Blarney Castle, Blarney, Cork County, Ireland.
Walking up to it, you cross over this small stream, with the bottom covered in 1, 2, and 5 cent Euro coins. Luck o’ the Irish, eh? Unfortunately, the Irish, as a society or culture, hasn’t really been too lucky. But of course, they themselves would never say that. Happiest people alive, even though they have no real reason to be happy.
The entrance fee, while fairly steep, allows you to not only see the castle, but to also tour the grounds, which are amazing. The Rock Close is the outlaying gardens around the castle. The way to get in them is to go through this small tunnel. Small meaning three feet tall, not short in distance. The place was made for leprechauns, I’m telling ya.
Speaking of leprechauns, does this not look like some place they would live? No wonder why the Irish love tales about small, mischievous humanoid creatures and fairies living in the woods.
Those leaves are as big as my torso.
This is called the Witch’s Oven. Or Chimney. I forget which. They say that back in the ancient times, witches would steal firewood from the castle and come here to stay the night. They also say (I don’t know who ‘they’ are exactly) that occasionally they’ll still find embers glowing in there some mornings. Sounds like hobos to me.
But back to the castle itself:
Looking up through one of the small towers around the castle.
A fireplace in the middle of the wall inside the main chamber. It’s in the middle of the wall because the floor from that level doesn’t exist anymore.
Looking down said Murder Hole.
View from the top. That’s the town of Blarney.
The Blarney Stone itself. Said to give whoever kisses it the gift of eloquence in public speaking and great skill in flattery. I remained unconvinced until I saw a sign saying Winston Churchill himself kissed the stone before he was P.M. of England. And we all know that man could talk his way into anybody’s pants.
How you kiss it is you have to get on your back and hold those two rails with your arms stretched over your head, then bend your head back and kiss it upside down. The man who helped me kiss it looked close to a hundred years old, and was the same man pictured in all of the postcards in the gift shop that were probably taken in the 1980s.
Looking up to where the stone is located. I’ve actually heard that it isn’t even the actual Blarney Stone, and that to kiss the real stone, you need to hang off the edge and have someone hold your legs. Oh, well. The things tourists will do… Hell, I did it.
