The elevator doors groaned shut behind us with the finality of a prison gate closing. Between the double stroller, three suitcases, and a diaper bag stuffed to bursting, our breathing room consisted of precisely the cubic footage required to whisper “I can’t eat one more fecking potato” to my wife without inhaling a backpack strap. Somewhere beneath the mountain of gear, our twins giggled at the novelty of vertical transportation while I contemplated the physics of how Kilkenny River Court Hotel’s elevator—roughly the size of a phone booth—had become our family’s ark.
Outside, the River Nore flowed past St. John’s Bridge as it had for centuries, oblivious to the modern miracle occurring twelve feet away where four humans and their entire existence compressed into a 4×4 space. The castle’s silhouette watched through rain-speckled glass, its medieval builders never imagining their fortress would one day serve as backdrop for a sleep-deprived American trying to recall if he’d packed the baby wipes.
We’d arrived in Kilkenny 36 hours earlier with the naive optimism of travelers who believe online rental photos. Our VRBO on Parliament Street had promised “quaint charm” but delivered something closer to a medieval triage center—a doorway that opened directly onto stairs steeper than a cathedral spire, floors that creaked like gallows wood, and stains whose origins I preferred not to contemplate over breakfast. When we discovered the “fully equipped kitchen” consisted of a single pot and a potato masher, something inside me broke. Hence the current potato embargo.
Now in our riverfront sanctuary, I watched the elevator’s floor indicator light crawl upward. Somewhere between the third and fourth floors, it occurred to me that travel with small children resembles those Russian nesting dolls—every carefully planned layer (itineraries, reservations, emergency snacks) concealing deeper layers of chaos until you reach the irreducible core: two adults standing very still in an elevator, silently swearing never to trust property listings that use the word “character” as a euphemism.
Medieval Death Trap: A VRBO Nightmare
The door swung open to reveal what can only be described as an Escher painting come to life – a staircase so vertical it made the leaning tower of Pisa look stable. Our double stroller suddenly felt like an absurdist prop in this architectural horror show.
That first step up required the kind of commitment normally reserved for bungee jumping. The landlord’s cheerful “mind the steps now!” took on sinister undertones as we performed an impromptu Cirque du Soleil routine with luggage and children. Later, we’d discover the stairs were the least of our problems.
Every horizontal surface in the Parliament Street VRBO seemed to host its own biological experiment. The bathroom tiles featured abstract splatter patterns that could have inspired Jackson Pollock. The kitchen counter displayed cultures that might have interested Louis Pasteur. I found myself mentally cataloging them like some deranged Airbnb review: “Two stars – excellent location for studying microbial evolution.”
At 3:17 AM, the real Kilkenny revealed itself through our paper-thin windows. A stag party in full cry processed down the cobblestones, their rendition of “Galway Girl” suggesting several members had never actually heard the song. The lead stag wore antlers that kept getting caught in hanging flower baskets, which somehow made the whole spectacle more medieval than the castle across the river.
We spent the night in defensive positions – me barricading the shuddering door with a rickety chair, my wife conducting internet searches like “can babies get PTSD from accordion music?” The VRBO’s listing had mentioned “authentic city-center experience” with suspicious vagueness. We were learning that in Kilkenny, authenticity apparently includes sleep deprivation and probable plague exposure.
By dawn, we’d developed a theory: this building wasn’t just old, it was actively resisting modernity. The wifi password (“NormansRule123”) supported our hypothesis. As we carried our sleeping children down those treacherous stairs for the final time, I noticed a small plaque near the entrance – “This historic building survived the 1650 siege.” It struck me that after our night here, we could probably add “and the 2023 family vacation.”
The Redemptive Glow of the Riverside Hotel
The elevator doors wheezed shut behind us with the strained finality of a marathon runner collapsing at the finish line. Inside this claustrophobic metal box, our double stroller stood wedged between suitcases like a drunken guest at a wedding reception – slightly askew, taking up more space than anyone anticipated, yet impossible to resent. This, I realized as the elevator lurched upward, was the first miracle of Kilkenny River Court Hotel: an elevator that could swallow our entire circus troupe of family luggage without requiring sacrificial offerings.
From our fifth-floor window, the River Nore shimmered with the same liquid gold hue as the local ale, framing Kilkenny Castle’s stone turrets in a way that made even changing diapers feel vaguely aristocratic. The castle’s rear view – seldom photographed but surprisingly charming – became our family’s private postcard. Each morning, sunlight would creep across the ancient stones just as our twins’ babbling reached its breakfast crescendo, creating an absurd yet perfect harmony of medieval grandeur and modern parenting.
What truly elevated this from mere accommodation to salvation was the front desk’s clandestine handout: a photocopied map dotted with neon asterisks and hastily scribbled warnings. “The Hen Parties migrate here after 9pm,” a circled pub warned. “Stag-free lunch spot,” promised another mark near the butter museum. This guerrilla geography transformed Kilkenny from obstacle course to navigable terrain, revealing the secret rhythm of a city that thrives on controlled chaos.
