IRISH SIGHS
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Five-starring it in spa-centric Killarney.
BLAME QUEEN VICTORIA – OR credit her. Aristocratic adventurers
may have ventured to Killarney before her, but it was the long-
reigning monarch who single-handedly brought the region to the
traveling public's attention with her 1861 visit. Carriage rides through
the Muckross estate, now the core of Killarney National Park, and
boating on the glittering Lakes of Killarney inspired the queen to
declare southwest Ireland's wild and mountainous landscape "a
fairyland" with the most beautiful views in the empire.
Today's visitors come for the same stunning beauty that pleased a
queen, to explore the park – a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve – on foot
or by horse-drawn jaunting car, to sample traditional music in
convivial pubs and nouvelle Irish cuisine in trendy bistros, and,
increasingly, to get the royal treatment in upscale hotels with spas
that offer comforts far beyond anything Her Majesty could have
imagined.
BLAME QUEEN VICTORIA – OR credit her. Aristocratic adventurers
may have ventured to Killarney before her, but it was the long-
reigning monarch who single-handedly brought the region to the
traveling public's attention with her 1861 visit. Carriage rides through
the Muckross estate, now the core of Killarney National Park, and
boating on the glittering Lakes of Killarney inspired the queen to
declare southwest Ireland's wild and mountainous landscape "a
fairyland" with the most beautiful views in the empire.
Today's visitors come for the same stunning beauty that pleased a
queen, to explore the park – a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve – on foot
or by horse-drawn jaunting car, to sample traditional music in
convivial pubs and nouvelle Irish cuisine in trendy bistros, and,
increasingly, to get the royal treatment in upscale hotels with spas
that offer comforts far beyond anything Her Majesty could have
imagined.
IN-TOWN TREASURE: Killarney Park Hotel
RESEARCH FOR A VICTORIAN-AGE novel brought me to the lively town
of Killarney on the edge of the 25,500-acre park during a week in
August. Seeking personal experience in gentlemanly pursuits, I
signed up for a shooting lesson, a horseback trek, and instructions in
falconry in Cork, two hours away. After spending an arduous day
retracing, on foot, the carriage ride that took the queen and her
ladies to Muckross Abbey, Dinis Island, and Torc Waterfall, however,
pursuits of a more voluptuous nature called to me, and I soon
became convinced that if Queen Victoria could have transcended
time, she may never have left the lush spa at the Killarney Park Hotel.
"So many of the hotels have spas now, we're starting to be called
Spallarney," Aoife Hickey, the hotel's sales and marketing manager,
told me as I scheduled a deep-tissue massage. Along with the
international travelers at the five-star Killarney Park who sample the
spa menu come loyal locals, daytrippers from Cork and Dublin, hen
parties, and men seeking relief for weary bones after a day on a
Killarney golf course.
My own weary bones melted under the skilled kneading that
Jennifer applied along with soothing Elemis oils during my après-hike
massage. Afterward, I floated into the candlelit relaxation room,
where leather recliners offered ergonomic comfort; headsets played
meditative music; plates of yogurt, pineapple, strawberries, and
melon refreshed; and fish-tank antics amused those of us who could
keep our eyes open in our state of blissful repose.
Later I returned for a plunge into the delicious churn of the bubble
pool, a hidden gem fed by a rock-lined waterfall alongside
permanently steamed-up windows that softly suffuse the daylight.
MORNING ARRIVED WITH DRIZZLE, AND I was tempted to cocoon in
my plush suite: light a fire, watch a movie, and nibble from the
generous fruit bowl. Instead I indulged in the dining-room buffet,
where the fresh-made croissants and scones, yogurt, fruit salads,
farmhouse cheeses, and cereals far exceeded my usual breakfast. My
server asked about my spa visit and said she swore by the lime and
ginger salt glow. Enticing, but I was back to gentlemanly pursuits. I
taxied to Killarney Country Club, where my clay-pigeon shooting
instructor, Pat Sullivan, awaited.
