Leaving Waterford, Karl set out on his bike to Cork, the most southern and largest county of Ireland bordering Kerry, Limerick, Tipperary and Waterford. As reported by Karl to the Montreal Star: “Blarney Castle is only six miles from the southern capital, Cork, and the famous “Blarney stone,” which we read of in history at school is still to be found there, and it is certainly quite smooth, whether it is worked that way by people kissing it as the history tells us, remains to be seen.”
The Blarney Castle we see today is the third castle erected on this site built in 1446 by Dermot McCarthy, the King of the Province of Munster. The Castle houses the infamous Blarney stone that you can kiss to receive the gift of the gab — eloquence or persuasiveness or flattery.
There are a number of legends about where the stone came from but still, no one knows for sure. What has prevailed over the centuries is the process to have your lips connect with that stone. First, you need to climb 127 steps up to the parapet, then lean backwards holding tightly onto a railing 100 feet up and pucker-up. Today, there are attendants to guide you through the process but 100 years ago visitors had to hang upside down with people holding onto their ankles to kiss the stone, a practice that ended when a poor grip cost someone his life.
There’s no mention of Karl kissing the stone, so being true to following Karl’s journey, I also passed on the opportunity for the gift of blarney. But I certainly encountered many people from the County of Cork who were obviously intimate with that stone, including a fellow I met from Tipperary. He was every bit what I would expect a man from Tipperary to look like – that is, sprightly, with twinkly, expressive eyes and a lyrical voice that was well accustomed to a great deal of storytelling. Given his lifelong access to kiss that Blarney stone he definitely had the gift of the gab.
He told me a story, a story that had been told to him by his sister in the mid 1960’s when Paul Simon happened to be in Ireland. He told the story in his sister’s words, narrating the story as if it were his own. In her youth, his sister had a seasonal job as an attendant at a petrol station near his home in Ireland. At that time the stations were full service, so cars would pull up to the petrol pump and the attendant would come out of a booth to inquire as to the amount of petrol wanted by the driver (fill-up or volume or a monetary amount). The attendant would be responsible to pump the petrol prior to the cash being exchanged.
All these years later, when he told me the story, in the words of his sister, it had a wonderful, full span use of the word, feck. For the unfamiliar, in Irish speech the word feck is quite a popular expression. It can be used in a variety of phrases but generally it’s a pretty mild swear word that straddles between using the term flip as an expletive and of course the more familiar fuck. The Irish generally use the word feck a lot, and more with annoyance than real anger, to express (a) you’re pissed off, or (b) describing someone who pissed you off or put it all together like: “Ah feck it, the fecking feckers”.
I’ll start by saying I’ve never been good at “putting on accents”, a personal fail considering I was born in the northeast of England and started life off with the distinct Geordie dialect. That being said, there are exceptions when I still try, one being, when I put on my best Irish accent and recount the story I was told. I’ve told this story numerous times. I tell the story just like it was told to me, almost like it was my sister that day in Ireland almost 60 years ago. In fact, in my best, being the worst, Irish accent possible - I tell it just like this:
“It wus a cowl, miserable, windy, grey day. De sky 'ad opened an' it wus pissin' down from de 'eavens in al' direcshuns. De rain wus splatterin' down, bein' blown sideways an' 'ittin' de groun' so 'ard it wus also bouncin' back up. That’s whaen de car pulled into de petrol stashun. Two attendants were occupyin' de space in de booth at de petrol stashun, Ye sister an' a male attendant. De lad put de 'ud up on 'is raincoat an' 'eaded outside ter de car. Naw sooner than yer man lef de booth an' 'ad a queck ward wi' de driver yer man returned an' said ter ye sister , “Thought yer might fancy pumpin' de petrol, 'e’s lookin' for a fill-up, it’s Paul Simon in de car”. She wus thrilled an' promptly pulled up 'er 'ud ter venture into de torrential rain ter git a glimpse av Paul whilst fillin' 'is car wi' petrol. The rain al' de while wus relentless, lashin' down an' soakin' yer sister. But as de cars were smaller den, a fill-up didn’t take too long, an' soon enoof de tank wus full. After returnin' de petrol pump nozzle, she approached de drivers side av de car an', through de crac av de window wus given cash for de fill-up dat exceeded de amount owed. She tuk de money an' reached into de loose bills in her raincoat ter git de requisite change. Dis wus provin' ter be murder wi' de wind an' rain flappin' de money an' soakin' it in de short patt from 'er rain jacket back through de open window ter Paul. It wus at dis time dat dare wus sum conversashun between ye sister an' Paul. Paul in de car an' ye sister bein' blown aboyt wi' rain standin' outside de car:
Paul: You haven’t provided me the correct change
Ye Sister: “Waaat ye blatherin' about” she implored
Paul: You are short changing me, you still owe me two pounds
Ye Sister: I’ve given yer al' de roi change
Paul: No, you are short changing me, is it because you know who I am and so you think you can keep some of my money
Ye Sister: Eeeeeeee, well oi never, never in me life 'av 'ot nicked from anyone, oi gave yee de full amount
Paul: you know that I’m Paul Simon and so you think because I do well and have some money that you can rip me off and if I squabble of a couple of pound, everyone will think that I’m cheap but it doesn’t make it right
Ye Sister: Never in me life 'av oi 'ot nicked, feck yee Paul Simon, yisser a fecker. Oi gave yer al' dat oi owed yer. who de feck yer tink yer are? feck aff, feck aff witcha Paul Simon!
