A Corker of a City!

Bunny Suraiya walks you through the myriad wonders of Cork, the second largest city of Ireland nominated as the ‘Cultural Capital of Europe for 2005’.

River Lee flowing through Cork city Pics: Courtesy Tourism Ireland

Never mind Tipperary, what it's a long, long way to is Cork. Three airports and umpteen hours later, I'm sitting in a smallish plane and wondering what on earth I'm doing this for. And then suddenly the plane tilts and an incredible patchwork of fields comes into view, in more shades of green than I'd ever imagined possible, and I know why I wanted to be here. The first glimpse from the air of the Emerald Isle never fails to take my breath away - and it's happened yet again.

Touchdown and Jug (my husband) and I are whisked away to the Hayfield Manor, a gracious building, celebrated as one of Ireland's most elegantly decorated hotels. A beautiful room-with-a-view, large even by Indian standards awaits us. And then down to lunch where the first of Chef Rendell's gourmet meals makes an unashamed gourmand out of me. Replete with shark tartare, followed by a salmon platter, I'm ready to take on the further delights of Cork, which has been nominated the 'Cultural Capital of Europe for 2005' and is the second largest city in the Republic after Dublin.

Our Cork city guide is Maureen Ahearne, and we are to take a walking tour with her for about an hour and a half, according to the itinerary, but which eventually ends up taking more than twice the time allotted, without any of us feeling the slightest trace of fatigue. “What are your special likings?” Maureen asks. “We like to walk and we like to drink,” I answer firmly and her face creases into a smile from which, all reserve has vanished. "Then you'll fit right into the Irish way of life," she says and we set off for a walk that extends into a fascinating three-hour ramble through a charming town and exploration of its history.

City Hall	Bantry Hotel
English Market	Old Midleton Distillery
Bantry golf course	Church Street

First things being first, we start with the name. Nothing to do with cork trees, Maureen informs us. Cork, in Gaelic, the Old Irish language also sometimes called Erse (hey, nobody said it's easy being a tourist) means a marshy, boggy place. And that's exactly where the city is located - on a marsh created by the River Lee, which runs directly underneath the city, all of which is built on reclaimed land. Evidence of the existence of the waterway is provided by the little iron-rung stairways, which run up to the front doors of many of the old houses from the pavement level. Parking for the boats of the owners at the time when the road was a river, Maureen explains, and technically they are still allowed free parking for their boats on the pavement if they wish, but not for their cars! The river flows into the Irish Sea and further out at the picturesque little harbour town of Kinsale, are beaches with water sports and sea bathing, favourite pastimes of Corkonians on a sunny day. Kinsale also boasts one of the worlds most exclusive - and expensive - golf courses.

We swing by the University, its soft grey stone buildings a tribute to the dreaming spires of Oxford. On display in the cloister-like corridor are ancient stones bearing markings from the vanished pictorial script known as Ogham, which were used to designate the graves of the high and the mighty. The University chapel, built in the early 20th century is in the Celtic style, but there are more aggressively modern buildings, which have been neatly dovetailed into the old styles in a celebration of architectural integrity. The streets around the campus are lined with terraced houses, mostly serving as student residences, with their plaster facades painted in a variety of pastel colours - a typical Cork feature, which makes a walk around the residential areas so pleasing to the eye.

Cork Street	Eating out in Cork
ST. Fin Barre’s Cathedral	Street Market
ST. Patrick Street	Shandon

Our next stop is St. Fin Barre's Cathedral, built upon the site of the church and seminary founded by St. Fin Barre in AD 606, and around which the settlement of Cork grew. It's an awesome thought that there has been worship here at this spot for near on 1,400 years. The soft-spoken ladies at the great gate not only let us in for free, but also hand us a candle each to light in prayer. We admire the handsome pulpit and lectern, and marvel at the enormous organ, which is in a pit 14 feet deep. The beautiful rose windows depict the story of creation in exquisite stained glass. Among the sons and daughters of Cork honoured by their burial in the Cathedral is the grave of the world's only female Freemason. According to the story, she overheard the discussions of a Masonic Society meeting by accident and then was given no option but to join the Brotherhood, the only woman ever to do so. In the deep hush, I light the candle I've been given and say a brief prayer for the souls of departed loved ones, receiving in return a reassuring feeling of certainty that in this place of ancient piety, my prayer has been heard.