He wasted no time in handing me a shotgun and showing me how to
use it. My first few attempts went high above and way in front of the
target, necessitating more instructions: stand up straight, don't lean
backward, count to three before shooting. We took our places. I
shouted "Pull!" and the target rocketed high. One, two, three –
bam! It shattered into pieces. The rest of the lesson went the same
way: heft the increasingly heavy gun, lean forward, look down the
barrel, shout "Pull!," shoot, and wince as the recoil slammed into my
shoulder. Out of 100, I hit 15. I laughed at my bad score. Pat
consoled me. "Some men come up, shoot 100 times, and never hit a
single one."
By the time we parted my throat felt as dry as a pulverized target. I
walked up to the club pub and ordered a pint of cider, then
entered an animated discussion about Irish novelists with the local
patrons. Apart from the fact that I could barely lift my arm, it was
great craic, as the Irish say.
RESEARCH FOR A VICTORIAN-AGE novel brought me to the lively town
of Killarney on the edge of the 25,500-acre park during a week in
August. Seeking personal experience in gentlemanly pursuits, I
signed up for a shooting lesson, a horseback trek, and instructions in
falconry in Cork, two hours away. After spending an arduous day
retracing, on foot, the carriage ride that took the queen and her
ladies to Muckross Abbey, Dinis Island, and Torc Waterfall, however,
pursuits of a more voluptuous nature called to me, and I soon
became convinced that if Queen Victoria could have transcended
time, she may never have left the lush spa at the Killarney Park Hotel.
"So many of the hotels have spas now, we're starting to be called
Spallarney," Aoife Hickey, the hotel's sales and marketing manager,
told me as I scheduled a deep-tissue massage. Along with the
international travelers at the five-star Killarney Park who sample the
spa menu come loyal locals, daytrippers from Cork and Dublin, hen
parties, and men seeking relief for weary bones after a day on a
Killarney golf course.
My own weary bones melted under the skilled kneading that
Jennifer applied along with soothing Elemis oils during my après-hike
massage. Afterward, I floated into the candlelit relaxation room,
where leather recliners offered ergonomic comfort; headsets played
meditative music; plates of yogurt, pineapple, strawberries, and
melon refreshed; and fish-tank antics amused those of us who could
keep our eyes open in our state of blissful repose.
Later I returned for a plunge into the delicious churn of the bubble
pool, a hidden gem fed by a rock-lined waterfall alongside
permanently steamed-up windows that softly suffuse the daylight.
MORNING ARRIVED WITH DRIZZLE, AND I was tempted to cocoon in
my plush suite: light a fire, watch a movie, and nibble from the
generous fruit bowl. Instead I indulged in the dining-room buffet,
where the fresh-made croissants and scones, yogurt, fruit salads,
farmhouse cheeses, and cereals far exceeded my usual breakfast. My
server asked about my spa visit and said she swore by the lime and
ginger salt glow. Enticing, but I was back to gentlemanly pursuits. I
taxied to Killarney Country Club, where my clay-pigeon shooting
instructor, Pat Sullivan, awaited.
He wasted no time in handing me a shotgun and showing me how to
use it. My first few attempts went high above and way in front of the
target, necessitating more instructions: stand up straight, don't lean
backward, count to three before shooting. We took our places. I
shouted "Pull!" and the target rocketed high. One, two, three –
bam! It shattered into pieces. The rest of the lesson went the same
way: heft the increasingly heavy gun, lean forward, look down the
barrel, shout "Pull!," shoot, and wince as the recoil slammed into my
shoulder. Out of 100, I hit 15. I laughed at my bad score. Pat
consoled me. "Some men come up, shoot 100 times, and never hit a
single one."
