There is another land...

I found an old diary entry the other day, an account of a trip we took to Cork for my 47th birthday. This was less than four years ago (I will be 51 this year) and it's like a postcard from another world. In this magical fantasy land I'm on buses, I'm on trains. I'm in (so many) pubs, I'm in restaurants. I'm under covered markets and patronising the lively arts. I'm relentlessly, heroically forking down cheese, and throwing back wine. At no point am I wearing a mask, or sanitising my hands. No lateral flow tests or covid passports appear in this account. And while I'm annoyed with a stranger at one point, it's because she's shouting her head off, not because she's casually spreading disease. I'm so carefree. I didn't have to think about any of this stuff. We were all so unencumbered then, so blithe. 

This might be the year that it all peters out. We may return to some semblance of normality. I really hope so. Cork sounds great. 

I'm going to Cork for my birthday. I've never been to Cork before, but all the people from Cork I spoke to about it thought that Cork was just great. Mind you, most people from most places in Ireland seem to think that where they're from is the best place in the world. In Belfast you can narrow that to streets. Coming from Basingstoke, a word which, despite my using it in almost everything I write, spell-check refuses to recognise, this sort of loyalty does not apply. I can't think of a pub in the entire town that I would recommend without an apologetic smile. In the White Hart in Basingstoke a girlfriend once dragged me into the ladies to show me the largest unbroken turd I'd ever seen. It was coiled in the limpid waters like the Lambton worm - I'd never previously seen a poo lurk, but this poo lurked alright. It was truly impressive, but not the sort of thing to turn up in a Michelin Guide. I don't think there's even a plaque outside.

In order to get to Cork we have to go via Dublin, so we get a bus to the bus station and then a bus to Dublin. We have two hours in Dublin before the Cork train but, being a nervous nelly, I insist on walking from the bus station to the Paul Hewson Train Station* to make sure there are no problems with our pre-booked tickets. It’s a straight line on a single street that hugs the river and its not raining, so we stroll, meeting the only two types of people we are destined to meet in Dublin: tourists and junkies. Of the two the tourists are the more annoying, the junkies the better dressed. The tourists flock in gangs with wet sunglasses and cagoules, clumping at pedestrian crossings, or walking at two miles an hour, three abreast, their arms folded behind their backs like Prince Charles pottering around an ornamental garden. Their specialty move is the "short-stop", stolen from Frank Costanza, no doubt. 

The junkies are all drama: there's always something going on. Shapes are thrown, vigorous symbolic points and jabs - there are inarticulate cries of the heart. They're like supporting figures in a Caravaggio painting, if Caravaggio hadn't quite got the eyes right. 

Having secured the tickets and my peace of mind, Susie and I retire to "The Brazen Head - Officially Ireland's Oldest Pub, dating back to 1198" which means it has probably seen off plenty of foreign invaders in its time. Today it welcomes them - entire coachloads of neat European pensioners drift in for their half pint of Guinness, before being herded back on the bus by a harassed looking woman with a lanyard and a clipboard. Once again, I am impressed with the efficiency of the Dublin barman: quick, accurate and always multitasking. The food was pretty standard pub grub, but the service was excellent. 

We arrive in Cork two and half hours later and at the head of a tempest. As we alight the train the squall hits us, and we traipse miserably through the wasteland that abuts the station: rotting hulks of buildings, crumbling, root torn paving slabs, scribbled on, confetti-ed concrete cliffs. The smell of wet dust. Cork looks like a corpse dragged up on the beach. We battle on to our hotel, The Imperial, and everything changes. It’s a classy hotel. Our room is large, tastefully decorated in lovely Celtic greens. The only slightly disquieting thing is the complete lack of natural daylight - there are two windows, both heavily, starchily curtained, one of which has been covered over with a kind of foil, the other reveals that there is a large square generator like object outside. But hey, what do I care? The outside isn't worth seeing today. It’s not really an issue. And we both agree that the sink is beautiful. 

We dress and head out: we have tickets for the theatre. Druid are doing their version of "Waiting for Godot" at the Everyman, and we have tickets. "Waiting for Godot" is a funny one, in every respect. You almost feel as if you don't need to see it - it should be inside you. It’s that iconic. In the same way that all toddlers can now use a tablet from birth, I was born into a post-bellum existentialist world: Godot is part of my genetic makeup, it is who I am. I've seen it once before - maybe thirty years ago at the National Theatre with John Alderton as Vladimir, I forget the circumstances. But I see it everywhere: its cultural impact lends it a ubiquity, it is a shorthand for existential struggle, this play where, famously, nothing happens, twice. 

In fact, I'd forgotten whole chunks of it: the bits with the moon, that Pozzo goes blind, Vladimir's prostate. Druid Theatre's production is fabulous: beautifully staged, haunting, savage, and funny. The characters are beautifully drawn: Marty Rea's Vladimir is wonderful, a distracted philosopher with a raging bladder. Rory Nolan's Pozzo is great too, imbued with Mr Toad manners, and a tragic symbiotic relationship with his benighted slave. And did I say it was funny? "Waiting for Godot" is always meant to be funny, but this actually was funny, properly playing with the rhythm of the piece, teasing out the call-backs, the catchphrases, while super-charging the slapstick. It was a fantastic show. And the Everyman a beautiful theatre. We had a brilliant time. 

Back at the hotel, however, all was not well. 

We elect to go to the hotel bar. As usual we are so anaemic and ghostly that the server, who seats us immediately, forgets we exist. I track her down and she takes our order, forgets us again, is reminded again, returns with the drink order of the only other couple in the bar, is startled to see us, and scurries off to finally place the order. In the interim another server has appeared and tried to get involved, but we have had to wave her off. Eventually the first one returns with the drinks and gives Susie my drink because it is wine, and she is a woman. The whole enterprise takes about twenty minutes, and we resolve to drink up as soon as possible.  

