June 21, 1936

My great-aunt Florence was no petit thing. (In fact, in 1924, as a high-school senior, she led her basketball team to a 70-2 victory over the no-doubt-humbled Geneva Eagles, scoring 52 of those points herself. This article recalls the 80th anniversary of that night, when she still held the county all-time single-game scoring record--probably still does.)

Over six-feet tall and full of spunk, she must have towered over all of Europe during her visit in 1936. I love to imagine what it was like for a couple of girls from Ohio to navigate their way through Europe in a convertible--with hairpin turns on roads not intended for cars and a king-sized language barrier everywhere they went.

A few days after crossing the Atlantic and disembarking in Plymouth, England, in June 1936, Florence wrote a letter home: "Well, here we are in Ireland, by gum, and it is swell."

Killarney, Ireland
11:15 PM

Dear Arlene and Mel,
We stayed overnight in Cork last night and left there after breakfast, about 10:30, in a dreary rainstorm, on our way to Blarney Castle. About 12 miles from Cork we started our hike through the fields and by paths to the castle. Of course our goal was to kiss the blarney stone. You can imagine our surprise when we discovered the stone was on the very top of the edifice, 120-some feet high, and that the only way to kiss the stone was to have someone hold your ankles while you would lie on your back with your hands on a rail and gradually go over backward until your head fits through a hole in the wall. Then you kissed the stone (if you weren't dizzy, etc.). Not to be outdone, and sadly needing that eloquence promised to the kissers of the stone, we proceeded to break our necks and backs and all kissed the stone--we took pictures to prove it. Then, you know us, the outdoor girls, we came down a narrow circular stone passageway out and, as a result of our combination of big feet and long legs, came near coming down on our hinders instead.

From Blarney Castle, we drove back to Cork and thence westward to Glengariff, a resort town, where we had lunch. Every time we stop, a crowd of people gathers around the car to give it the once-over. To them it's a spectacular thing, I guess.

From Glengariff to Killarney the scenery is exquisite. Sometimes things are so beautiful you can't say a thing, and you're fortunate if you can swallow the lump in your throat. The road was little used; grass would be growing between the two-wheel tracks. All the people ride in two-wheeled wagons drawn by a burro because a horse wouldn't be sure-footed enough to take them up the rocky mountain roads. Hairpin turns suddenly bring you into a flock of mountain sheep, cows, and burros in the middle of the road, or a crowd of people doing some odd dance to the music of the accordion, in the center of a bridge.

Fields are covered with a blanket of dwarf daisies about the size of a dime, or buttercups of the same size. Then, for contrast, rhododendrons grow the size of our large trees and have waxy leaves. Then, as if that weren't enough, Canterbury bells and bright red fuchsias are everywhere. The fuchsia are also trimmed for hedges. We'd get out and pick every strange flower and have to ask people what they were. This section is also filled with peat or turf, as they call it. As far as you can see will be places where trenches have been dug and this peat taken out in brick-like slabs. Of course we had to crawl out and paw that. It is used for fuel and resembles nothing so much as bricks of cow manure.

Roadside crosses; lovely spired churches; field after field of "taters"; ruins; waterfalls; stands where Irish laces, linens, and woolen goods are being sold; men in groups, gossiping (not women); cyclists everywhere you turn, even up that mountain pass; horses and burros with their front leg tied to the back leg to keep them from wandering too far; rather small towns where it's a waste of time to look for a restaurant because there are none. All this and plenty more just in this one day's journey.

We're having better luck with our food now that we know better how to order. The inevitable tea is getting to taste better than coffee. In fact, anything would taste better than the kind they make. Toast has been an unheard-of luxury, but their pastries, especially in Wales, would be hard to beat. You have your choice of meat--either mutton for breakfast, mutton for lunch, or mutton for dinner. Sometimes they surprise you and offer lamb chops. Soup is gravy with a little water, and nothing is salted. Before we can use the butter, it has to be salted. Sugar is served in large salt shakers, and salt in a small dish like a bird dish. You almost have to beg for a glass of water. They never serve it with meals. We are strange creatures to them, and we find them staring at us as we eat, changing our fork to the right hand, etc.

Hundreds of other things, but I'm getting sleepy so I haven't good sense. Goodnight.

Love, Florence