Postcard from Ireland - Cork

Cork is a mobius place. The city itself is small, but by the clever application of a one-way system the city-planners have managed to wrap at least twelve thousand miles of road around what is essentially a small port.

Cork has some interesting features. For instance, if you’re asked in a pub quiz where the greatest number of coffee shops per person is, then forget Naples, New York or anywhere obviously peppy and suggest Cork. The only rational explanation to the very great number of coffee shops in Cork is that the national social health system can’t afford methadone and so everyone is combating hard drugs by downing double shots of espresso in various forms.

I’m not kidding. Everyone is drinking coffee, all the time. Possibly this is to give them the energy to get them to the next coffee shop and score their next hit of the dark gorgeousness. Given that many of the coffee shops double as chocolate shops, this is a good reason to sprint to the next one. Frankly, I can’t get excited about latte but give me a free chocolate truffle at the same time and I feel so good I want to have a dog tail grafted to my ass so that I can wag it and show my appreciation.

One citizen of Cork not drinking coffee was the baby being breast fed in a pub. That’s right, I was in Ireland for about an hour before I saw what has to be the ultimate in underage drinking. Actually, it sort of made sense. Cork has pubs everywhere and they are usually of a type: quiet, made gloomy by all the dark wood and dully shining brass and Guinness and affording many places where you can have a quiet pint, or a conversation, or unfetter your boob and feed junior. Much better than having to do it in a more public place.

One of the odd things about Cork (as soon as you accept breast feeding in pubs as normal, you realise your whole yardstick for what’s odd and what’s not in Ireland has to shift) is one of the main streets comes equipped with these green lights recessed into poles. What the hell is that all about? I could only assume that the city council have imported the maritime idea of giving guidance and they produce a handy marker for those who are weaving their way from bar to bar, pub to pub, on a dark and rainy night. Or if they are a bit pished.


One thing that becomes quickly apparent is just how seriously food is taken in Cork. The main food market ‘the English Market’ is home to the longest fish counter I have ever seen. Never mind that some of the fish looked spectacularly ugly, I was too distracted by the lobster tank at one end and the portable oyster bed at the other.

Taking food seriously, having a passion for it is, I think, linked to the famine in Ireland all those years ago. Not having enough food does rather concentrate the mind and, once the immediate threat is averted it’s natural enough to carry on thinking about food – not just ‘where can I get a potato’ but ‘I wonder what interesting things I can do with garlic and seafood today’. I think the collective historical memory of the famine may also go some way towards explaining the portion sizes. When you don’t know where your next meal is coming from, you make sure that the current one involves piling the plate high.