INTRODUCTION

When I was giving some thought to the subject of travelling for this book, I came across a quote by a Moroccan traveller, Ibn Battuta: ‘Travelling: it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.’ I can’t say that I’ve ever been left speechless by anything, but I understand what he means. I have often been in awe of all the wonderful things I’ve seen: the bustling cities, the strange and wonderful wildlife, the beautiful monuments, the fantastic scenery and, most of all, the people I’ve met along the way. And, being a bit of a storyteller, I thought I’d commit my travels to paper and share these journeys with you. Not because I want to show off, but because I hope they’ll provide you with a little bit of escapism on a rainy winter’s afternoon, and perhaps even a bit of extra knowledge or a travel tip or two.

Unlike Ibn Battuta, who was a 14th-century scholar and who travelled all over the world on a sort of pilgrimage, to understand more about himself and about the places he visited, I’m not a pilgrim: I’ve never walked the Camino de Santiago, sadly, because I have a wonky foot, and I haven’t spent a full 29 years on the road like our Moroccan friend! Nonetheless, I have been fortunate enough in my life to travel a great deal and writing this book has prompted me to reflect a bit on my passion for travel and why I love it so much.

I was lucky enough to begin when travelling was still a glamorous thing: in the days before package travel, getting from A to B was generally long and expensive and while cheap air fares have opened up the world to everyone, which is a good thing, part of me misses the era when people dressed up to the nines to go on a flight – remember that? No tracksuits and Nikes in those days! I can still remember my first trip abroad, with my sister Kate to the wedding of the brother of our French student Claire. Firstly, the very idea of two teens from Balally jetting off to Paris was unheard of, so we were the envy of the neighbourhood, but not only that, the wedding was out of this world. Kate and I spent the trip with our eyes out on stalks admiring the wealthy French, with their gorgeous clothes and sophistication. The wedding was straight from the pages of a celebrity magazine, and afterwards we took in the sights of the city, from the Eiffel Tower to Montmartre to the Jardin des Tuileries. It was absolutely magical. What an introduction to travel – I think it spoiled me! However, I’m mindful of a quote I once read from Paulo Coelho: ‘Travel is never a matter of money but of courage.’ Absolutely true. The best experiences I’ve had have been the most unexpected, from a visit to a Maasai home to a holiday chaperoning my 11 nieces and nephews in a minibus that we all remember and talk about to this day. Holidays are about the experiences, but also about the memories.

It hasn’t always been glamour, of course: every year I spend seven weeks in the United States, lugging big boxes of travel brochures around from city to city, taking an endless succession of flights (poor you, Francis, I hear you say!) as part of my Tourism Ireland job. It’s hard work and between flying in to a new city, setting up our ‘show’, working hard to woo Americans to Ireland, then packing everything away and flying off to the next destination, there’s not much time to wander around to take in the sights, but when there is, I drink it all in. I have become an expert at getting an early flight to my destination so that I can have a wander, or making sure that if we have a rare night off, we have booked tickets for a show or some kind of tourist experience. I’m a sucker for hop-on, hop-off buses (the best way to see a place quickly) and for finding one-off trips for my travelling companions. I love organising things, as those of you who have seen my Grand Tour will probably know, but I don’t do it for ‘celebrity’ reasons, even though I’ve loved making the show and meeting the lovely people who have come with me. I actually first started organising trips for my pals in Skål, the professional travel organisation, and discovered that I liked it, because I enjoy making other people happy. It’s a role that I find natural; I’m not a drinker, so I’m always up and about early and chivvying the rest onto the bus, and I get such a buzz from giving my travelling companions an unforgettable experience.

I have been keeping a diary of my travels since 1966 and I have enjoyed leafing through them immensely when researching this book; they bring back such happy memories. I treasure them and the people I’ve met along the way. In this book, you’ll learn quite a bit about me by the places I’ve visited, the foods I’ve eaten and the friends I’ve made, as well as the weird and wonderful things that have happened to me on my travels. You’ll find out things about me that might surprise you, and isn’t that great? That’s what travel is all about – finding out things about yourself that you might not expect. Maybe you’ll have discovered that you hate spicy food or that heat brings you out in a rash, but perhaps you’ll also discover that you are braver than you thought you were, or more adventurous; that eating foreign foods and talking to people who don’t share your language is fun and exciting. Finding out about other cultures really does broaden the mind.

