The second evening in Dublin, we took a literary walking tour. This was a fantastic way to combine some of my favorite things: whiskey, Oscar Wilde and good acting (the tour was led by two professional actors who acted out various scenes from plays written by Irish playwrights, including the man I will always be a Fruit Fly for, Mr. Wilde). My MIL discovered that while she was not a huge fan of Guinness, Jameson would do nicely, and thus a good time was had by all.
There were some truly spectacular artifacts at the National Museum of Archaeology, including this bowl depicting scenes of human sacrifice (which was apparently done quite a bit). You know what was almost as fun as looking at shiny things?
Hearing teenage girls shrieking at the sight of these human remains, which were found amazingly well-preserved in the peat bogs of Ireland (poor ol' pruny here was most likely the victim of above-mentioned human sacrifice). I wanted to point out that there's no reason for the shrieking: he's been dead for over a thousand years, and even if he were to be a part of a zombie apocalypse, he doesn't have legs or hands and thus probably wouldn't get around to any actual brain-nomming.
We finally did make it to the Abbey (despite my inability to use technology that my Grandmother is probably familiar with). The play we saw, Translations, was haunting and beautiful, and I am currently on the hunt for more plays by the playwright, Brian Friel.
And they served Guinness at the theater bar, so AH was an especially happy camper.
Our tour of Kilmainhaim Jail, where the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rebellion were executed by firing squad, turning the leaders of an unpopular uprising into national martyrs and setting a series of events in motion that would eventually lead to the 1922 War of Independence. It put the hairs up on the back of my neck something fierce.
Remember our Heineken Overlords?
Yeah, they've been replaced. I mean, if doctors say it's good for you...
Then it must be true, right? Obamacare? Try Allisoncare: a government subsidized pint a day. (Yes, that's the platform I will be running on when I eventually decide to get into politics).
And here I am in the palace of my new Jameson Overlords, where I was hand-picked (to shut me up because I was jumping up and down like Hermione Granger in Charms, but we'll ignore that) to participate in a whiskey tasting. It was surprisingly informative; I learned that the reason I detest scotch is that they allow the peat smoke to help dry the barley in the kiln, which is why it's so smoky and tastes of old man. Also, I got this nifty certificate, which I am totally putting on my resume; what good Disciples church could resist me now? (Speaking of church, maybe there need to be less pictures of me looking really excited about alcohol on the internet...)
Next Up: Western Ireland and Waterford!
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