Our fifteenth day is defined in three ways, listed in no particular order: our visit to a 1,000 year old abbey, our completely serendipitous stop at a sheepdog demonstration, and the Burren. We are pathetic/ecstatic enough animal lovers that the sheepdog demo rates higher up on our list of trip favorites than it ought to, but what the hell it was our honeymoon and we’ll enjoy what we want. :p

When we left Doolin we entered the Burren almost immediately. It’s not a specific place so much as a region; a type of landscape called “karst.” It comes off as alternately a wasteland and a lush garden. The soil is quite rich but is riddled with essentially infinite stone, such that huge amounts of work have to be done if you want to make any sort of use in an agricultural sense. On the other hand, the land and weather make an exceptionally long growing season for grass, meaning that herds can graze happily for an extended period. There is also an incredibly diverse ecosystem of flowering plants, which has led to a unique boutique (tra-la!) – The Burren Perfumery. Now you, too, can smell like a karst!Actually it was quite nice. Beautiful first of all, with diverse gardens on the grounds to supplement what they forage in the Burren. They have a video running on a constant loop that details the ecology surrounding them. Then, of course, is the shop, which smelled all… karsty? Honestly this is more up Lisa’s alley. I think she bought a few things as gifts. Sorry.

Leaving the Perfumery put us back into the Burren itself, which I neglected to describe in terms of driving. Being relatively flat, it lacked a lot of the drama that the hillside roads afforded us, but the views were still really sere and gorgeous. The road itself was well maintained but tiny; the couple of times we ran into an oncoming car one of us had to pull off into the dirt. Fortunately the visibility extended to forever, so there was never really any danger.

As I said above, one of our absolute highlights of the trip was a sheepdog demonstration that we just stumbled upon; just to be clear, it’s not just the dogs but the whole story, which you shall now read. I believe that Lisa had seen a flyer for the Caherconnell Stone Fort somewhere along the way, and we sort of thought we were passing it, but it still came up on us as a bit of a surprise. It’s another of these ancient relics on a family’s land, and the family is trying to strike a balance of encouraging archaeology while not footing the bill. Thus there is a restaurant, gift center, and a small admission fee to tour the site. As you can see from the photo on their front page, it’s quite a spectacular site, and there is still an active dig on the property excavating sections of the fort.

As part of turning the place into an attraction, they have partnered with a local farmer to give daily working dog demonstrations. (I can only imagine the faint air of ridiculousness with which the farmer observes this process. I imagine rural kids coming to my workplace. “This is a kyew-buh-kul. We put people in these. I know, right? But we buy them off with slightly more expensive chairs and tell them it’s good for “collaboration.” What’s that, in the back? … No, we don’t know what that means, either.”) Anyway, we pulled in at about 1:03 PM. The demonstration is advertised as being at 1 PM, daily. We semi-scurried in but had a bit of confusion figuring out what it took to see the demo. The answer was: buy tickets and go out to a separate paddock. By the time that was sorted out, though, it was a little after 1:15 and apparently that’s all the demonstration lasted. Oh well. Alas. Sigh.

But wait! The friendly fellow (whose name, to my shame, I do not recall nor have written done anywhere) saw that we were lingering, trying to at least catch a look of the dogs. “Are you with the tour?” he asked. We explained that, no, we weren’t, just two idling tourists with a fascination for working dogs. “Ah, that’s alright then, I’ll do it again.” SQUEE! Private dog demo! Seriously, we chatted with him 1-on-1 (ok, 2-on-1) while he showed us his dogs. What I most remember is that he had two: one had been raised up with sheep, and the other with cattle. The cattle dog would help with the sheep if commanded to… petulantly… with great reluctance… the way we’ve all seen a dog get muley. But he would comply, mostly. The sheep-raised dog however… my God. I’ve seen dogs fixated on toys, or birds, or other dogs. Hell, Leo keeps trying to stare down the cats in our house. But this dog… gracious. What the farmer explained is that it’s less about raising a dog to take an interest in sheep and more about taking a sheep predator and training it not to kill them. He showed the dog moving the flock around, stopping them, splitting the flock in two, separating out a single sheep, gathering stragglers…. and all with whistles or hand gestures. Really amazing. He spent a good 30 minutes with us, more than with the official tour. I think he appreciated that we asked a lot about him, his trade, how the weather affected him that year (badly, the rain was slow and late in coming), and so on. We really appreciated his time, his care, and of course his animals.