By ye accounts she wus livid, an' likely looked loike a lunatic, yellin' through de car window at de driver, al' awhile becomin' almost wan wi' dat grey slate day dat wus blowin' through 'er. She stomped back ter de booth, cursin', under 'er breath, feck yer, feck yer paul simon, never in me life
Once back in de booth, de male colleague, who wi' a nod av acknowledgment, den pointed a finger towards 'er soppin' wet rain jacket. An' dare, thoroughly soaked, an' stuk ter de bottom av 'er rain jacket were two, one quid bills.”
I suspect if Karl was lucky enough to have heard this story from the man from Tipperary, he would concur with my conclusion, that indeed, the Blarney stone is smooth from the people kissing it!
Just in case you need it dear reader…
“It was a cold, miserable, windy, grey day. The sky had opened and it was pissing down from the heavens in all directions. The rain was splattering down, being blown sideways and hitting the ground so hard it was also bouncing back up. That’s when the car pulled into the petrol station. Two attendants were occupying the space in the booth at the petrol station, your sister and a male attendant. The lad put the hood up on his raincoat and headed outside to the car. No sooner than he left the booth and had a quick word with the driver he returned and said to your sister, “thought you might fancy pumping the petrol, he’s looking for a fill-up, it’s Paul Simon in the car”. She was thrilled and promptly pulled up her hood to venture into the torrential rain to get a glimpse of Paul whilst filling his car with petrol.
The rain all the while was relentless, lashing down and soaking your sister. But as the cars were smaller then, it didn’t take too long and soon enough the tank was full. After returning the petrol pump nozzle, she approached the drivers side of the car and, through the crack of the window was given cash for the fill-up that exceeded the amount owed. She took the money and reached into the loose bills in raincoat to get the requisite change. This was proving to be difficult with the wind and rain flapping the money and soaking it in the short path from her jacket back through the open window to Paul.
It was at this time that there was some conversation between your sister and Paul. Paul in the car and your sister being blown about with rain standing outside the car:
Paul: You haven’t provided me the correct change
Ye Sister: What are you talking about, she implored
Paul: You are short changing me, you still owe me two pounds
Ye Sister: I’ve given you all the right change
Paul: No, you are short changing me, is it because you know who I am and so you think you can keep some of my money
Ye Sister: Eeeeeeee, well I never, never in me life have I stolen from anyone, oI gave you the full amount
Paul: you know that I’m Paul Simon and so you think because I do well and have some money that you can rip me off and if I squabble of a couple of pound, everyone will think that I’m cheap but it doesn’t make it right
Ye Sister: Never in me life have I stolen, feck you Paul Simon, you’re a fecker. I gave you all that I owed you, who the feck do you think you are? Feck off, feck off with you Paul Simon!
By your accounts she was livid, and likely looked like a lunatic, yelling through the car window at the driver, all awhile becoming almost one with that grey slate day that was blowing through her. She stomped back to the booth, cursing, under her breath, Feck you, feck you Paul Simon, never in me life….
Once back in the booth, with a nod of acknowledgment from the male colleague, who then pointed a finger towards her sopping wet rain jacket. And there, thoroughly soaked and stuck to the bottom of her jacket were two, one pound bills.