The Enchanting Land of the Leprechauns

Sitting here with little green fairies flying around my head after ten pints of Guinness and absinth that I gulped down on good old St. Patty’s, I say to the fairy sitting on my shoulder that the land of the Celtic Leprechauns (Ireland) is quite magical in a Lord of the Rings sort of mushroom trip kind of way. Our endless journey began by escaping the Queens island known as England to dangerously trek across the vast ocean filled with ferocious piranhas and sharks to finally make it to the luscious green valley of the leprechauns. After being unsuccessful in my attempt to kidnap Prince Williams to make him my royal sex slave, Erica and I had no choice but to flee the country. Arriving at the train station in London we began our journey with a flat out, “Um sorry love it looks like you won’t be headin to Dublin unless you take the night train and ferry and that will cost you about five million pounds, Cheerio and thanks a mil love.” says the train receptionist wench. Before having terretz and blurting out, “god damn British wench hooker money smuggling sun of a English mofo,” I departed the ticket stand and stomped outside with Erica nervously following behind like a kid in trouble. While nervously twitching with the thought of being trapped and loosing our pre booked hotel reservations and some serious money, Erica and I found solitude by ingesting baguettes and scones out of female panic, and made the educated conclusion that since we are already completely fucked left right and sideways, why not get completely “shattered” (drunk in British slang) and eat some delicious Indian food before heading out on our night journey where we can only hope that we will not get violated by a bunch of dodgy (shady in British slang) drunk British sailors. So off we go to a hidden little British pub where we enjoyed a few delicious Belgium Hoegardens in the middle of the afternoon and then stumbled into a little South Indian restaurant where we feasted like royal kings over oven hot fresh nun bread, spicy lamb in coconut milk drizzled with green peppers, yellow chicken curry with potatoes and sautéed tomatoes and but of course, a twenty ounce of Indian beer known as King Cobra. Out of sincere sympathy Ali Bab Wa, our Indian waiter, called to get some assistance from his construction worker cousin Booli boo boo Ka Baab to hoist us both up on a trench lift and roll us over to the train station since we had now blown up into the robust 300 pound blueberry spoiled girl in the Willy Wonka movie and simply could not walk. Arriving back at the train station we picked up our luggage which is bigger than the eight year old largest obese child named Slovak from Russia and headed through customs to get on the magical Polar Express. I am so thankful that Erica quickly made friends with a an English chap named Mr. Smith and ran off to the train pub to have a pint while I got yelled at by the British Gestapo for not having my paper work filled out properly. Fortunately after escaping the train station concentration camp, I joined Erica and her new English consultant business men buddies to a couple more pints before heading onto the night train to a dreadful little shit hole known as Holy Head to catch the night ferry.
While peacefully dreaming about Prince Williams whisking me off my feet onto his white unicorn galloping outside the gates of the Buckingham Palace, through the luscious St. James green park which is filled with golden daffodils, cherry blossoms, and clumsy ducks waddling around by the lake filled with swans over and under the London Bridge, to the house of Parliament to get down on his knees and officially ask my hand in marriage to live with him for all eternity in his royal palace just like his beautiful mum Princess Diana, I was abruptly awoken by some god awful scolding in some weird elf language which I found out later is called Gaelic. I jump up out of my seat to witness some belligerently old drunk man loudly yelling at some woman who is shrilling back at him. Clearly this was a case of domestic violence between two severe alcoholics that although have aged reptile skin of a 1,000 year old corpse and smell like an Irish whiskey distillery, were clearly around the age of 45. Nevertheless, Erica and the rest of the passengers were horrified to witness the two of them going at it. While this proceeded for the remaining two hours without security doing a darn thing except asking them nicely to quiet down, I figured the only resolution was to pull a James Bond move in Mission Impossible and grab my revolver out of my bag and shoot two clean bullets directly square in the middle of their foreheads.
Phew, free of the Belfast drunken elves, its 1 am, and the worst is over. All we need to do now is wait in the freezing cold Holy Head port station for three hours to connect at 3am to Dublin. Holy Head, more like holy fucking hell is what I would describe this experience because just when we thought I had left the Belfast elves on the train with their brains blown out, I am again woken up by the shrilling witch cackling of the wife. While literally laying on the cold filthy floor of the station with jackets bundled around me for warmth and using my suitcase as a pillow, I imagined myself jumping up and down screaming at the top of my lungs, “Shut the fuck up I am trying to dream about Prince Williams because that is about the most action I have had in years and you shit heads are ruining it for me!” Surely I would have had been smacked over the head with the husbands metal cane if I dared, so of course, I kept my mouth shut. Nevertheless the exhausted passengers and I were completely delirious at this time so all we could do is sit up and watch the two of these maniacs gulp down large beers and water bottles filled with dirty whisky while screaming and yelling at each other across different sections of the station. At one point the wife was so insistent of egging on her husband that he stormed over to her and raised his hand acting like he was going to back hand her across the face but instead, decided to smack her flabby thigh so hard that it made a large rippling thigh wave effect noise throughout the station. So I know that is not exactly what is considered funny but since the crazy witch continued to shrill curses at him, the whole scenario was amusing in a sick kind of way. What made it even nuttier was a handsome elegant British black man was somehow still asleep right next to them and after the smack ricocheted loudly in his ear, he jumped up in his seat and instead of moving away, crouched his head down in a timid sort of way and looks directly at me for some kind of assistance or reasoning for this madness being conducted in front of all of our eyes. I shrug my shoulders at him thinking what do you expect me to do, walk over and ask the husband to stop playing the drums on his wife’s thighs because this British pre-Madonna would like to continue sleeping? I mean he could have easily been a famous model on a magazine with his Gucci attire and all but hello, I know I am strong as ox, but I am not Holy Head security.