The hotel’s true genius revealed itself in these unassuming details – electrical outlets placed exactly where a sleep-deprived parent might need to charge a bottle warmer, bathroom tiles that camouflaged Cheerio debris, windows that muffled street revelry just enough to allow conversation but not so much that you’d miss the occasional drunken rendition of “Galway Girl.” Where our VRBO had been a series of hazards masquerading as a dwelling, this riverside perch became our observation deck for understanding Ireland’s version of Vegas – one where the slot machines were replaced by 12th-century architecture and the showgirls by men in antler headbands philosophizing about football.
By our third night, we’d developed a survival routine: retreat to our castle-view sanctuary before the evening’s animal-named festivities reached full roar, order room service sandwiches that mercifully contained zero potatoes, and watch from above as Kilkenny transformed into what our twins called “the noisy zoo.” The River Court didn’t just provide shelter – it gave us the vantage point to appreciate the glorious madness rather than drown in it.
Animal-Named Parties: A Survival Guide
The first stag party stumbled past our hotel window at approximately 9:17am. A shirtless man wearing antlers and what appeared to be a wedding veil was being carried fireman-style over St. John’s Bridge while his companions chanted something that rhymed with ‘ducking chair.’ This, I would learn, constituted a relatively mild pre-noon warmup in Kilkenny’s unique party ecosystem.
Field Notes from the Wild
Irish stag and hen parties operate on principles Darwin couldn’t anticipate. The animal nomenclature makes sudden sense when you observe:
- Stags (Bachelor Parties): Move in loud, disintegrating herds. Primary activities include shirt sacrifice, spontaneous rugby matches, and attempting to ride historical monuments.
- Hens (Bachelorette Parties): Travel in coordinated plumage (think feather boas with wellies). Engage in high-decibel renditions of ‘Galway Girl’ and elaborate bathroom mirror selfie rituals.
Our hotel bartender, a veteran of thirty-two Kilkenny tourist seasons, distilled three survival laws:
- The 5pm Rule: Most animal groups metamorphose from boisterous to feral around this hour. Plan museum visits for mornings.
- The Round System: Never accept a drink from someone shouting ‘I’ve got the next one!’ This initiates an unbreakable cycle of reciprocity that ends with you explaining Brexit to a weeping stranger.
- The Costume Paradox: Wearing any animal accessory (deer ears, chicken beak) makes you part of the spectacle. Neutral earth tones work best for stealth observation.
Cultural Camouflage 101
Blending in requires mastering three visual cues:
- Footwear: Locals spot tourists by pristine shoes. Scuff your boots against a castle wall for instant credibility.
- Layering: Irish weather demands jacket-on/jacket-off agility. Leave the bulky raincoat—a well-worn Aran sweater signals seasoned residency.
- Beverage Optics: Carrying a half-finished Guinness (even if you hate it) grants safe passage through party zones. The key is maintaining a 30% fill level—too empty invites rounds, too full suggests you’re not ‘keeping pace.’
What surprised me most wasn’t the revelry’s intensity, but its infectious goodwill. Unlike Vegas’ transactional vibe, Kilkenny’s parties often adopted stray tourists—we were twice pulled into conga lines and once taught an elaborate drinking song involving a fictional goat. The true survival skill isn’t avoidance, but knowing when to join the herd (and more crucially, when to feign a phone call and escape).
Navigating Kilkenny with Twins in Tow
The moment we wheeled our double stroller out of Kilkenny River Court Hotel, the cobblestone streets seemed to vibrate with malicious intent. Each uneven stone became a potential derailment site for our precious cargo – two toddlers who viewed naptime as an optional activity. This was the real Kilkenny survival test no guidebook mentioned: maneuvering a land yacht through medieval infrastructure while sleep-deprived.
The Cobblestone Gauntlet
High Street might as well have been renamed Shake-n-Bake Boulevard. The centuries-old paving turned our stroller into a maraca, rattling sippy cups and eliciting disapproving stares from locals who clearly never transported multiple humans under three feet tall. We developed an emergency protocol: when approaching particularly treacherous sections (looking at you, Parliament Street), one parent would perform an elaborate forward scout mission while the other became a human brake system.
Emergency Pit Stops
Three locations earned permanent markers on our mental map:
- The Hole in the Wall – Not just for its excellent Guinness, but for the miraculously smooth ramp leading to their garden area where we could park without causing an Irish traffic jam.
- Kilkenny Design Centre – Their ground floor cafe doubled as a stroller triage center, complete with high chairs and staff who didn’t blink at mashed banana on their designer tableware.
- St. Canice’s Cathedral grounds – The grassy perimeter became our impromptu picnic zone when cobblestone fatigue set in.
The Great Potato Rebellion
After the seventeenth consecutive meal involving some form of potato (boiled, fried, mashed, or suspiciously shaped into ‘fun dinosaurs’), our twins staged a carb mutiny. We discovered three saviors:
- Zucchini’s Cafe did a roasted vegetable pasta that made our children temporarily forget about chicken nuggets.
- Campagne‘s early bird menu included a shockingly toddler-approved fishcake with actual visible herbs.
- The Kilkenny Farmers Market (Thursday mornings by the castle) became our produce lifeline, though explaining ‘purple carrots’ to two-year-olds required performance-level acting.
