“Ladies, welcome to County Cork!” he announces as we settle into seats that have probably witnessed more tourist drama than should ever be allowed. “We’re headed to the world-famous Blarney Castle, about twenty minutes through some of the most beautiful countryside Ireland has to offer—and I promise you, it’s so gorgeous it’ll make you want to move here and raise sheep.”
He’s not wrong. The moment we leave Cobh’s harbor, the Irish countryside unfolds like a living postcard painted by someone with unlimited access to every shade of green in existence, and possibly some shades that haven’t been invented yet. Rolling emerald hills stretch toward the horizon, dotted with stone walls older than most countries and sheep that look like giant balls of cuddly fluff across a masterpiece by a benevolent giant with excellent aesthetic sense.
Ancient farmhouses with thatched roofs huddlein valleys like something out of a fairy tale, where everyone has universal healthcare and excellent storytelling skills. Narrow winding roads lined with hedgerows create natural corridors through a landscape so achingly beautiful it makes you want to buy a cottage, raise sheep, and write bad poetry about the meaning of life.
“Would you look at this place?” Nettie breathes, pressing her face against the window like a child at a candy store. “It’s like someone took every Irish stereotype and made them all come true at once.”
“All we need is a leprechaun with a pot of gold and we’d have the full tourist bingo card,” Bess agrees, though she keeps checking her phone with the distracted air of a woman expecting important romantic communications.
Twenty minutes later, we arrive at Blarney Castle, a medieval fortress that rises from the Irish countryside like something out of a fantasy novel written by someone with serious architectural ambitions and unlimited access to very large stones. The stone walls have withstood centuries of Irish weather and tourist enthusiasm with equal stoicism. Let’s hope they survive Nettie Butterworth.
“On second thought, I think we’ve hit the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow,” Bess says, taking it all in with wonder.
“Speaking of precious metals,” I say as we join the line of tourists snaking toward the castle entrance, “where exactly is your silver-haired treasure hunt today? I was hoping to finally get some quality interrogation time with Rex.”
“Yeah, where is Sexy Rexy?” Nettie adds with a waggle of her brows.
“He’s meeting us here,” Bess replies with the kind of dreamy smile that suggests she’s been mentally redesigning her cabin to accommodate masculine belongings—at least for one night. “He wanted to explore the grounds before the crowds arrived.”
Warning bells go off in my amateur sleuth brain like smoke detectors in a house fire. Men who show up separately from their supposed romantic interests are either planning surprises or planning escapes. Given my recent track record with charming male passengers, I’m betting on the latter.
Our tour guide, a woman named Bridget who looks like she could personally vouch for every stone in Ireland’s historicalaccuracy, and probably has genealogical charts proving her relationship to ancient Celtic royalty, addresses our group with heightened enthusiasm.
“Now then, who can tell me what makes Blarney Castle so special?” she asks with zeal, despite the fact she most likely repeats the same information multiple times daily to people who will forget it immediately after taking selfies.
“The Blarney Stone!” several tourists chorus like well-trained children.
“Exactly right! Built in 1446 by Cormac Laidir MacCarthy, Blarney Castle houses the famous Blarney Stone. Legend says that kissing the stone grants you the gift of eloquence and persuasive speech—though you’ll have to lie backwards and hang upside down from the castle’s battlements to do it!”
“So we’re supposed to kiss something that’s been kissed by thousands of tourists?” I ask, loud enough for nearby tourists to hear.
“And hang like a bat to do it?” Bess adds.
“That’s like playing tonsil hockey with the entire population of Europe,” Nettie waggles her brows with approval.
She so would.
“At least it’s outdoors,” Bess points out with misguided optimism. “Fresh air kills germs, right? That’s what my mother always said, right before she sent me outside to build character.”
“Honey, I’ve kissed worse things than an ancient rock,” Nettie declares with the expertise of a woman who’s lived through several decades of questionable romantic decisions. “At least this one comes with a legend instead of regret and a hangover, and someone asking to borrow money the next morning.”
The crowd around us erupts in knowing laughter from tourists who’ve clearly made their own questionable kissing choices over the years.
“The stone has been kissed by millions of people over the centuries,” Bridget continues, either ignoring our commentary or she’s just used to tourist squeamishness. “World leaders, celebrities, and ordinary folks seeking the gift of gab have all madethe pilgrimage.”
“I don’t need more eloquence,” Bess mutters. “I need better judgment in men.”
“Present company excluded, I hope,” comes a familiar voice from behind us.
We all turn to see Rex Hartwell himself, looking like he stepped out of a cologne advertisement for distinguished gentlemen who know their way around both castle ruins and ladies’ hearts. His silver hair catches the morning light streaming through ancient stone archways, and his smile could probably convince people to make investment decisions based purely on charm and charisma.
“Rex!” Bess practically levitates out of the line as if she found something far better to kiss—and she just may have.
He approaches us with that confident stride that suggests he’s never doubted his own charm, immediately commanding the attention of every woman within a five-tourist radius. The man has charisma like other people have allergies—it affects everyone around him, whether they want it to or not.
“Ladies, what a perfect morning for castle exploring,” he says, his attention focused entirely on my blushing friend.
“Pleasant surprise, my foot,” Nettie mutters under her breath. “That man’s been tracking Bess’s schedule as if he’s running surveillance for the FBI.”
