six. Ya want soometin else?"

. . .

My quick review of Cobh and the Queenstown Experience goes like this: love the town, but the Experience was a bit overrated. I don't regret it, because just walking around town was worth it, but I just found the Experience to be little more than reading plaques. Oh well. I had a great walk around town, a superb bowl of chowder at Trade Winds, and after a debate, a pint at The Marisitania over either The Lusitania or The Titanic (the latter two both having their last port of call in Cobh).

Once back in Cork, I hustled over to the Hi-B and enjoyed a few pints. Unfortunately the exception to the tool rule was there. It started off well enough. I had showed the bartender that they made the Frommer's guide, and it got passed around and made me a bit of an insider myself. The guy next to me, who reeked of cigarette smoke and had gray hair growing on every visible part of his body, asked what I was doing in Ireland. Hearing law, he started to quote the Irish Constitution to me. Thinking I'd impress him, I quoted it back. This seemed to upset him. He didn't like the fact that the government had "abandoned" the Catholic spirit of the constitution. Then he gave me a diatribe about how professors read all the wrong books. He also seemed disgusted that I refused his offer of snuff (tobacco up my nose? I'll pass). It was getting obvious that he was drunk, and an angry one at that.

Trying to change the subject, I asked what he did for a living. He was a former teacher who was now a writer and a poet. He then railed about how he had written thousands of poems and was a better writer than Joyce and better poet than Yeats. Okay, pal. This is where I would have gotten rid of him by walking to another part of the bar, or to other friends. Not possible here. So I took a page out of little brother's book. I bought him a double shot of Jameson's whiskey. In about twenty minutes his head started bobbing and he stumbled for the door. Sweet.