By the time we parted my throat felt as dry as a pulverized target. I
walked up to the club pub and ordered a pint of cider, then
entered an animated discussion about Irish novelists with the local
patrons. Apart from the fact that I could barely lift my arm, it was
great craic, as the Irish say.
OUTSKIRTS OPULENCE: Aghadoe Heights
WITH ITS PANORAMIC VIEWPOINT overlooking a sweeping stretch of
lake and mountain, it's easy to see how the setting of Aghadoe
Heights was held sacred by the Celts and the native saint Finian, who
built a church here in the seventh century. Crumbling remains of a
twelfth-century Romanesque church still stand across the road, in
stark contrast to the hotel's chunky, 1970s exterior, which in turn
belies an interior of sleek Italian furnishings, contemporary color
schemes, and artwork hand-selected by manager Marie Chawke.
Touring the hotel revealed a Grecian-style pool, the spa's thermal
suite with heated tile lounges and its precious-stone chamber (for
customized crystal treatments), and the decadent penthouse. Every
lakeside room featured a balcony or floor-to-ceiling windows, and I
spent much time in my suite captivated by the evolving play of light
and shadow.
There's not much to do atop the hill, emphasizing what Aghadoe
Heights is all about: relaxation and pampering. Despite the spa's
extensive treatment menu, I booked another massage to follow the
next day's guided trek, then took a walk and returned for dinner in
the Lake Room: chili gazpacho, orange and fennel salad, and sage
and butternut squash risotto, accompanied by a glass of pinot noir.
That I was brimmingly full didn't stop me from ordering the blueberry
pie, served with a trio of berry-infused custards, and accented by
glacé blueberries and a striking sunset.
FIVE OF US SET OUT THE FOLLOWING morning from Killarney Riding
Stables, at the base of Aghadoe Hill. Newlyweds Sean and Tina and I
donned helmets and boots, got helping hands onto our docile
steeds, and followed our guides Lina and Sonja into national
parkland. Within minutes we came upon a herd of red deer grazing
on a hillside, the stag standing in silhouette at the very top.
We trekked across farmland, passing black kerry cattle – like the
deer, the only surviving native Irish breed. Alternately walking and
trotting through mossy woods of sessile oak and holly, we made our
way to Ross Castle, once the stronghold of an Irish chieftain, then
ambled back along a wooded path that wound above the lakeshore.
Returning in the afternoon, thoroughly saddle sore, I made good use
of my deep-soak tub and Aveda bath salts, then enjoyed a late lunch
in the Heights Lounge amid clusters of women sharing sumptuous-
looking afternoon teas.
My massage beckoned. In the spa, therapist Marie brought me an
elixir of crushed berries and led me into a treatment room. From the
questionnaire I filled out, she determined I was a "fire" skin type and
concocted an appropriate aromatherapy oil. Marie then massaged
and salt-scrubbed my feet and calves, wrapped my feet in warmed
lavender booties, and left me to disrobe.
Marie's touch and technique were such that I drifted in and out of
sleep for the entire massage. Afterward, in the relaxation area, she
set me on a lounger under warmed blankets and provided
headphones, fresh-squeezed orange juice, tea, fruit skewers, and a
lavender eye mask. Above our little group of reclining sybarites,
bright silk banners wafted; below them a serene stream trickled.
Forget Spallarney – this was Spa Planet, a heavenly world apart.
By the time I glided back to my room, it was nearly dinnertime. A
voice mail informed me that my falconry lesson had been canceled
for lack of numbers. I didn't care. I had no remaining agenda, and no
mind to get out of my robe. I lounged on the loveseat and read The
Irish Times, ordered a delectable Greek salad from room service,
and wallowed in bed, alternating between movie-watching and gazing
out at Ross Castle lit romantically against the night sky. It was a
fittingly lazy end to a satisfying visit, with hospitality, food, and spa
treatments of the highest order, and some good notes about
Victorian leisure pursuits as well. Queen Victoria had it good on her
visit 150-odd years ago. I believe I had it better.
