TEA WITH THE BARRISTER AND HIS LADY
Or
MORE STRANGE ADVENTURES WITH DON AND GERALYNN

On our travels West we passed through the charming and scenic town of Inistioge.  We promised ourselves that we would return for further exploration.  So, that we did this past week.

We took the “fast” route to New Ross and then headed north up the highway to get there.  Upon our arrival we parked in the middle of the street along with the rest of the locals.  I checked the shops in town for an ordinance survey map of the area, to no avail, while Don got the bikes ready and relocated the car out of the middle of the major intersection.  We just don’t have the guts the locals do yet, since we see huge trucks barreling through the intersection at high speeds.

We checked the hikers map on the local billboard and selected a route out of town along the Nore River and alongside the boundaries of the Woodstock Forest Park.  The weather was pretty good and, although the route turned to hiking path, hard pack and rock, it was navigable. Eventually we hit paved road again and continued our countryside cycling up and down the gently rolling hills, through farm villages.  We enjoyed the views across the valley as we rode.

At one intersection, while we were stopped to decide which direction we wanted to turn our bikes next, a fellow in a little green beater car stopped to help us find the way.  As we explained we weren’t going anywhere in particular the friendly fellow, quite unexpectedly on our part, asked if we had some time.  Since we did and weren’t really going anywhere, we answered sure, we have lots of time.  He then introduced himself, Patrick O’Callaghan, and invited us to come to his house for tea.  This was so unexpected and we were delighted to accept, since he seemed a spirited and interesting fellow.

Patrick gave us directions and drove on ahead to warn his friend, Mary, of our arrival.  We rode our bikes the short distance, following the directions over the bridge and up the hill, and turned into the drive with the big brownstone pillars (this describes most every driveway in Ireland).  The long, dark spooky tunnel through the trees seemed to go off into nowhere as we looked through the impressive gates, but we turned in and made our way along the gravel drive.  At the end of the drive and off to one side sat a large Victorian Gothic style house.  The cut granite exterior was topped by a high slate roof and the main entrance lurked under an elaborate trellised veranda.**  And here we were expecting a modest farmhouse!

We parked our bikes and walked up to the entry, complete with massive double doors and etched designs in the glass.  Don and I looked at each other, both of us thinking the same thing—Rocky Horror Picture Show.  If a dark cloud had appeared and thunder clapped and lightning flashed it would have been no surprise.  Don was busy imagining what kinky experiences might lay behind the doors and I, always trying to be prepared of course, was thinking, “Gee, I don’t have any of those things we should have—nurse’s costume, umbrella, playing cards, rice, etc.”   

The sun,however, continued to shine and the few puffy white clouds rolled lazily by, so Don rang the bell.  No answer.  Then he used the large iron knocker—clank, clank, clank--to signal our arrival.  No answer. Could we have come to the wrong place?  Surely we were expected.  We just got the invitation 10 minutes ago.  We left the front porch and began to check for another door around the back of the house.

As we rounded the corner we stopped, stared in awe, and gasped!  What a view!  The house overlooks a stunning view of the blue river and the green hillsides rolling up to the sky on the other side of the river.  I was still standing there, speechless, admiring the view, while Don continued around the house and apparently found Patrick.

Patrick and his rollicking dogs, young black spaniels, showed us into the huge entry hall.  The ceilings must be 18 feet high and were finished off with interesting carved moldings.  All around were interesting things—objects d’art, books, etc. I was hoping for a cool inlaid design on the floor, but whatever is there is covered with carpet. He took us around a wall, past the ornate staircase, along a short hallway. Then we quickly dodged, the three dogs winding in and out between us and underfoot,  to avoid falling into the hatch to the dungeon--er, basement—and entered the doorway into the spacious kitchen, where Mary was at the table having her meal. 