However, the thing about travel is that we always come home. In my case, I love every moment of my journeys, but when I open the hall door of my home in Co. Kerry, put down my suitcases and go into the kitchen to put the kettle on, I feel a real sense of homecoming. I sit on the sofa in the living room with a cup of tea, taking in the garden, forgetting about the big pile of post on the hall table, just having a moment before plunging back into the day-to-day realities of work and business. One of my friends calls it ‘re-entry’, as if I’m coming back from outer space! It really does feel like that sometimes, and I admit that there can be a fair amount of moaning and groaning, but just for those few minutes, as I sit there listening to the birds and the rain falling on the window, I know that I’m home. There really is nothing like it.

Happy travelling!

‘In the unlikely story that is

America, there has never been

anything false about hope.’ –

Barack Obama

When the Beatles were touring America in 1964, a reporter asked Ringo Starr, ‘How do you find America?’ He replied, ‘Turn left at Greenland.’ This joke has always amused me, because of course the reporter wanted to know what he thought about the place! America has a special place in my heart. Some people say that it has changed, but in my experience it remains the country I have always loved. I love the people, their friendliness and warmth; I love the big cities and the can-do attitude and the scale of everything. In America, nothing is impossible, and because I spend seven weeks of every year there, it’s a country I’ve come to know very well, criss-crossing it every springtime for Tourism Ireland, often taking in as many as 40 cities in one trip. But the irony is, unlike practically everyone else, I never got to emigrate there – nearly, but not quite. And do you know what? I’m happy now that I didn’t.

When I was in college in the 1970s, along with all my friends, I wanted to get to America. The perception was that if you got there, you were made. So, when I left Dublin College of Catering in 1978, my first job was in Parknasilla in Sneem, Co. Kerry. Lo and behold, Mr Edwards, CEO of Hilton Hotels in America, came to stay – I couldn’t believe my luck. I made it my goal to approach him and ask him about going to the States – this was my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, or so I thought, so I waited for the right moment and delivered my little speech. ‘I’m a newly graduated student from catering college and I’d love the opportunity to work in America.’ He was very nice and clearly well used to being asked, so he offered me his card. ‘When you get settled, send me your CV and I’ll get it into the right channels and we’ll talk to you.’ I was delighted with myself, and sent off my CV, watching the post like a hawk for any reply.

As it happened, Hilton Hotels were opening a pub called Kitty O’Shea’s in the Palmer House Hotel in Chicago. Some of you might know the Palmer House as it’s a real landmark in Chicago, a real old-fashioned swanky hotel from the time when that kind of opulence was all the rage: 20 floors high, with seven ballrooms and swimming pools and fabulous decor – chandeliers, thick carpets, the lot. You can imagine my excitement. The man in charge of the new pub was the Hilton’s food and beverage manager, Benny Martin from Sligo, and the first I knew that Mr Edwards had been as good as his word was when I got a letter one January morning from Benny. He said he’d like to interview me for a position at Kitty O’Shea’s and, by the way, was my mother Maura Gallagher from Sligo? Clearly, the Irish network was going strong in Chicago, because there was nothing on my CV mentioning Sligo!

The next time I was home, I said to my mother, ‘Do you know Benny Martin?’ and she said, ‘Oh, of course I do. I went out with him once. He took me on a bike to a dance in Ballintubber.’ The penny dropped. Only in Ireland! It turned out that Benny was from Mum’s native county and she also told me that his brother used to make suits for Frank Sinatra, which impressed me no end. Benny had ended up in America and had gone on to great things at the Hilton.

I’ve always had luck like that, I think. Just when I’m least expecting it, something good happens, and I was delighted with myself when Benny said he’d progress my application for a work visa through the American embassy. I was well and truly on my way, I thought. However, my usual good luck seemed to have run out, because it was the year of the postal strike, which lasted from January to May, and what’s more, the P&T, as they were called then, ran the telephone system as well – so we couldn’t make or receive calls. It probably seems unreal in this day and age, but for five long months, there was no communication at all from or to Parknasilla. (You might well ask how we managed to run a business, but they were different times!) So I heard nothing further from Benny until May, when the strike was over and an avalanche of post arrived at the hotel. One of the letters was from the Hilton, of course, and in it, Benny Martin wrote to tell me to present myself at the American embassy in Ballsbridge on 11 February – three months earlier – to process my Green Card. It was too late, and when I rang the embassy, the nice people told me to forget it. I never did get to America, at least, not in the way I’d intended. Life is like that, full of unexpected forks in the road, and just when you think you’re headed one way, you veer off down another path. If I’d gone to America to work for Benny, who knows where I’d be now or what I’d be doing?

Now, I love my trips to America every spring and even though it’s hard work, with all those flights and tourism shows, I feel fortunate. I’ve met so many people and made so many memories over the years, and even though the shows are different these days, and there isn’t such a big gang of us on the road (at one stage, there used to be 40 of us travelling together, but now, we’re about a dozen), I still love what I do, telling Americans all about Ireland and encouraging them to visit.