A few steps away from the cathedral is Lucy Park, named for Bishop Lucy of Cork, with an attractive fountain at its gate featuring eight birds, one for each of the 800 years of the existence of the park. Maureen informs that the park is a central meeting place for Corkonians and also acts as an open-air arts and crafts bazaar during the weekends. Sure enough, there is a young woman dressed in the granny-dress of the flower-powered ’70s, displaying and selling 'tantric' art inspired by her travels in India and Nepal. 'Mandalas,' the eyes of the Buddha and images of Kali adorn the wall and the artist fingers her elaborate 'rudraksha-mala,' nodding in appreciation as we explain the pictures to Maureen. Suddenly it's we who have assumed the roles of guide and mentor. It truly is a small world.

Art on the walls, and art on the road too; Cork certainly takes its cultural capital status seriously. Kneeling on the pavement is a young artist painting a massive collage in full colour and depth of "the glorious sons of Cork," with a courtesy nod to Shakespeare. Among them I notice the Ireland soccer captain, Roy Keane who, after an argument with the team manager on the eve of the last World Cup, had thrown a tantrum and refused to play, leaving his team demoralised and leaderless. Instead of getting the kick in the butt that he deserved, this spoilt brat was instead given the keys to the city by the mayor in a glittering ceremony and was now being immortalised - at least until the next rainfall - on the pavement along with legendary heroes like Michael Collins. Oh, well, I reflect, judging, by the way we lionise our sports darlings, why should the Irish be any different?

A visit to the English Market sheds an interesting sidelight on Ireland's colonial past. As the name suggests, in colonial times only English-speaking locals who were loyal to the English crown were allowed to ply their trade in this centrally located market place. For everyone else, there was the Irish Market, much further away, outside the city proper. Today, the English Market is a vibrant, bustling shopping hub, selling everything from fish and fowl to fresh vegetables, different kinds of cheese, meats and specialty spices, condiments and wines. Lovely to walk around in and get an idea of what's on offer by way of local produce as well as exotic imports.

Strolling on, before we know it, we've reached St Patrick's Street, the central thoroughfare of Cork. Here are all the glitzy shops jostling cheek by jowl with small cafes and street vendors. Along with a sizeable proportion of the population of Cork, we commence 'doing the Pana Shuffle,' a ritual promenade up and down both sides of the street, seeing and being seen. In a small alleyway off the street, an artist signing himself as Anthony Ruby has captured the 'Pana Shuffle' in an amusing mural "dedicated to everyone but George Bush." Way to go!

At the end of St Patrick's Street is a statue of a certain Father Matthew, ardent proponent of temperance and happily unsuccessful, when one considers that an Ireland without 'the drink' would be like the earth without oxygen. Where would we be without wonderful libations like Guinness, which really is good for you, and the famous Irish whiskey (spelt with an 'e'), triple-distilled and therefore smoother than its Scottish cousin, which is distilled only twice.

Next day, we are driven in a spanking Merc to the Old Midleton Distillery by Dermont Cronin, our friend, philosopher and guide for the next two days. Located 12 miles east of Cork, Midleton, which produces the delicious Jameson whiskey has the world's largest pot-still with a capacity of 32,000 gallons - enough to make old Father Matthew despair, while raising the spirits of millions of converts to Irish whiskey all over the world. After the tour of the distillery, at the tasting session, when the whiskey goes down smooth as silk, all I can do is nod in solemn agreement with the tour guide when she glumly concludes, Ireland has the better whiskey, but Scotland has the better marketing. Too true.

