ROMANCING THE STONES

I was down in the People's Republic of Cork last weekend, staying in a twee hostel in the middle of the city. Kelly's hostel's delightfully bright colours almost overpowered the delicate aroma of the gap-year hobo-adventurer types. I was pleased to see that the walls (that were painted such a shiny yellow it would make your nose bleed) were embossed with Irish poetry, until I saw the grevious spelling error in "The Fisherman." 'Written' has two Ts in it damn it! We were staying in a room that had WB Yeats writen (er, I mean 'written') on the door. I hope he didn't mind. Actually I'm sure he didn't, since he's been dead since 1939, which come to think of it, would certainly have accounted for the smell.

We checked out UCC campus and Fota Wildlife Park, and swung up to Blarney Castle on the way back. There was an impenetrable queue of rabid over fifties yanks so we decide to give it a miss. It was probably for the best; God knows I talk enough shite without my verbal skills being impounded by the blessing of the gift of the gab to cap it off. It was a pity though, I was looking forward to a decent snog that weekend and I thought an inanimate magic rock was at least a sure thing. Disheartened but not defeated we swung by the Rock of Cashel but when we tried to kiss that, people thought we were a bit mental and we were kindly asked by the proprietors never again to return to the Golden Vale. Or, indeed, buy any Golden Vale products. Next week I'm going to the Giants Causeway, 'cause I hear she's an 'aul slut.