And a drink was exactly what I needed by the time I
reached Mallow, a provincial market town on the northern
edge of County Cork, where I promptly got lost in its labyrinth of streets lined with half-timbered shops and pubs
encircling the old Mallow Castle. After a few spins around
the center (some intentional, some not), my GPS pulled
through and navigated me to the outskirts of town and my
destination for the night, Longueville House, a Georgian
Heritage mansion perched on a grassy knoll with idyllic
views over the sweeping valley to the south.
With relief I relinquished my car to the grassy car park
bordering the property’s working farm and said good-night
to my GPS. I wheeled my suitcase up to the limestone steps
in the company of an affable saddleback pig and her two
piglets, who trotted along on the opposite side of the fence,
designating themselves my unofficial welcome committee. I checked into my second-floor room with a view that
would make E.M. Forster envious, then wandered around
the extensive grounds, exploring the walled kitchen gardens
and orchards. That evening under the watchful eyes of the
house’s framed patriarchal O’Callaghan clan adorning the
dining room walls, I enjoyed a field-to-table dinner of fresh
black-water river salmon and garden-plucked vegetables,
before retiring to the drawing room to practice the whiskey-tasting techniques I had learned earlier in the day.
Tasting 101
Ensconced in a plush armchair beside the fire, with more
extended family members eyeing me from portraits checkering the walls, I ordered a snifter of Kilbeggan. The snifter
is a plump glass with a wide bottom that allows a greater
surface area of the whiskey to evaporate and a narrow top
that catches its aroma. A little water mixed in helps to open
up the flavor of the whiskey, as does warmth — so no ice. I
swirled the golden liquid in the glass, releasing its aroma,
and took a breath: honey, vanilla, almond. I had a sip without taking in any air, and let the whiskey sit on my tongue,
detecting a hint of spice, and then I swallowed: smooth,
clean, light and fresh. I took another sip and then another —
I was getting very used to this — until my glass was empty,
and I called it a night.
The following day I woke refreshed and ready to continue
my whiskey tour. First, I needed breakfast — and a proper
Irish breakfast at that. I rejoined my portraited dining
companions and tucked into a fortifying feast of oatmeal,
fruit, scones, eggs, bacon, ham and sausage and tried not
to think about my porcine welcome. On my departure the
doorman suggested I stop in the village of Blarney en route
to Cork, where I could visit the Blarney Castle and give its
magical stone a kiss. He explained that the gift of eloquence
is bestowed upon those who kiss it, and my ears perked up,
