Soup. Two weeks spent wandering the south of Ireland, and what have I got to show for it? A working knowledge of Gaelic? A deep longing for the green hills and rocky coasts of the island country? An idiotic, affected Irish brogue, perhaps? Nope. What's really stuck with me is a serious, abiding appreciation for soup, and in particular for that soup of soups, chowder. I know that the word itself makes people go, "oh, okay, New England clam chowder," but the Irish have done wonders with seafood chowder that gives the New England kind a run for its money (I'm not even going to discuss that red stuff people call "Manhattan chowder"). Although the soup itself was probably invented by Breton fishermen who took it with them to the New England coast, the soup has been adopted by the people on the southern shores of Ireland, as well, where a thick, hearty soup (particularly one that can be easily made with the ingredients on hand) helps to keep at bay the cold wind of the Atlantic.

Seafood Chowder

But why the obsession with this soup, of all things? I read back through the entries of my admittedly anal-retentive journal, and it seems like every other entry mentions eating chowder somewhere. Granted, I imagine it's partly because I did a lot of my writing in pubs, because they're usually places with good, solid surfaces to write on and (mostly) cheap food. Cheap food, I suppose, is another part of the reason for my obsession, as pub food is invariably cheaper than restaurant food, especially in the larger cities like Dublin and Cork. In fact, a cheap bowl of soup was what led me to this newfound passion in the first place, and the first stop in my "chowder tour" of Ireland:

*1. On the Ocean:* My first encounter with Irish chowder took place before I'd even set food in the country, on board the ferry *Jonathan Swift*, a hulking vessel that sails from Holyhead in Wales over to the Dublin docks. I went looking for food about midway through the voyage, and my heart sank when I read the prices on the restaurant's menu amd did some quick mental currency conversions. The only thing I could even *afford*, I realized (at least, if I wanted a bed to sleep in that night), was the seafood chowder, which for some reason was a great deal cheaper than anything else.

I ordered, sat down with my bowl of chowder, and suddenly the cabaret quartet performing show-tune butchery on some of Ireland's most beloved "traditional" songs didn't bother me in the slightest. I'm a one-way-or-no-way person at heart; when I find something that works, I tend to stick with it despite the other choices available, and so, my course for the next two weeks was set.

*2. Dublin:* My second bit of experimentation was in a pub in Dublin itself, the name of which I can't remember. Of course, that memory lapse may be a good thing, considering my opinion of their food -- a far cry from the *Jonathan Swift*'s, the pub's came in a big goblet, and the clams had not actually been removed from their shells. Instead, they'd simply opened the shells and dumped them in the soup, which made the chowder difficult to eat (nowhere to put the shells) and more than a little crunchy (thanks to loose bits of shell floating around). Pretty, but not tops on my list.

*3. Roundwood, Co. Wicklow:* On the other hand, then there's the chowder they serve at The Coach House bed-and-breakfast in Roundwood, a package-tour town outside Dublin -- it was so amazingly good I sucked down two bowls, one right after the other. The barmaid thought I was very strange when I asked for seconds, believe me. To be fair, I'd better take circumstances into account, those being that I'd walked 32 km or so over the last two days, blown out a knee and an ankle, and hadn't eaten anything more substantial than an egg salad sandwich in the last 48 hours. Even still, though, The Coach House chowder was one of the most wonderful things I've ever tasted.

*4. Cork, Co. Cork:* I wasn't in Cork very long, unfortunately, but I did spend one night there and ate at a fancy little French-style restaurant called The Strasbourg Goose. A little on the pricey side (in the 7-16 pound range, which was quite a bit for me at the time), but the crispy cod with pepper-fruit-mayonnaise was tasty, and the seafood chowder wasn't bad. Not quite up to the level of The Coach House, but easily as good as the fare on the *Jonathan Swift* (and if I remember right, the Goose's chowder was actually a little spicy).

*5. Schull, Co. Cork:* The last stop on my "chowder tour," so to speak, was in the tiny town of Schull, mostly a crafts town for tourists on their way further down the coast to Goleen and Mizen Head (where I myself was trying to get to, at the time). I'd tried to hike the 16 km from Schull to Goleen in the pouring rain, backpack and all, but only made it about 4 km before I hitched my way back, defeated and utterly soaked. I planted myself at the bar of the Bunratty Inn, a pub within spitting distance of the bus stop and ordered -- what else? -- a bowl of soup to pass the time.

I can't claim that the pub's chowder was truly the best I'd had, but by then it didn't matter. It was thick and warm and creamy, packed full of little bits of fresh fish, clams and the like, straight out of the Atlantic, had just the right amount of salt already in it (a pet peeve of mine), and it was a life-saver. It felt like home, like a taste of the familiar, and it brought me back from the metaphorical dead, ready to carry on. Which, in the end, is exactly what good chowder's *for*, isn't it?

Jeremy L. Hart