And the Corking goes on

Was Carry on Camping really a comedy????

In the morning I squelch my way through liquid mud to the toilet block, it is still raining, and the wind blows my 2I dare not go out without it2 brolly inside out. I shower, pressing the button every 15 seconds for another short spurt of water, then dry myself with my super lightweight, super absorbent, super expensive, bloody useless camping towel. Dressed and damp I stand in front of the tumble dryer and pay two euros to watch my towel dry. I think, "sod it", and get a taxi to Blarney, body surf on the puddles into a Blarney cafe, and order a full works cooked breakfast.

The scrambled egg is drier than me, but the service is friendly. Aidan my waiter tells me that last week in Blarney they had photograper Spencer Tunick doing a nude art installation photoshoot up at the castle. Apparently "Four t'ousand locals went up there at t'ree a.m. and stripped off for it." He goes coy when I ask if he joined in, but eagerly turns around to show me his behind saying, "Do you think my bottom would be good enough?" I tell him about my blog and ask if I can take his photo for it. He is very excited about this and we go around the corner "to do it in private". He then pats my behind rather too many times and says "For the record you´ve got a very nice bottom too."
Suitably be-pac-a-macced I sail into Cork on a bus.

The ferries of the Eireann Bus Company in Cork have metre wide rolls of green paper towel on board. I ask what they are for and am told, quite obviously, they are "for folk to dry themselves off a little bit before sitting down". So, did I mention the rain? The ceaseless, driving pouring relentless rain? I spend the afternoon holed up in an internet cafe with Dr No style leatherette chairs, free coffee and cold Kit-Kats for sale. I catch up on news from home via email and check in online for my next flight. When I emerge a couple of hours later I blink in to the light of a strange orange glow in the sky. I pac my mac and go to see what's going on.

Busking wars.

On every corner is a guy playing a guitar, or a gal plinking the piano. I hear a very lusty version of 'Annies Song' being bashed out on four guitars by what look like "church folk" in aid of the "homeless and the needy". After the night I've had I consider asking them to take me home, tuck me up in starchy sheets and spoon feed me scalding hot broth from a bowl. Instead I toss them 2 euros of money I am no longer earning.

Round the corner in St Patrick's Street is a big stage set up with trad Irish music coming cheerily from the speakers, it's drawing quite a crowd and now one of the musicians is dancing. To the side of the stage a different kind of entertainment is taking place. A young large wild eyed man with a guitar and a tweedy cap appears to be fighting with an older grey haired man holding an orange bucket. The wild eyed one turns out to be Doc Savage, a comedian who has lost his sense of humour. He is cross at his performance being drowned out and is trying to push over the speaker saying "My adrenaline is very high" in a threatening, non jokey, wild eyed way. I leave him to get over himself and head, as Elvis would say, for "the county gaol".

It's a pretty and well signposted route out of the centre of town that first leads along the Shannon and then rises steeply into the residential areas. It's quite hot now and I don't see anyone else walking this way although several of the city tour buses breeze by. I reach the summit and am not disappointed, the gaol is a well kept hunky stone building with graceful curves that seem incongruous given it's function. I am still catching my breath from the two mile uphill hike when I come in through the gate of the prison and am met by a gaol guide.

"We are closing now because of the conference, I'm only glad it isn't raining" ... I can hardly contain my joy..

I go out to Cafe Paradiso, a vegetarian restaurant where for the second time in a day I order "the works".

Before leaving Cork I check the bus and train times for going to Cobh on Sunday morning as I plan to see the Titanic exhibition. I get back into a sunny Blarney where for the first time I see people walking around and the restaurants are full.

I buy a super absorbent cloth to mop my tent if necessary, and two packs of tomato and mozarella soup. I check I have enough change for the washer and dryer then hike back up the hill to the campsite.

I have noticed that as my time under canvas goes on some of the language I use has changed. Before my trip I would talk about my luggage, on the day of departure this became my rucksack, I have now taken to calling it my 'pack' as if I am a yomping marine on a mission for the UN. I'll be shaving my head next.

Sunday Mass.

I get up early, but not early enough. I am cutting it fine for catching the only bus of the morning. I have 21 minutes to cover 3km. I find my feet doing something strange, they begin to move faster and my body appears to be alternating between briefly leaving the ground, just, and then thudding back into it. I appear to be jogging. Well it's all downhill so gravity is doing most of the work, and boy I bet it will sleep well tonight. I am wearing a plungey pushy uppy bra that is unsuitable for almost anything other than lying down in. Fortunately there is no-one around to witness my boobs making a bid for freedom from my pac-a-mac. I make a mental note to remember to re arrange everything before I hit civilisation again, or risk creating a scandal Blarney has never seen the like of before.

As I enter the burbs of Blarney I am sure I can see a net curtain twitch, as I pass I swear I heard a woman shout "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Owen would ya coom and have a look at dis, if there isn't just a huge heffalump of a girl in a red pac-a-mac large as life a rrronning down the rowd. Get me Sister Angela on speed dial and get her to add another string of beads to the rosary."

There suddenly seems to be more traffic than usual in Blarney and I wonder if I have become the new tourist attraction.

I arrive at the bus stop and peel off my steam sodden pac-a-mac. I try to get my "exact fare" for the bus out of my bag, but am hyperventilating and my vision is blurred.

Just as the bus arrives I tip half a kilo of coppery cents all over the pavement.