Trains, planes, automobiles and Kilkenny

Holland is a small, densely populated country. I now understand the reason. Most of its land area is given over to Schipol, its international airport outside Amsterdam. The airport terminal itself is vast. Screens display flight departure times and gates - and the walking time to get there.  I dreamt of commandeering a motorised cart to speed us the barren kilometres to our gate.

But the terminal's vastness was nothing compared to the airfield itself. We taxied interminably. I expected to return to refuel before take-off or to see Dublin out the window. Two thirds of the world's aircraft were taxiing with us, queues going in all directions. The Wright brothers were there, waiting for a second flight.

And then we took off. Since Hughie vomited over all but the very fast on our Sydney-Hong Kong leg, he is nervous about motion sickness. I had forgotten this and he was sitting with me. He dealt with his anxiety by chattering nervously, constantly, about anything and everything, with extended, detailed commentary on cloud formations and unanswerable questions about airbus aeronautics. I closed my book. The dear boy made it with his lunch where it belonged.

Eventually and despite the best endeavours of headwinds and flight control, we landed in Dublin. Two and a half miserable hours later, we had our bags and our hire car.

Two facts: first, the gear shift knob of the Hyundai Santa Fe is an elegant, spherical thing. Unless you knew or were told, it is unlikely you would realize that its lower ring is a moving part that slides up. Indeed it must slide up before reverse gear can be selected. Second: if you miss the unsigned turnoff to the M50 ring-road as you leave the airport, you will find yourself on a busy narrow street, driving towards a very secure boom gate, with the only way out a rapid, three point u-turn in front of oncoming traffic. A manoeuvre I have effected many times. Well, I tried. Conventional approaches to select reverse failed. As did speed, force and stealth. The traffic in both directions drew to a lengthy. irish-cranky standstill. Syl and the kids offered helpful advice. I could only lurch forward. I jumped the curb so that cars could pass and chanted soflty, trying to find a better place. And it took me about five minutes to work out how to select reverse. Eventually we were on our way to Kilkenny, in peak hour traffic and fading light. My quiet promise to make Guinness my first drink in Ireland was leaving me parched.

We made it to Kilkenny about 7:30, found the Pembroke and checked in. And wandered down the High Street and the Butter Slip to Kytelers Inn on Kieran Street - a wonderful find. In 1324, Alice, the publican was accused of witchcraft. She slipped town, but her maid Petronella was whipped through the streets and burned at the stake. Syl had Irish stew, Hugh fish and chips, Caity garlic bread - excellent, she said and she should know. I had masses of baked bacon, mash, carrots and white sauce. And Guinness. Tired, full, happy, to bed.

Kilkenny is smallish at 26000, with exquisite narrow medieval  streets and buildings and a castle. Today we have walked all over and loved it.