On our way from Limerick to Cork, we saw the signs for Blarney Castle, home of the legendary Blarney Stone, which, when kissed, gives the kisser the gift of eloquence. Well, being songwriters and all, we had to stop. We paid our ten euros to get in and saw the beautiful ruins before us, along with scores of tourists. If I hadn’t seen the castle, I would have thought I was at Graceland. At Graceland you can have your photo taken standing in front of the gates, provided you pay the $10 for the picture at the end of the tour. At Blarney, after winding your way up the narrow spiral staircases behind other tourists (“oh, jeez Barb, I don’t think I can make it!”), you get in line to have your upper torso lowered into place to kiss the Blarney stone quickly while your photo is taken, available at the end of the tour for 10 euro. Well, there were a lot of anxious tourists, one weary old guy helping them all into place, and a light rain was starting to fall, so the old guy was trying to get them all through as quickly as possible. I took my position and he lowered me to kiss the wall and unintentionally (I assume) butted my forehead against the Blarney Stone while pulling me up and shouting “Next!”. Now I know I must have kissed the stone, but all I could think of is the knot growing on my forehead. (The photo I didn't purchase) I’m sure the Blarney Stone must be sending me a message, but I can’t quite figure out what it is. “Shut up and play your guitar”? “Don’t get fresh with me, Yank”? “You need all the eloquence you can get”? It will all come to light soon enough, in a meadow of four-leaf clovers. We did, unlike many of our brethren who were winding from the steps, take a good walk around the rest of the grounds, where there was a druid stone circle (real), and a witches den and kitchen (dunno), all very nice. We got back in the van and headed to Cork. I crawled in the back and slept, eloquently.