Finally after boarding Erica and I cross our fingers that security will not allow the Belfast drunken elves to board but to our delight, here they come heading right for the ferry bar. Three hours later of screaming in our ears, 6 am, and fatigued beyond your worst nightmare, and we have finally arrived to Dublin. While rushing past the domestic violence Irish drunks I am amazed to see that they are still in full effect party mode like they are at Mardi Gras. Not only that, but they have managed to gain about five other fellow partiers to join them in banging on the table with forks singing loud folk songs about how much they hate the English and the dreadful tyrant Oliver Cromwell, along with unexplainable salt poured in piles all over the table. To make things even more insane, the married couple had their arms around each other like they were a happy newly wed couple that had not been beating each other up for the past 16 hours in front of a bunch of strangers. Finally we dash out to what we think is safety to get stuck on the dock way with one of the Belfast elves new friends. He proceeds to blab in an aggressive loud Russian accent about how excited he is to see me again since apparently, we were on the earlier bus together. While this coo coo Russian mafia man was contemplating how he was going to stuff me into his suitcase and sell me into Moscow prostitution, he offensively got in my face stupidly grinning and slurred some gibberish that not even my crazy drunk brother would be able to translate. Delirious and with a short fuse, I literally saw black and proceeded to have a moment of insanity resulting in me flipping out and saying something like, “Get the fuck away from me and I don’t give a flying fuck if you know me, I don’t want to talk to you.” So like a typical dog in heat, or should I say typical man, he clearly thought this was an inviting challenge and continued to follow Erica and I throughout the ship trying to talk to us and asking us over and over and over again where we were going and why don’t we go with him. As I was getting ready to round house kick him in the face causing all of his nasty yellow teeth to fly out, the British black model literally saves us and directs us to the exit sign and off we sprint to what we think is the correct bus to get us to the next train station. After not only a few passengers, the elegant black British model, and even the bus driver assuring us this was the right bus, we figure we were on our way to Galway or at least escaping the Belfast elves and Russian mafia. Making pleasant conversation with the model, he reassured us that even he had never seen anything like this before on the ferry. Sure enough, we were dropped off at the tram station not the train station because as much as the British and Irish attempt to help you, they seem to be as lost as us tourists. After backtracking on a jam packed tram to get to the train station with Erica literally falling out of the tram within seconds of fainting from exhaustion hunger and overheating, I manage to nurse her back to health and we make it to Galway after 18 hours of traveling.
Thankfully after escaping Auschwitz we have finally entered the magical green world of leprechauns, dungeons, castles, floating fairies, and landscapes of limestone rocks sprinkled in wild flora and fauna. Cruising alongside Burren’s green countryside with black faced lambs grazing in the fields, fat cows munching on grassy hillsides above massive turquoise blue oceans, and mountain pony’s scaling high up along the edges of the limestone massive cliffs, I imagine myself chilling on a large limestone boulder surrounded by four leaf clovers with Tom Cruise playing the elf in the movie Legend. Of course I would be playing the beautiful princess. Seeing Ireland with my own eyes makes me question the authenticity of all the ancient legends that we were told as children. As we grow into adults we automatically assume that all of these fairytale stories were indeed just make believe and that leprechauns sitting on rainbows with gold pots, princesses being trapped at the top of castles with their only hope of escape is to have a prince rescue them by climbing up their tall ladder length of golden locks of hair, and a greedy money hungry prince turning everything he touches into gold until he starves to death, were all just made up by some crazy Irish people. Indeed whether Irish legends are true or completely make believe, Ireland is nevertheless enchanting. Hearing various legends about some of the castles we saw made me feel like a giddy kid who just found a four leaf clover. My favorite was the one in which a red headed Irish princess named Maire Rua McMahon who lived in the Dunguaire Castle was forced, according to Oliver Cromwell’s tyrannical rule, to marry an English protestant in order to own land and the castle. Mysteriously, she somehow continued to end up widowed after killing off one husband after another. The last husband disappeared off the cliffs of Moher which I was fortunate enough to visit after hearing the legend. The legend ends by warning you to beware of the fiery red heads of Ireland. As I began to walk through marshy grasses towards The Cliffs of Moher which stand 200 meters high, I quickly layered up because of the fierce strong cold winds blowing from both the east and west. At the very top of the cliff nestles a little deserted stone castle with an old man playing traditional Irish folk music on a skinny long whistle. As you stand at the edge you can see across the Atlantic the spectacular Clare coastline, Cannemara mountains, and the Aran islands. The tide rises so high that the water lightly sprays above the cliffs leaving a dewy misty effect. Although Lord of the Rings was filmed in New Zealand, I could not help but imagine Frodo and his team scaling against the cliffs of Moher in the bitter cold winter. Come to find out, after meeting some very friendly New Zealanders at the O’Connell’s pub in Cork on St. Patty’s, New Zealand looks very similar to Ireland and actually Ireland is even greener year round.