The bar area is empty except for one other couple, but there is a larger “club” area that is glutted with noise. There is woman facing me, behind Susie, whose conversational voice would confuse a blue whale. At first, I think a fight has broken out, but no, she’s just chatting. Her voice travels through her friend's head, through the wood, leather and stuffing of the chair-back, through Susan's chair, through the back of her head like a sniper's bullet and straight into my face. I can hear each syllable vibrating in the backs of my eyeballs. She is loud.  

As the place starts to fill up everyone has to compete with her, so soon everyone is shouting. They're all red faced, glazed with booze, bellowing and imagining they're great craic. A peculiar condition of the Irish is that they mistake volume for humour. It is a challenge for my prim, withered-on-the-vine English sensibilities.  

We leave, failing to put the sass in sassenach, and attempt to pay the bill. We don’t really have to – the server's completely forgotten us again, to the point that she tries to seat us as soon as we get her attention. But we do pay, through a misguided sense of decency.  

We retire to the room. We already knew there were no viable windows: the frames are taped over and heavily curtained. But now the generator or whatever it is outside has sprung noisily to life. It reverberates tonally and at different volumes as it works its way through its eccentric cycle, from a low-level hum to a tooth-rattling growl. It won't stop. The rhythm constantly shifts, it’s erratic, so you can't even relax into it. It’s like a washing machine outside the window randomly wandering in and out of its spin-cycle.  

I phone down to reception. You will of course not believe this, having got this far, but I’m not a natural complainer, at least not in any formal capacity. I do that thing of grizzling bitterly about the meal until the waiter asks me if I'm enjoying the food, at which point I flash a spinachy smile and a double thumbs up. But a half bottle of Merlot and full day’s travel have not put me in the mood for an unrequested Silver Apples concert outside my bedroom.  

It’s two in the morning and the bloke on reception can do nothing. He apologises in a uniquely mournful Cork accent, but there are no other rooms, so his hands are tied. We sit there listening to the drones until Susie works out that if we put the air-conditioning on, we can blot out the generator's atonal whine with something like womb music. It works - we sleep surprisingly well and in the morning the hotel changes our room without a quibble. The new room is light and airy - the sun is shining today - which we can see through our fully functioning window. Cork is transformed. It is beautiful.  

We hit the English market, have breakfast at Cafe Marius, and go for a wander. We have a mooch around, getting our bearings, working out the peculiar warren of hills and bridges that Cork is built on. We stop for a drink at Brick Lane and then on to a pub that Susie has heard of called The Mutton Lane Inn. It is dark and cosy as the pocket of a battered pair of corduroys: part womb, part earthwork. We love it. From there we move on to Sine, which is also fine, and then back to the hotel to dress for dinner.  

We are dining at a restaurant called Gourmandises, which I picked principally because it shares a name with an Alizee song I've always liked. I have a new shirt that Susie has bought me: a green cavalry twill with faux-bone (plastic) buttons and I've slapped on copious amounts of my new aftershave, Cacherel Pour Homme (slightly soapy dry-down with a nutmeggy finish, if you were wondering) and we head out. The restaurant is great, the food delicious, the ambiance conducive to conversation - I can't recommend it highly enough. It has a cloth covered domed ceiling, meaning the music and chat don’t slap-back angrily from the walls. There is instead a gentle murmur of conversation. It’s relaxing, convivial. I can't remember the last time I went to a restaurant that was like this. I don't like to shout at the best of times, and certainly not when I'm chewing. I recommend unreservedly (but you will need a reservation).**        

We head back to the hotel and our quiet room. Bliss.  

On Sunday it is my actual birthday. I'm 47. What a ridiculous age. Nothing ever happened to a 47-year-old except a sudden, unexpected death. And it remains disturbingly near 50, by anyone's standards. ***  

Starting as I mean to go on, I spend it in a bar called Cask, drinking Merlot and devouring a fine cheeseboard with quince. There is an incredible cheese called Gubbeen Smoked that we later track down in the English Market and take home. The sun is shining, and we are sitting, rather basking, in the window. Susan, eyes closed, is smiling like the Cheshire cat and Ted Nugent's "Stranglehold" is playing which, surprisingly, is great. If being 47 stays exactly like this, it’s not going to be too bad.  

Susie orders a cocktail called "A Man of Arran" - it’s like an orangey peaty whiskey but better than that sounds. It’s utterly delicious. The ghost of a look of bliss steals across her face. I am afforded a couple of sips and feel obliged to note down the ingredients:  

"Connemara Peated Whiskey, Dillisk, Smoked Wakame, Mancino Bianco, Grapefruit Oils" 

I have heard of whiskey and grapefruit. Is wakame seaweed?  

We head for a place called Dr Mayne's Pharmacy, literally three minutes’ walk from the hotel. It is another of the dimly lit cave's that I prefer, this one chockfull of elderly pharmacological apparatus. There are candles, bare sandstone walls, alcoves. The mellifluous burble of conversation. George Brassens and Willie Nelson play, separately. I pick up a hardback book: it is an ancient Edgar Wallace adventure. We order a bottle of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc and chink glasses, and I am firmly convinced that this is now my favourite bar in the world.  

It is a dreamy end to delightful trip and a singularly painless first foray into the world of being 47. The next day is raining, training, bussing and no boozing. But we return and we haven't been robbed. Oh, and I have good news - but I'm not telling you what it is yet. ****       

 

*I think this is a joke. Is this a joke? 

**You can’t go. Gourmandises shut down about three years ago. Sake. 

***This has aged badly. Like myself. 

****I can no longer remember what this good news was.