Kilkenny gets into its annual artistic groove

By day, Kilkenny is in thrall to the artists during its Arts Festival, but at night the hens come out to play

KILKENNY is a city of two cultures – well, three actually. On the one hand, just walking through the streets on a sunny afternoon is enough to make you feel as if you are engaged in a cultural activity. There are the lovely landmarks: Kilkenny Castle and it’s courtyard, Rothe House, St Canice’s Cathedral towering over everything on the hill, and down below, the river running through it. Little laneways entice you with the promise of coffee, art or a pint, and then there are small boys and young men, everywhere, clutching hurleys. You might even think they’re born with hurleys in their hands in this part of the world.

The weekend streets of Kilkenny are thronged, and we dive into Mocha on William Street for a reviving coffee. Joe Delaney, the owner, tells us that his cakes are made locally (so, just out of politeness, we test them), and that during the Cat Laughs comedy festival, the comedians take over the tables downstairs. Are they funny off duty? Not really, he says. He tells me that the arts festival brings a buzz to the city, and that the crowd changes. Can you spot the cultured ones? He looks us up and down, as if to say “well, I spotted you two”.

We’re feeling slightly seedy, and the coffee is medicinal, because last night we also discovered Kilkenny’s third culture. As the sun goes down, a strange phenomenon takes place. Charming old pubs suddenly start belting out 1980s pop classics, and the streets fill with girls (and women) wearing variations on the theme of bunny ears, tiny skirts, ludicrous heels, and sashes proclaiming whose hen they’re with. As we floated down the town on a haze of Chopin’s Polonaise, from a glorious concert at the cathedral by Serbian pianist Aleksandar Madzar, we were a little dismayed to have the beautiful melodies replaced with the chorus of Don’t You Want Me Baby by the Human League. Back at our hotel, we closed the windows, and drifted off to the theme from Beverley Hill’s Cop (Axel F), punctuated by squeaks and roars from the streets beneath.

On Saturday morning, we were up early, and should have been at the Blackbird Gallery, where there’s an exhibition of Pat Scott prints – but we’re in Mocha because we discover it doesn’t open until midday. We hunt down Ryan Electrical, where Sinead Ní Mhaonaigh is having an exhibition. On the way we pass a weaving alcoholic casualty from the night before. After we finally discover the shop (its sign is hidden by an awning), owner Martin Ryan points out the exhibition – it’s six paintings in the cabinet in front of his counter. We ask him if he’s one of the “cultured ones”. Not really, he tells us. “The art crowd come during the festival, and they go around looking at their own stuff, but there’s a good buzz.” We ask him about all those hens and all that music. His friend Gerry Cormican steps forward sheepishly. “That was me,” he says. What? Playing the Human League in Langton’s at 1am? “The very same.” We ask him where he’ll be tonight, just so we know. “Carlow,” he tells us.

We decide that doesn’t mean Kilkenny will be any quieter tonight, so we pop into the chemist’s for earplugs. “I’m selling quite a few of these this weekend,” the lady at the cash register says. At Kilkenny Castle, the sun is properly out, and we squeeze past a tribe of Spanish students, who are going to look at the antiquities, to get to the Butler Gallery for David Godbold’s opening (fantastic), and then to The Lives of Spaces, which has travelled here from the Venice Biennale via Dublin. We stand in the sunshine, sip wine and plan what to see next from the treasure trove that is the programme. I realise that if I’d accepted a glass of wine at every event where I’d been offered one today, I’d be just as bad as the man outside Ryan Electrical. All I’d need, I muse, is a hurley, and I could just about embody Kilkenny’s three cultures in one.

The Kilkenny Arts Festival runs until August 16th. www.kilkennyarts.ie