Being a tourist in your hometown: Pat Fitzpatrick's Cork staycation stroll

The plan was to stroll around Cork, literally, starting at George’s Quay, following the river west to St Fin Barre’s Cathedral before heading north, passing St Al’s, and then across to the North Mall before turning east for Shandon and the Butter Museum. From there, it was on to McCurtain St for a hipster sandwich, before veering south and back to George’s Quay.

I found it hard to stroll at first, lacking that sense of being slightly lost and uncomfortable that you get from tourists in a strange town. I knew where I was going, on a route I pounded every day during covid to get away from my family for an hour.

My two-hour stroll around Cork was going to take 45 minutes if I kept up this pace.

And then St Fin Barre’s Cathedral took my breath away. Not in a good way — it’s looking really shabby now, the spires could do with a clean.

I did a piece recently with Richard Quest when he visited Cork during his travel show for CNN. 

He mentioned off-camera that the place was looking a bit tired and could do with a lick of paint. I was a bit cranky, you don’t want someone with an English accent telling you your city isn’t up to scratch. 

But, looking up at the moss on the spires of the cathedral, I had to admit he might be right. 

To be honest, I had started to think about it a few minutes earlier, on George’s Quay. The glad rags that Cork put on 10 years ago were wearing a little thin. If I could see this, so could a tourist.

I turned into the grounds of the cathedral and found myself seduced. The old gravestones standing straight against a wall, the new labyrinth under a few trees, the timeless feeling that it wasn’t 9.30am on a Friday morning anymore.

A SENSE OF PLACE

You know what — you can’t be a proper tourist in your home city. There are some things only a visitor can see. 

While I was fussing about a bit of moss on the spires, tourists were soaking up the huge vaulted ceilings inside. 

Forget my problems with a closed-down gelato shop on the quay — they were grabbing an eyeful of the weird skyline that suddenly comes into view in this part of the city, where the spires of Shandon and the North Cathedral whisk you away to a medieval mountain-top town in Tuscany, without the sunshine.

Then I bumped into Nigel Dunne, Dean of Cork, who recognised me from my other life, where I pretend to be a millionaire from Blackrock Road. 

On a quick tour around the inside of the cathedral, he told me that the outside had been cleaned as recently as 2011, before an explosion in the number of diesel cars along with climate change conspired to spoil it all again. 

Nigel headed off to preside at a funeral, leaving me to stroll around the old place, contemplating the end of human life on the planet and the fact you can’t beat a bit of local knowledge when you’re pretending to be a tourist. 

I left the grounds with a spring in my step and headed back down to the river. It’s spruced up around here now because there is money in student accommodation.

Like any tourist, I’m starting to get a sense of the place. Cork has always been a bitty city — faded glory jammed up against the new thing. Nothing stands still.

I crossed the river (twice obviously, welcome to Cork) and arrived at the North Mall. It took my breath away, always does, it’s like a slice of somewhere else. 

The understated wooden sign above the door said that the Franciscan Well is a Brew Pub. It rankled that they used a hipster American term, but I’m 56 now and they’re looking for a younger class of tourist.

The first gaggle of visitors were arriving around Shandon and the Firkin Crane. 

There is a rule in city break tourism that you have to climb the dank steps of an old tower whether you want to or not. 

I made my maiden voyage up the dank steps of Shandon Tower — the view from the top was a letdown, Cork is best experienced at street level.

But climbing those steps in my home city felt different to all the other towers I’ve climbed on holidays. It connected me to the place. 

I didn’t play the bells on the way down — it wasn’t yet noon and there was at least one student half-asleep with a hangover nearby who didn’t need to hear me murdering ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’.

FILLING IN THE GAPS

Then I met Dominic from the Butter Museum. Again, it always helps if you find a guide. 

Just like Nigel and the cathedral, Dominic had the low-down on butter and Cork. 

It basically meant money — the Butter Exchange drawing farmers along the butter roads from as far away as Kerry and Limerick so they could swap a few barrels for cash. 

And then the creameries took over and it disappeared, leaving the old exchange building unloved and unkempt to the north of the museum. It’s a waste, but creates a mood too, of time moving on.

A quick word for Blarney here. It’s growing on me. I went up and kissed the Blarney Stone for the CNN piece — I thought it would be awful, but all I remember was the bonhomie and good craic with the Americans in the queue. 

The grounds of the castle are gorgeous and there is a great buzz around the village, even during a recent visit on a Sunday morning. 

We should be thankful for Blarney — it lets the Yanks indulge an upmarket version of Diddly-Ireland and keeps that whole shillelagh business out of the city centre.

Back to my walking tour, which ended with a pastrami on sourdough sandwich on McCurtain St, along with one of the best coffees I ever had in my life. It was the good side of hipster — nice friendly service, people of all ages appreciating quality food that was a pipe dream in Cork 10 years ago.

In another city, plodding around museums and climbing up towers is how I put down time before it’s time to go out and get a bit drunk over dinner. It’s all a bit samey.

In my hometown, it’s like filling in the gaps in your sense of an old friend. I’d highly recommend it, as long as you can find a person or two to point you in the right direction.