I have nothing much to say about Caherconnell itself. This mimics our growing disinterest during the trip, when we would half-jokingly say things like “what, the chapel is only 400 years old? Not sure it’s worth the trip, really.” That said, this really was a particularly good example of later period (and thus more elaborate) ring fortifications; if you’re planning a short trip and will be near the Burren, I’d pick this one if you have to pick just one.

Our last stop before making it into Galway was Corcomroe Abbey. That thing I just said about kind-of-old stuff not making the cut? Well, 1100 year old monasteries still make it. Corcomroe, to my untrained eyes, is in fabulous shape for its age, with mostly intact walls both exterior and interior – you get a real sense of the layout of the place. This is particularly nice for (hold your eyerolls) gamers who can get a sense of constriction that narrow passages offer. Anyway, the one downer is that the interior infrastructure would have been made of wood and so all of it, along with the roof, was long gone. Still, seeing things like the heat management system that allowed for the baking of bread to warm the upper halls helped humanize an ancient era.

We finished our trek out of the Burren and into Galway, where we ended up spending the most time of anywhere… a bit of a mistake, in the end, but an honest one. More about that tomorrow.

I have joked about the roads in Ireland, and I have ranted about the roads in Ireland. This was a day when I had to respect the roads in Ireland, the way a lion tamer respects the dinosaur that just crashed through the circus tent and is clearly attracted to the sound of a whip-crack. Here’s the reality: the Irish just don’t need many roads. There are towns, and within those towns are whatever roads are necessary for the conduct of business. Then there are one, MAYBE two, routes to get from point A to point B. In this case, we had the option of taking (you’ve heard this story before) the highway from Dingle to Tralee (a waypoint on the way to Limerick) or the other route. The scenic route. Well shit, we came all this way to see stuff, and they’ve even gone to the trouble of naming it “the Conor Pass,” so we gots to go. Do I have to mention that today’s episode is brought to you by Comprehensive Rental Car Insurance(tm)?

I swear, we had an omen.  A chance to turn around. The picture to the right? We were on this road less than 30 minutes from when we set out from Dingle. We leave, we take a right at a T-intersection, and we start to climb the hillside… and we’re immediately on to the classic one-lane road. If you click on the photo you can get a better look at the camper coming along. Those particular vehicles are ubiquitous in Ireland, the favored vacationing vehicle for natives as well as Europeans of all stripes. If I had to guess, there’s probably a pull-over spot just behind the 1st bend in the wall on the right, which is where we probably dove in and waited for them to pass. If not, well, one of us did some backing up at that point. You may be wondering to yourself why I don’t remember the details. The mistake you’re making is in thinking that this was “the time” that we had such an encounter, instead of the multiple-times-a-day that it did. In any case, we ignored this omen and pressed on, gaining elevation and making for the Conor Pass.

What drew us to the pass? Well it’s the highest pass in Ireland, meaning it’s the highest point we were going to get to by car, and neither of us are much interested in climbing mountains on foot. People tell you it’s scenic, and by God it is. Beautiful part of the country and since the road is always hugging a mountainside you’ve got panoramic vistas in half of your field of view. Great drive. The pass itself is barely a thing, really – more of a map designation than an actual landmark. We failed to get a picture of it but, at the peak itself, there was a goat in the middle of the road that we had to honk away.