Off with Dermot next to Cobh ('cove' in Gaelic and pronounced as such). A beautifully scenic coastal drive brings us to this little historic town haunted by the tragic history of the compulsions behind the Irish diaspora, which saw the emigration of over six million people between 1848 and 1950 - a staggering percentage of the small country's population. Here, a dramatic multimedia presentation enables us to retrace the steps of the 2.5 million adults and children forced to leave their homeland via Cobh. Some deported for minor misdemeanours, some fleeing the ravages of the great famine that decimated the population; some hoping to make new lives in the New World. If this isn't enough, Cobh's place in maritime history is assured by the fact that it was the Titanic's last port of call before she sank.

In the evening, back in Cork city, we attend a brilliantly conceptualised and acted performance of 'The Merchant of Venice,' one of the Cork 2005 cultural happenings. The best way I can describe this unique event is as a moveable feast of theatre. The action, moves from location to location around the city and the audience moves along with it, walking from scene to scene, as the entire city centre is transformed into a dramatic series of stage settings. The climactic courtroom scene where Portia saves Antonio's life by defeating Shylock's grim purpose was set in the Cork City Courthouse. Together with the ticket to such events, a sturdy pair of legs is an asset for the theatre- goer as, in addition to the walking one must do; there is no seating at any time.

Having missed dinner at our hotel, we go in search of sustenance and are rewarded by an excellent find, Reidy's Wine Vault- an old historic pub, on Lancaster Quay Road leading to the hotel. The pub with lofty ceilings designed to store casks of wine in an era when the road below was a waterway has plush interiors with red velvet and gleams with inviting glass-shaded lights. Behind the ancient wooden bar stands an elegant lady, perhaps going on 70, wearing a silk blouse, a trim black skirt and a double string of pearls around her neck. With her silver hair piled high on her head, she looks remarkably like a portrait on a Victorian cameo brooch. Clearly no waitress this; we approach her with deferential respect. "Excuse me, ma'am, will it be possible for us to get something to eat here," I ask courteously. The answer comes back with the same courtesy, "It will, indeed. And where would you be from? India, is it? A fine place I'm told. Now go and sit down comfortably and I'll soon have you settled." We sink back into a pair of comfy armchairs and true to her word, our hostess arrives to get us settled. By some arithmetical alchemy unknown to the practitioners of bulk marketing, she has determined that small bottles of wine when added up, cost less than the large bottle that makes up the same quantity. We receive this information rapturously, and make serious inroads into her stocks of small reds before tucking into some of the best Irish stew and meat pies ever.

The next day is our last in Cork and we decide, with Dermot's approval, that our visit won't be complete without a trip to Blarney. To Blarney Castle then we go; the ancestral home of the McCarthy Clan, erected in 1446. According to the legend, it belonged to the king of Munster, whose descendant rescued a witch from drowning and was given as a reward the boon of eloquence, to be obtained by his kissing a specific stone, which has now metamorphosed into the famous Blarney Stone. 'Kissing the Stone' requires a steep climb up to the top of the battlements and some contortionist abilities. Down in the extensive grounds, in which the castle is placed, the supernatural theme continues, with winding walking trails leading to the 'Wishing Steps,' the 'Witches' Kitchen,' and the 'Dolmen.' Groves and hollows overgrown with ancient gnarled trees interspersed with sudden small clearings lend these gardens an elfin charm on sunlit days, but could well give way to a sense of brooding menace on dark misty evenings.

Before heading out to the airport, Dermot finds a charming country pub just outside Cork, with a plaque on the wall describing it as one of the favourite drinking holes of James Joyce. We sit on rustic wooden benches in a peaceful garden, surrounded by meadows and pastures, plump with grazing cattle. While we eat a light lunch, I soak in the magical greenness of Ireland, trying to fix it in my memory, knowing that this particular intensity of this most life affirming of colours will be lost to me until I come back to Ireland again. I hope it's soon.