It was clear that we had come at an inconvenient time, but what were we to do now? Would it be ruder to leave or stay?  We ESPed each other, decided to stay,  and while Patrick introduced us to Mary  we all sat down.  Patrick bustled around making us tea and putting biscuits out on a plate.  He shoved aside whatever stuff was on the table and put out cups for us, along with the tea.  We were a bit embarrassed about interrupting their supper, but it seemed rude to just get up and leave, so we drank our tea and looked around the spacious and homey kitchen while they ate.  The kitchen was enhanced by beautiful, enormous arcaded windows which let in lots of light and our earlier spooky feelings dissipated at once.  I was entranced by the very high ceilings and more fanciful carved molding all around the ceiling.  There was much large furniture against one wall, full of papers and books and china and curios.  The large table where we sat was also stacked with books and papers and things.  Behind me was a massive and ancient cooking stove.  A fascinating kitchen!  I wanted to study it more, but got diverted with the conversation.

We answered the standard questions about our travels, bikes, home exchanging, and family.  Mary and I talked a little real estate, we covered the dot com bubble, various legal issues, travel to foreign countries, and the fact that Patrick is a barrister in Dublin.  Finally we asked about the history of the house and we learned that a Mr. Brownsbarn commissioned the house, designed by the architectual firm of Woodward and Deane.  Known for their Ruskinian Gothic style, creating massive buildings using natural color and detailed ornament, Woodward and Deane achieved international acclaim when they designed the Museum at Trinity College.  Patrick and Mary's house was to be Mr. Brownsbarn's hunting lodge.  Sadly, he never got to finish it or live in it.

Then Patrick took us on a tour.  First we saw the sitting room, with its fabulous views.  The amazing molding, carved into the shapes of ancient fossils, we were told, was continued in each room. Large Gothic arched and scalloped windows, 10 feet high, could be seen throughout the house.  Patrick explained how the windows were shaped to collect the sun and how the sun comes up into the kitchen in the morning, lights the sitting room and study all during the day, and glows into the entry hall in the evening.   In both the sitting room and the study we admired the beautiful marble fireplaces.  Elaborately carved wood framed each doorway as well as the large opening from the sitting room into the study.  Every room was packed with art, books, papers and things.

Back in the entry hall again we were shown the banister with its impressive carving of Mr. Brownsbarn.  I thought it was fabulous and funny, but Don couldn’t take his eyes off what he said were at least 100 pair of shoes lining the hallway.

I was hoping we would go upstairs next, but no luck.  We were wisked outside and Patrick walked us around the house pointing out many interesting architectural points about the design and construction, the beautiful stonework designs, the use of solar applications, etc. 

Next he then took us into an old walled garden fronted by several unusual Lebanese cedar trees.  Within the garden we found many types of fruit trees.  At that point Patrick began to ask us a few questions about touring the house and grounds.  Apparently there are liberal tax benefits to those who will open their historic house to the public.  He wondered aloud if there would be any interest in this type of tour.  Don and I assured him that there would be, but I also hastened to say that I did not think admission fees would be much.  However, I soon realized that the admissions were not the attraction, the tax benefits were. So we did talk a bit about the logistics of having the house open to the public and Don and I recommended that Patrick have a chat with Margaret Donavan at Ballymore.

We left the garden and were walking back to the house when suddenly Patrick said, “Well, goodbye, it was very nice talking with you.” And we were being hustled off the grounds.  I mentioned that I did have to go back in the house to get my glasses and id pouch, and I would like to have a chance to say goodbye to Mary, so I was allowed to go back to pick up my gear, and Mary was summoned and met us at the front door to say goodbye.  Then we were off down the drive.

We rode back in to Inistioge and noticed that the cars parked in the middle of the intersection had increased significantly—now there must have been twenty-five or more. None seemed to be dented or demolished, so I guess we would have been ok to leave our car there after all. 

After we had packed up our bikes and hit the road home I looked at Don and said, “Well, what was that all about?’  Somehow, in the end, the visit with Patrick and Mary didn’t seem social.  I think maybe we were guinea pigs for the possible house and garden tour, but I am really not sure.  The whole experience seemed a bit surreal.

**This description came from an architectural review of another house built by the same architects, Woodward and Deane, but is a perfect description of this house too.