Just a short distance from the high Cliffs of Moher lies the deep mysterious Aillwee Caves and the megalithic monument tomb of Poulnabrone Dolmen which dates back from 2500 BC. As we strolled deep into the pitch black caves inside the mountain with only a flashlight for vision assistance, we came across magnificent stagalites and stalagmites dangling above and below us, fossil remains of an extinct bear, and at the end of the dark damp cave a beautiful waterfall. I was amazed to see when we got outside that a handicapped man with nothing left below his waist had trekked across the entire cave by using his hands as his feet. Watching him get around without a care in the world for assistance or pity was absolutely amazing especially considering that clumsy me, with full use of legs, nearly tripped and bumped my head on shallow parts of the cave at least ten times. Seeing this courageous individual also gave me a stark reminder of how blessed I am to have a fully working body after only four months after an accident that could have easily left me completely paralyzed or even dead. Would I have been as courageous as him to travel across the world to come to the Ailwee Caves in Ireland without legs? I can only hope somewhere deep within me I could have strength like him.
Amazingly enough this little country that consists of only four million people probably has a castle in every city. The Blarney (introduced by Queen Elizabeth 1 meaning pleasant talk intended to deceive without offending) Castle is magnificent because as one enters the foregrounds, you must walk along a little stream over a few bridges before reaching the front of the massive limestone castle. At the very top lies the magical Blarney stone in which according to the legend, whomever kisses the stone will have a life of eloquence. The climb alone was quite claustrophobic because it’s a very narrow damp stone flight of spiraling stairs and you only have a rope to hold onto for support. As we were heading down the stairs I mindlessly slipped slightly and had to hold on the rope for dear life. If I were to really have fallen, I would have definitely wiped out Erica and created a domino effect of the rest of the people below us. As we reached the roof of the castle which has battlements at all four corners for guards to have kept watch over the fortress, I immediately felt a little woozy because not only was the wind about to nearly knock me off the roof, but also there was not very high barricades to protect me from falling. When we reached the magical Blarney stone an old man has you sit down backwards and then leans you back while you grasp these metal handle bars. He leans you through this stone opening so that you can kiss the stone backwards while all the while looking down to your falling death because you are so high up. Clearly I was so petrified leaning back that I wouldn’t release my grip on the bars and the dirty old man perversely remarks, “Come on dearie, lean back further just like ya like it.” Since I couldn’t exactly let go of one had to smack him across the face unless I wanted to fall through the crack, I was forced to obey and leaned back to smooch the stone. Sick dirty old perv, hopefully one day he has to lay back a beefy 500 pound Midwestern American woman that he obviously can’t support and she drags his ass through the stone crack to his death bed.

Surrounding the perimeters of this curious place there are gardens filled with wild flowers and gigantic trees that stretch out for miles. At the end of the gardens sits the Circle of Druidic in which has ancient large stones arranged in an eerie circular pattern for a centre of worship during Pre-Christian days. To the right of the Circle of Druidic resides the Witch Stone and below it, is the mystical wishing steps. You begin at the top of the steps that lead you down a little cave to the bottom and must go down backwards with your eyes closed in order for your wish to come true. I can’t tell you what I wished because then it won’t come true but I have faith that one day this dream will come true with the assistance of the wishing steps of the Blarney Castle.
Well we certainly finished off Ireland the right way on St. Patty’s in the South West Fisherman’s Wharf town of Cork with a pint of Guinness, dressed up in all green with a headband of leprechauns dangling on top of my head, and enjoying the lively parade in the center. My highlight of St. Patties was drunkenly strolling past a bunch of obnoxious Irish kids that were cursing something in Gaelic with every other word being “fuck.” When Erica looked at the little seven year old shit head who was missing his front teeth, he rushed behind her and pushed her behind. We both turned around in shock with the nerve of this little brat and he yells loudly in a strong Gaelic accent, “Fouk You!” Poor Erica was so personally insulted by this that she shook her finger at him like an old granny and said, “You watch your mouth young man or someone is going to wash it out with soap.” Thinking that the boy would run away scared of Erica’s shaking finger in his face, instead, he pushes her in the ass again! I was so appalled by this that not until a few minutes later did I realize the humor of the nutty situation and began laughing hysterically. Nevertheless, after Erica was attacked by a toothless seven year old we finished off our St. Patties watching drunken Irish folks doing a traditional River dance like no joke, seriously straight out from that River Dance show that used to be popular with the gay guy hopping around with a bright green headband, and then last but not least, I jumped a little leprechaun in the alley and stole his pot of gold.