HOW THE BLOG GOT ITS NAME

On one of my many jaunts to Ireland, I was staying in Killarney at the Killarney Princess, where the lobby and bar look like one solid hunk of polished mahoghany and a sumptuous Irish tea will be brought to you and your guests in the lobby any afternoon, upon request. A wonderful way to sit out a Force 10 gale, by the way, which I did after having been nearly been blown off a walkway the previous morning at Kylemore Abbey. It almost made up for the fact that there was zero soundproofing in my otherwise very nice room and it sounded that night like someone was rolling huge laundry carts over my head all night long. Bleary-eyed, I stumbled downstairs looking for the other ladies going to the Waterford Crystal Factory to shed our American dollars for their beautiful things. I was early because I hadn't slept, one thing led to another and I ended up sharing Guinness Stout (before noon--yes, Mother) with a gentleman who regaled me with typical Irish stories including an allusion to being surprised at a disturbance in the hotel the night before. Barely awake and feeling my liquor, I fell for it hook, line and sinker.

Ah, yes, he said. It was surprising in such a high-class hotel where even the desk clerk called me "Madam," but Bobbie told me there had indeed been a screaming and banging at his locked door in the middle of the night. But he told me he had taken pity on the lady, got up and let her out.

Anyway, on to Waterford where I had heard there was a replica of a Viking longship. I never did find it, but that gives me a reason to go again (as if I needed one). I climbed aboard the bus hoping to God I wasn't going to be car sick--or bus sick--and away we went, rolling up a newly constructed highway of which everyone was very proud. It took so many twists and turns I thought I was back at the Ring of Kerry. a tourist trap so circuitous that only the strong of stomach survive. As we took one especially dramatic loop-de-loop, our guide pointed to the left where a scarecrow tree stood in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by an eight-foot chain link fence which, if I recall correctly, was taller than the tree.

"You may have noticed," he said, "that this road takes an unexpected twist."

I was about to ask him which one, but I was afraid to open my mouth, which was OK since he never closed his; he was supposed to entertain us, after all, and in fact made a good job of it.

"Well, our roads department had to do that," he explained, "because the original plan would have required destruction of the faerie tree."

The what? The faerie tree, of course. The construction crew would have had to lop down my spindly little friend over to the left. Which no one would do, because everyone knows it's bad luck to cut down a faerie tree. And so an entire highway was re-routed, an understandable precaution in Ireland. The fence had been erected, he went on to say, because a delusional mental patient had attempted to burn down the tree and the Garda (police) had to protect him from irate locals, who then decided they should fence off the tree.

Wouldn't that inconvenience the faeries, I asked, but the guide looked at me as if I was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. "Oh, no," he reassured me. "They have wings, y'know."

Duh.

That gave me one of many fond memories of the trip and a lasting affection for faerie trees. And, oh yes, I do prefer the Irish spelling of "fairy." It's just more satisfying somehow. Almost as good as that early-morning Guinness.