Limerick and Knappogue
Part 4 of my travel journal of 20 years past.

March 18, 1985
Somehow, Sue and I managed to completely ignore the wake-up call. I finally woke five minutes before breakfast. To make a short story even shorter, I nearly broke the sound barrier dressing, and arrived in the dining room without a minute to spare.

We got the wonderful news that we had taken a superior award in our division at yesterday’s parade. All the practices really had been worth it!

After a good struggle with instruments and luggage, we boarded buses and were ready to leave when we realized my roommate Sue was missing. I dashed back to the room when one of the chaperones summoned me. I had left my curling iron in the room and there was poor Sue, who had been struggling for a half hour just to get her suitcase closed.

Good-bye, Dublin. To Limerick, forward MARCH!

What started out as drizzle became torrents of frigid rain. After 45 minutes, the rain subsided again to drizzle. Conn did his best to cheer us up with some Irish music, which acted more as a lullaby to most of us, and sleep came easily.

As we crept closer to Limerick, Conn told us why many villages’ streets are so winding. According to ancient superstition, if you were followed by a spirit while on horseback, taking a turn followed by another turn would cause you to lose the spirit. Thus, most cities’ main street into town is S shaped.

The weather in Limerick was, putting it bluntly, the pits. When the buses came to a halt, we were forced to charge across the busy street, then clamber up a narrow staircase (quite a feat for us percussionists) and sit in a tiny classroom and wait and wait. Out on the street, the wait continued. An ill wind blew Matt W’s way [trombone]—he had a bad reaction to a cinder that blew in his eye. Luckily we had Dr. E.; “the show must go on.” Once on the parade route and into the judging area, hats were blown off, flags were blown out of the colorguards’ hands and we were all soggy, freezing and miserable. None of us were too surprised that we didn’t place in the top 3. The only thing on our minds was getting to the nice, warm hotel and out of our wet clothes. Marching season was officially over.

Limerick Inn was, in my opinion, a high point of our stay so far. Sue and I each had our own double bed—nice and firm with a huge, snuggly comforter. Our room was huge and tastefully decorated, perfect for guest who came…and came.

I think Rick [saxophone] and Noel [trombone] spent more time in our room than in their own. I soon found out why. Most of the guys got tiny rooms with huge closets, which are neato, but fairly useless for a two-night stay.

Rick was the first to discover tin whistles for sale in the (hooray) hotel gift shop. Soon several people followed suit, including Noel. The two of them decided to use our room as a practice room, which drove Sue and I right up the wall!!! When they got tired of making atonal screeches, Rick decided to play football with my teddy bear Perky. This was merely annoying until Sue got in on the act and whoops—they decapitated the poor bear. Ah well.

Soon it’s time to get dressed for the medieval banquet. I’m bushed. After boarding the bus, we’re off to Knappogue Castle and a new adventure. Conn started us on a sing-along, which got pretty silly. In no time flat we were at the castle.

Candles flickered in the corners and a few of us huddled around a turf fire. We were greeted by Jerry the butler and the singing lasses, all in costume.

The banquet hall was perfect—the heraldic banners and shields, the wooden tables and long benches, the torchlight. Aaaah! I loved the silly bibs we were forced to wear. The food was magnificent and of an unending supply.

And the entertainment…oh, the entertainment! Singing and playing and dancing—lovely lilting voices, the soothing harp, those dancers with lightning-fast feet! If I could control time, this moment would have never ended. But it did. With yearning regret we left fair Knappogue to make the trek back to the Inn. Sigh.

Conn knew how we felt. Another songfest would cure us for sure. Jeff O. [drill instructor] grabbed the microphone and had us nearly rolling in the aisles with classics such as “Teenage Cremation” and “Under the Boardwalk.” Mr. L [band director] sang “New York, New York” and, yessir, Mr. F. [chaperone and friendly xylophone fixer] sang “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” We were absolutely crazed at this point.

The Inn? Already? Awww!