“It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go…” – the opening line of the famous marching song written in 1912 by Jack Judge, which became iconic during WWI.     

The Rock of Cashel, Tipperary

County Tipperary in south-central Ireland, features one of the country’s most visited historical attractions.

From the moment it appeared on the horizon, set on a dramatic outcrop of limestone, the imposing Rock of Cashel, or St. Patrick’s Rock, commands attention. Rising sharply from the emerald sweep of the Tipperary plains, it looked less like a ruin and more like a crown placed on the land itself. Cashel is from an Irish word and means a stone fort or castle. 

Closer, the details reveal themselves: the Gothic sweep of Cormac’s Chapel, its sandstone glowing with age; the high cross standing sentinel; the cathedral ruins opening up to the Irish sky, framed by drifting clouds like moving stained glass.

Kings were crowned here, saints preached here, and time itself seems to linger in the cracks of the stone. Winds sweep up and over the hill, carrying with it both chill and awe. A solid rock of great spirituality dwells on this hilltop.

It was here, according to legend, that St. Patrick converted King Aengus to Christianity in the 5^th-century; baptizing him with such fervor that the saint’s crozier (hooked staff) pierced the king’s foot – an accident the newly converted ruler is said to have borne without complaint.

In the centuries that followed, Cashel became both a political and religious stronghold. By the 12^th-century, the Rock was gifted to the Church, cementing its role as a center of ecclesiastical power. Today, it remains a symbol of both Ireland’s turbulent history and its enduring faith.

Foynes Flying Boat Museum

In the quiet village of Foynes, County Limerick (pop. 512), sitting on the Shannon Estuary, history lingers in a surprising way. This was once the world’s gateway to the Atlantic, when Flying Boats skimmed the waters carrying mail, passengers, and dreams between continents.

Today, the Foynes Flying Boat Museum is a small gem of a museum that keeps that golden age alive, highlighting the town’s pivotal role in establishing commercial, transatlantic, passenger flights. A Maritime Museum, too, features the history the international port town played with its strategic location on the Shannon and to the open seas. And most curiously, is its connection forever entwined with Hollywood.

It was here that the Irish born actress, Maureen O’Hara, famously known as the “Queen of Technicolor,” (“Miracle on 34^th Street,”) lent her star power, not to the screen, but to Irish heritage. Her husband, Charles Blair, had once landed the great Pan Am Clippers in these very waters. Decades later, O’Hara became patron of the museum, opening its doors in 1989.

Stepping into the replica of a Boeing 314, introduced in 1938, felt less like boarding a plane and more like entering a time capsule. Unlike the narrow, sardine-cramped jets we know today, this flying boat had the air of a floating hotel. The polished wooden panels, spacious lounge chairs, and even a dining area gave it a simple elegance totally unexpected.

As I walked down the aisle, I tried to imagine what it must have been like in the late 1930s; passengers elegantly sipping cocktails in armchairs while the Atlantic stretched endlessly below.

In those days, the journey from Europe to America took more than 24 hours, broken-up with stops and weather delays; yet there was glamour, sophistication, and a whisper of danger in the adventure.

It was for the privileged few, as a round-trip ticket New York to Southampton (the final stop) cost about $750 dollars or the equivalent of $18,000 in today’s dollars.

Stepping out of this dream, I wondered if my luggage made the flight.

The Maureen O’Hara Exhibition surprised me with its scope and intimacy of the late star’s (1920-2015) career; featuring:  her gowns, film posters from “The Quiet Man”, memorabilia, and even her honorary Oscar, bestowed upon her in 2014.

History here isn’t all about planes and timetables. It’s about people. I learned that when weary passengers braved stormy crossings, a warming drink was invented and awaited them in Foynes, Irish Coffee.

Irish Coffee

Naturally, we couldn’t leave the museum without relishing a cup in the museum’s Irish Coffee Centre’s café; with cream floating perfectly on top, the whiskey softening the chill of the day. But to our surprise, we were going to learn to be Irish Coffee making experts! An original and authentic Irish Coffee. Now we’re talking.

The five-step ritual made the experience memorable: The glass warmed in the hand, add sugar and Irish Whiskey, then fill with strong, black coffee, the dark liquid lightly capped with a generous layer of whipped cream that floated perfectly, unbroken. Do Not Stir. Relish and enjoy.

My first sip was exactly as it should be – bold and bracing at the start, then mellowed by the smoothness of the cream. Sweet, bitter, strong, and silky all at once. It was more than a drink; it was a story in a cup.

David raised his glass with a grin, clearly approving. We compared notes, but really, there was no debate: this was the perfect balance of warmth and indulgence. Sitting there with the Shannon Estuary stretching out beyond the windows, we imagined the weary passengers of the 1940s arriving chilled to the bone and damp, and being comforted in the same way we were.

By the time we left, I realized that Foynes is more than just a museum of aviation, maritime and the glitz and glamour of Hollywood, but a place where stories converge. The daring of pilots, seafaring sailors, the adventure of passengers, and the spirit of a Hollywood legend all live together here, as timeless as the estuary stretching beyond the windows.

Knappogue Castle

From the 20^th-century, we go back, way back … Liam, our tour guide, surprised us with tonight’s dinner plans – dinner at a medieval castle for some gruel, and some period “color.”

What immediately came to my mind was Medieval Times, the fake castle near Disneyland; all abuzz with wild revelry, families and children whooping it up with flags waving, trumpets blaring. Inside the arena, armored knights thundered past on their steeds, lances splintered in jousts, all the while the crowd roars with earsplitting, jarring hoots and shouts rooting for their “team.”

It’s less history lesson, more spectacle, polished for modern, family-friendly consumption. With all those past memories floating about in my mind, I honestly thought about skipping it, and just order some room service. Heck, why not and just get into the spirit of things. Fortunately, formal armor-wear not required.

The moment I crossed the threshold into the restored Knappogue Castle (15^th-century) in County Clare, it was like time traveling back many centuries where kings and lords dined, jesters entertained, and music filled the air. A dinner show version of a Renaissance Fair squeezed within the confines of an era-accurate castle.

The immense, stone walls loomed around us upon entering the great hall, flickering with torchlight and the warm glow of candles. We were seated at long banquet tables and breathlessly awaited the theatrics to begin.

The Medieval Dinner Show was every bit theatrical, bordering on hokey. The costumed servers/players’ immersive, all-in performances, moved about in character, with a practiced flourish; all while bringing out courses of roast meats, soups, and freshly baked soda breads.

The food, hearty and rich, felt like part of the performance, and it was impossible not to be swept up in the gay, and lively atmosphere. The “wine” or was it Mead? Whatever, David found it challenging to drink with its bewildering taste or lack of. There was a “red” version and a “white” style counterpart.

One of our travelers asked for a spoon for his soup and our server “wench,” with her smirk of a smile, replied, “Oh, M’Lord, they have yet to be invented.” Chuckles were heard round the table.

Between courses, minstrels played lutes and harps, while actors performed scenes of courtly intrigue, with a wink and a smile. Of course, the dreaded “Let’s pick an audience member to participate” came about. Thankfully they were preselected, as my bald head is always a shining beacon in this audience participation ritual. Thankfully, I was spared.

As the evening ended, the castle walls whispered its stories of centuries of families, celebrations, and legends having called it home. A quick stop at a modern bathroom began my transition back to the real world.

As seen in our Tipperary journey …