The gentle swaying of the seat beneath me coaxes my eyes closed as the sun flashes through the trees into the train carriage. When I open them again, a cloudless sky stretches across the horizon and a parallax scrolling of rolling hills, hedges and sheep stream past as I make my way towards the South coast of the Republic of Ireland. Although it is only the early days of spring, the greens feel like they've never been muted - the hues of colour amongst the plant-life still vibrant after a long winter, now relishing in the sun and enjoying their moments of blissful photosynthesis.
I'm headed down to The Celtic Media Festival for a few days, alone, a test in self-confidence often hampered by a fear of social situations where I know absolutely nobody. This fear aside, I do love these trips, these sojourns at a place I've never been, a fresh exploration of a different culture, language, smells, sights and of course - tastes. Tastes of DAAAAT GRAVY.
I didn't have a plan of where I was going to review the good stuff this trip as I figured that throwing caution to the wind would be my best bet. The difference this time around was the fact that I was without my usual partners in gravy-hunting so I was initially keen to see what I would come up with left to my own devices.
Ireland is a fantastic place - a land of caring, wonderful people surrounded by unimaginably beautiful scenery. A place whose people are instilled with a joie de vivre seldom found elsewhere, and a place where there's a pub for every 100 of those people. When I finally arrived after a 4-hour journey, I found myself in the small town of Dungarvan, a quaint place with a proper town square, a 12th century Norman Castle and a shoe store smartly called 'Clever Clogs', which I found, well, clever.
On my last night there, after a very successful conference, I made my way to a restaurant nestled next to the harbor, a fairly typical Irish establishment steeped in maritime history, and ordered some chips and gravy alongside my meal of southern fried chicken goujons on a bun. The sauce came out in a lovely ceramic gravy boat, the kind that are stocked by most restaurants of this caliber I've come to realize, and the colour and thickness immediately looked appealing. But much like Batman vs. Superman, I'm sorry to say this was also a grand disappointment. The only way I can describe the flavor is that it tasted like a mixture of chicken stock, sugar, and dish-water. With a relatively solid opacity of 70%, and a lovely gravy-boat presentation, on the surface it seemed like it would be a solid contender. Alas though, it was never meant to be. But as I continued to eat, I became aware that there was something else that irked me about the sauce and I didn't realize it until I was well into nearly finishing it.
You see, I've been lucky enough that my gravy-adventures have taken me to some great restaurants around the world, and I do in fact have a plan of one day trying a gravy in every country on earth (if I win the lottery). I figured this trip would be just as rewarding as it had all the proper ingredients - a new place to visit, great weather and friendly people. But I then realized what the problem was - I was alone. Having my wife and son with me and sharing these moments with them - it actually makes the gravy taste better because it really isn't just my journey, it's our journey, and I have a feeling that even if this gravy was a 5-star contender, it would've lost points due to the fact that I didn't have the two of them with me to share in that experience. As nice as the people were, as green as the scenery is, and as new as it all was, it just wasn't the same without my two favourite people in the world sitting there with me, and it's not just because Amanda usually takes the picture of me holding the chip.
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