Frank’s Place and Wexford Town

Spending May Day at Killiane Castle felt worthwhile. I wandered through the hedgerows, took photos of the castle and gardens, and napped to shake off some jet lag. The next day, after chatting with donkeys and cows, I realized it was time to find some human company.

I called a taxi and headed to Wexford Town, which sits on Ireland’s southeast coast.

When I got off the bus a few days earlier, I could tell I’d enjoy exploring this seaside town. I originally came for the castle, but quickly felt at home nearby. The old buildings made me wonder what life was like back then. How many people have walked these streets over the years?

I stopped at Frank’s Place for a chai latte. The outdoor dining tents had Guinness Beer lettering, and the narrow, pedestrian-only Main Street added to the charm. I didn’t expect to find racks of wine or such a good cup of chai inside.

Frank’s Place has a long history. Mr. and Mrs. M.J. O’Connor opened their family bakery in 1860 and raised a baker’s dozen worth of children. Frank, the fifth child, gave the place its name. Now, the seventh O’Connor generation runs it after returning to their roots. Where I’m from, it’s rare to see so many generations in one spot. Back then, in Washington State, much of it still belonged to the indigenous people and part of the Oregon Territories.

Today, Frank’s Place’s motto is, “… a home from home where you will encounter no strangers, only friends you have yet to meet.” I found that to be true of the lovely townspeople, too.

As I stood outside, trying to decide whether to stop in, the sign on the building prompted me to take a closer look. The sign read: “Bread is still the staff of life.” Ah, words spoken like a true baker. Other signs revealed that they served coffee. I went through the doors hoping they served a chai latte, too. They did.

Sitting next to shelves overflowing with wine bottles, I sipped my latte. As I came to expect during my travels, they served their chai topped with cinnamon, which I’ve come to enjoy as an extra treat.

After my afternoon treat, I sauntered down the street to the corner with my tripod and camera in hand. After a lifetime of lugging camera equipment around, that’s what I do—take time and saunter .

I spotted the bronze statue by Oliver Sheppard commemorating the Irish Rebellion of 1798. Pikeman had been mounted on a limestone pedestal in 1905 and placed in the square.

Behind the statue, I noticed the Bullring Market. On the way to check it out, I stopped to admire a beautiful BMW motorcycle and complimented the owner.

“Would you like to go for a ride?” he offered. That caught me off guard. I politely declined. What a spectacle that would have been with me grasping my tripod and camera with one hand while my other hand was clinging to a strange man, hanging on for dear life. Yeah, no.

After leaving the generous man and his friends behind, I found this little shop with a wide variety of old and new items for sale. I spotted a W.B. Yeats poetry book. It seemed fitting in Ireland to buy a well-used copy of Everyman’s Poetry written by an Irishman, in Ireland. When I read his poetry, I think about the Irish hands that held the book before me, the best kind of souvenir from my trip.

I never made it close to Saint Aidan’s Cathedral, even though its shadow stretched over many places I walked. It still appeared in the background of many of my photos.