Diaper Disasters & Merciful Strangers
The true test of any parenting expedition comes when the diaper bag supplies run low. We’ll forever be indebted to:
- The pharmacy on Rose Inn Street that stayed open five extra minutes when we arrived at 5:58pm with a containment emergency.
- The waitress at Kyteler’s Inn who produced wipes from her own purse during an epic highchair incident.
- The elderly gentleman near St. Mary’s Church who pointed us toward a miraculously clean public restroom with changing facilities, then discreetly walked away before we could fully express our gratitude.
What began as logistical challenges became unexpected gifts – forcing us to slow down, accept help, and discover Kilkenny’s rhythm at toddler pace. Those cobblestones that nearly rattled our teeth out? They’re the same ones that taught us to find the smooth path between the stones, both literally and metaphorically.
The Ultimate Truth: Kilkenny vs. Las Vegas
They say all drunken philosophers eventually arrive at the same conclusion, whether they’re slumped over a blackjack table in Vegas or swaying on the cobblestones outside Kilkenny Castle. The difference lies in what happens when the sun comes up.
Similarity #1: Inebriated Socrates Syndrome
Every stag party member becomes a reluctant philosopher by midnight. In Vegas, it’s the guy at the craps table explaining quantum physics through dice probabilities. In Kilkenny, it’s the lad in a half-torn deer costume lecturing about medieval castle architecture while using a traffic cone as a pointer. The alcohol-induced wisdom feels equally profound in both time zones.
We witnessed this firsthand when a groomsman wearing nothing but leopard-print boxers stopped us near St. Mary’s Cathedral to deliver a 20-minute monologue about the spiritual symbolism of round towers. His friends kept shouting “Shakespeare!” between chugs of stout. The Bellagio fountains have never produced such eloquent drunkenness.
Difference #1: The Sunrise Bet
Vegas measures nights in chips won and lost. Kilkenny measures them in who remains conscious to see the first light touch the castle’s 12th-century stonework. There’s a particular magic to watching dawn break over the River Nore while the last stragglers from a hen party attempt to harmonize “Danny Boy” with a seagull chorus.
Pro tip: The castle’s western facade catches the morning light perfectly from the River Court Hotel’s breakfast room. Order the full Irish breakfast (hold the black pudding if you’re queasy) and watch the night’s philosophers transform back into regular tourists rubbing their temples.
The Photographer’s Secret Schedule
6:47 AM – First light hits the castle’s northeast tower
7:02 AM – Golden hour begins at St. John’s Bridge
7:29 AM – Clean-up crews finish removing the last stray stag party balloons
8:15 AM – Normal pedestrian traffic resumes on Parliament Street
Unlike Vegas where the best photos happen at neon-lit midnight, Kilkenny’s magic lives in those stolen morning moments when the medieval city shakes off its party clothes. I captured our favorite family photo near the Butter Slip alley at 7:17 AM, the twins’ stroller parked between two sleeping revelers who looked like they’d been turned to stone by some ancient curse.
The Final Verdict
Vegas dazzles with manufactured spectacle. Kilkenny astonishes with accidental poetry – where else can you find a group of accountants dressed as woodland creatures debating the merits of 13th-century moat designs? Both cities promise unforgettable nights, but only one lets you recover in a castle’s shadow while eating soda bread that might actually cure your hangover.
The Last Potato Confession
It was 2:37 AM when I found myself staring at a half-eaten bag of Tayto cheese & onion crisps in the dim glow of the Kilkenny River Court Hotel minibar. The crumpled bag bore teeth marks from where I’d torn it open with my molars during a desperate carb craving. Somewhere between the medieval VRBO fiasco and navigating stag party minefields with a double stroller, I’d developed what doctors might call “potato dependency syndrome.”
My wife stirred as I guiltily wiped orange powder from my lips. “Tell me you’re not eating crisps in bed again,” she mumbled into her pillow. The hotel room smelled faintly of disinfectant and the ghost of a thousand pub crawls – a marked improvement from our previous accommodation’s distinct aroma of 14th-century despair.
Outside our window, the River Nore whispered secrets to Kilkenny Castle while a group of antler-clad revelers attempted to parallel park a shopping trolley. This was the Ireland we’d signed up for – equal parts postcard and pub crawl, with just enough family-friendly infrastructure to prevent total anarchy.
Interactive Question: What’s your travel guilty pleasure? (Mine involves emergency potato products and questionable life choices)
Pro Tip: Book directly through the Kilkenny River Court Hotel website for free breakfast – their soda bread could make a convert out of any crisp addict.
Easter Egg: The drawer beneath the minibar contained three plastic animal masks (fox, badger, and inexplicably, a lobster). We never discovered their purpose, though I suspect they’re part of some elaborate Irish hospitality ritual involving surprise puppet shows.
As dawn tinted the castle walls pink, I made two solemn vows: 1) To never again underestimate the logistical challenges of traveling with small children in a town that parties like it’s 1399, and 2) To at least pretend I wasn’t mainlining carbohydrates in the dead of night. Some cultural adaptations take longer than others.