The Lone Star State

Sometimes, I’m amused at the kind of customer I get, such as the lady who approached me at a trade show in Dallas, Texas. Now, I have to tell you that Dallas is a great city. Until I came to know it, I thought that it was all the Ewings and Southfork from the TV show of the same name (and yes, you can do a tour of the ranch!), and there certainly is no shortage of ‘bling’, but in spite of its futuristic skyline, it’s unpretentious, bustling, with great food and great culture. I love the Botanical Gardens, particularly in springtime, when they have the most fantastic displays of spring flowers and cherry blossom, and in autumn, when the trees in the arboretum are ablaze. They have wonderful classical music if that’s your thing, and there’s a museum of Asian art called the Crow Collection of Asian Art, which is spectacular, and, of course, the Sixth Floor Museum overlooking Dealey Plaza, which you may recognise as the famous Texas School Book Depository, where Lee Harvey Oswald took aim on JFK’s motorcade. And, as you’ll see shortly, there is quite a lot of cowboy entertainment, as you’d expect.

Anyway, there I was at the trade show in Dallas when a lady came up to me and said that she’d never been to Ireland and would love to go. I outlined various areas of interest in the country and told her how many visitors came to Kerry every year. She looked interested and asked me how she’d get to Kerry from Dallas. I said she could fly from Dallas to Chicago or New York, then on to Dublin or to Shannon.

‘How far are you from Dublin?’ she asked.

I said, ‘Four hours.’

‘Four hours?’ she said in astonishment. ‘Oh, no, my husband wouldn’t stay in a car for four hours.’

Well, I thought, you’re some spoiled Dallas queen, but I was being very nice, as these events teach you great patience. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘If you fly to Shannon, it’s only two and a half hours from there to Kenmare.’

‘Oh, no,’ she insisted. ‘He’d never stand for that.’ Oh, God, I thought, and then she said, ‘Is there no other way we could get there?’

I racked my brains, then said, ‘Well, you could fly to London and then London to Cork and then we’re only an hour and a quarter away. Would he do that?’

‘He might,’ she replied, ‘but why would we fly to London?’

‘Well,’ I said, mystified, ‘you’d save time – you said you didn’t want to do four hours from Dublin.’

‘It’s an awfully long way around the world,’ she replied.

Well, I thought, I’m sorry they put Kerry so far away from you, but needless to say, I didn’t tell her that out loud. ‘Inside thoughts’, a friend of mine calls them! ‘Well, it’s the only way of getting to us,’ I replied.

‘Have you not got an airport near you?’ she said. ‘You see, we have our own plane.’

Sacred Heart, I thought. ‘Well, you never said. That’s marvellous! Oh, sure, everyone has one of them – what’s the fuss?’ I went on to say she could fly it to Farranfore, only 28 miles from Kenmare and a very well-equipped airport too. ‘I think it can take a 747,’ I added helpfully.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘we don’t have one of them.’ I felt like saying, ‘How very disappointing.’ She probably had a Learjet. Everything in Dallas is bigger and better. She never did come for a visit!

I also have very fond memories of the Stockyards in Fort Worth, a city that’s actually 30 miles away from Dallas, but is within what’s called the DFW metroplex, that is, the greater area of Dallas–Fort Worth–Arlington. Fort Worth is sometimes known as Cowtown, for a reason, because it’s the home of the rodeo, and indeed its flag has a steer on it. It also has a world-class gallery, the Kimbell Art Museum, which actually does look like a cattle shed – which is not an insult, but entirely fitting given the location, and it’s lovely, with a stunning collection. Anyway, on this particular visit in 1986, I was coming into Fort Worth with Bord Fáilte, as it was known at the time, for work. As we had so little free time – we’d always be working very hard all day, then pack up our road show and go to the airport and fly out – often the only spare hours would be the night before a show, if we were lucky enough to get in in the afternoon. I’m always on the lookout for shows that might be on in the places we’re visiting, and in Fort Worth, I hit pay dirt! That very night, the rodeo was on, and as I’d never seen one, I thought it would be great. An American friend of mine, Cilla, got six tickets, two for herself and her husband and four for the Irish gang, and off we went.

The Stockyards in Fort Worth are like an Irish mart, only on a giant scale: they were where they used to bring all the cattle, and all the breeders would come to buy them, going back to the 1920s. The show was just fantastic, with lots of bullriding, lassoing and other cowboy activities, and the place was jam-packed with people, like All-Ireland Day here. There was a place where you could get your hat steamed to get it nice and clean, and competitions for the best-dressed cowboy and cowgirl. After all that excitement, we retired to a giant Texan bar, which had a huge dancefloor with a pole in the middle – not that