For over two months, something has been nagging at the back of my mind, and with the new year fast approaching I need to put it behind me once and for all...or at least until one of my wise-acre relatives decides to bring it up again.
In twenty-three years of travel to Ireland I had never made a mistake in my choices for lodging. Well, there was a sketchy Sligo hostel in in 1995, but since then I have found great accommodations for my traveling companions and myself.
But I blew it this time.
I should have known better - there were few photographs of the house in its online listing, and very little description of the actual accommodations. But I (uncharacteristically) looked past these deficiencies and chose to buy into the extensive narrative of Aghaboe House which was included in the listing.
The owner is an American who fell in love with the property, purchased it in the 1980s, and raised his daughter there. Now that she is in medical school in the States, he rents out the home - his "labor of love" as a self-catering property. Eighteenth century Georgian manor house complete with AGA cooker, concierge, wine cellar and a library containing rare volumes by one of the home's first owners. Well, you can read the story for yourself right here.
I will not go into what a filthy, disgusting dump it was, but I will say that the AGA cooker had probably not been in working condition for over twenty years. But, according to the concierge (I'll call him Rob), who greeted us upon our arrival, he had been at it all day to get it working. Rob was a friendly enough man wearing in a greasy fraying sweater and possessing an odd manner and an even odder Cockney accent (this was County Laois in Ireland, after all.) Rob assured us that the owner would be back any minute, and in the meantime he would show us around.
I wondered if the wine cellar was part of the "kitchenette" Rob pointed out? I may have spied a bottle of the owner's beloved Rioja Crianzas somewhere amidst the rusty hot plate, the stack of plates with dust a centimeter thick, peppered with fly carcasses, and the sink full of crusty, smelly dishes. The library was in the owner's private quarters - set apart from the rest of the house by an attractive vintage bed sheet strung across a doorway.
Didn't I say I wouldn't go into it?
If you don't mind, just Indulge me...we waited more than thirty minutes and there was no sign of the owner. I honestly had no intention of staying at this place from the moment we drove up the overgrown lane and saw the broken down cars and doorless minibus in the drive. I left my phone number with Rob, but the owner never called. However, I did receive a defensive email from him a day or two later telling me that the fact that we didn't wait for him to return "spoke volumes" and if we were expecting a "hermetically sealed hotel" why did we book a historic country house? He went on to tell me he was prepared to defend himself from any action I might take. OK...you do that, you creep.
We found a clean, comfortable hotel (don't think it was hermitically sealed), ate dinner, and got a good night's sleep. By the next morning Helen's (our cousin's wife) brother had found us a castle.
We spent the next two weeks here.
Special thanks to Jim O'Grady for negotiating the deal and to Zane Everard of Lisheen Castle for taking us in.
But most of all, I want to thank to Mike Fitzpatrick and his colossal pit, Aghaboe House for making my best trip to Ireland so far possible.
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