© 2007 Lisa Costantino, as first published in VIRTUOSO LIFE magazine.
WITH ITS PANORAMIC VIEWPOINT overlooking a sweeping stretch of
lake and mountain, it's easy to see how the setting of Aghadoe
Heights was held sacred by the Celts and the native saint Finian, who
built a church here in the seventh century. Crumbling remains of a
twelfth-century Romanesque church still stand across the road, in
stark contrast to the hotel's chunky, 1970s exterior, which in turn
belies an interior of sleek Italian furnishings, contemporary color
schemes, and artwork hand-selected by manager Marie Chawke.
Touring the hotel revealed a Grecian-style pool, the spa's thermal
suite with heated tile lounges and its precious-stone chamber (for
customized crystal treatments), and the decadent penthouse. Every
lakeside room featured a balcony or floor-to-ceiling windows, and I
spent much time in my suite captivated by the evolving play of light
and shadow.
There's not much to do atop the hill, emphasizing what Aghadoe
Heights is all about: relaxation and pampering. Despite the spa's
extensive treatment menu, I booked another massage to follow the
next day's guided trek, then took a walk and returned for dinner in
the Lake Room: chili gazpacho, orange and fennel salad, and sage
and butternut squash risotto, accompanied by a glass of pinot noir.
That I was brimmingly full didn't stop me from ordering the blueberry
pie, served with a trio of berry-infused custards, and accented by
glacé blueberries and a striking sunset.
FIVE OF US SET OUT THE FOLLOWING morning from Killarney Riding
Stables, at the base of Aghadoe Hill. Newlyweds Sean and Tina and I
donned helmets and boots, got helping hands onto our docile
steeds, and followed our guides Lina and Sonja into national
parkland. Within minutes we came upon a herd of red deer grazing
on a hillside, the stag standing in silhouette at the very top.
We trekked across farmland, passing black kerry cattle – like the
deer, the only surviving native Irish breed. Alternately walking and
trotting through mossy woods of sessile oak and holly, we made our
way to Ross Castle, once the stronghold of an Irish chieftain, then
ambled back along a wooded path that wound above the lakeshore.
Returning in the afternoon, thoroughly saddle sore, I made good use
of my deep-soak tub and Aveda bath salts, then enjoyed a late lunch
in the Heights Lounge amid clusters of women sharing sumptuous-
looking afternoon teas.
My massage beckoned. In the spa, therapist Marie brought me an
elixir of crushed berries and led me into a treatment room. From the
questionnaire I filled out, she determined I was a "fire" skin type and
concocted an appropriate aromatherapy oil. Marie then massaged
and salt-scrubbed my feet and calves, wrapped my feet in warmed
lavender booties, and left me to disrobe.
Marie's touch and technique were such that I drifted in and out of
sleep for the entire massage. Afterward, in the relaxation area, she
set me on a lounger under warmed blankets and provided
headphones, fresh-squeezed orange juice, tea, fruit skewers, and a
lavender eye mask. Above our little group of reclining sybarites,
bright silk banners wafted; below them a serene stream trickled.
Forget Spallarney – this was Spa Planet, a heavenly world apart.
By the time I glided back to my room, it was nearly dinnertime. A
voice mail informed me that my falconry lesson had been canceled
for lack of numbers. I didn't care. I had no remaining agenda, and no
mind to get out of my robe. I lounged on the loveseat and read The
Irish Times, ordered a delectable Greek salad from room service,
and wallowed in bed, alternating between movie-watching and gazing
out at Ross Castle lit romantically against the night sky. It was a
fittingly lazy end to a satisfying visit, with hospitality, food, and spa
treatments of the highest order, and some good notes about
Victorian leisure pursuits as well. Queen Victoria had it good on her
visit 150-odd years ago. I believe I had it better.
© 2007 Lisa Costantino, as first published in VIRTUOSO LIFE magazine.