Down from the Conor Pass we made our way to Tralee as a waypoint, and then turned Northeast towards Limerick. Almost all of our trip has been ancient ruins and scenic routes, so we thought we’d switch things up a bit and go to the Hunt Museum, a private collection turned University of Limerick museum. What struck me when we first got to Limerick was, frankly, that we hadn’t been in a city in awhile. Where were all these people coming from? What’s with the traffic? Ah, civilization. We parked, we toured the museum, we realized that we were starting to see a lot of bronze age relics in our travels and were, perhaps, starting to be less impressed with them. What really caught our attention was in the basement. The Hunts were devout Catholics and part of their collecting passion was focused on Church artifacts. They had handfuls (sometimes literally, har har) of reliquaries and a dozen or so iterations of clerical raiment through the years. The real capper, though, was a small, jeweled ornament with a silver coin set in it. It is reputed to be one of the thirty pieces of silver paid to Judas. I think that has to be one of the most evil-radiating artifacts in existence if it is. (And the game geek in me immediately thought it made a fantastic plot hook with just a touch of modification.) Fortunately it was a very modest museum in scope because we’d only allotted it an hour or two of the day – we had miles to cover today to get to Doolin, and still one stop left to make: the Cliffs of Moher.

There is not a ton that I can say about the Cliffs other than “(#*YUIDFHsD THAT”S AMAZING DIuIWEgHIWEIDW”. I mean, they’re giant cliffs, and they’re gorgeous to take in, and we actually had sun for a change. They are not, however, formed by the tears of angels, or the site of a major battle, or… anything. They are, and they are beautiful. Although the visitor’s center is a nice touch. In order to preserve the views it is actually built into the side of a nearby hill, with excavations as needed to make room. Thus there are no impediments to your views, your photos, etc… might seem an excessive touch until you learn the the Cliffs of Moher are the single most visited tourist attraction in Ireland, topping out at a million+. Not bad for rocks.

Our final destination that day is Doolin, a small village with an outsize reputation for the musicians it spawns. Not just Doolin says it, either; when we’d ask about the music scene in Ireland, inevitably Doolin came up as the home of some of their greatest. The reputation is founded on the Russell brothers – three gents who each specialized in a different classic Irish instrument. Talent drew talent, and the pubs of Doolin became known as the place to find the best musicians. That, in turn, drew the best craftsmen, and a thriving, if niche, industry has taken hold there. Doolin was on our radar because I wanted to buy a bodhrán while I was in Ireland – it’s an instrument that has always appealed to me. In the end I chickened out, but that’s still the reason. In any case, we settled in at Daly’s House, where Susan Daly herself spent the evening in the role of “gregarious aunt who talks shit and doesn’t care what you think about it”. She was great.  We had a lovely meal and bedded down, the night marred slightly by the discovery that we had left Lisa’s special pillow behind in Doolin. My dearest can have a tough time sleeping on el generic-o mattresses but a good tempurpedic pillow goes a long way with her. I get talked out of driving to Doolin and back and instead make arrangements for the pillow to be shipped to our next stop: Galway.

We had a second full day on the Dingle peninsula. I won’t lie, having done the Slea Head Drive the day before I sort of felt like we had taken a good sample of the place. I mean, you could spend a month ANYWHERE and not see the same thing twice if you were willing to dig deep enough, but on a time budget you have to draw lines. Still, I was curious. I had found a website online pretty much by chance for Danny Sheehy – he does no marketing and, in fact, asked me at one point how I had even heard of him to call. When I told him I found him via his site he honestly looked surprised. “Oh, that thing? Forgot I had it.” But I’m getting ahead of myself. I found the site for Danny and got in touch with him – he offers customized walks featuring “[a] poet, a farmer, an author, a fisherman… a man at home on sea or land;” him, in other words. I showed him to Lisa, and she said “sure, what the heck.”

We had a lot of great experiences on our honeymoon, but whenever we’ve been asked what topped our list, we both say “our day with Danny Sheehy.”

Danny met us mid-morning, after breakfast. The people who owned our inn knew him; it seemed that everybody on Dingle knew him. He’s not “famous”, exactly, because I’m not sure that any two people ever have put their heads together to realize that anybody else knows him. They just all do. We hopped into his car and explained that we’d already hit some high points of the peninsula, and he should just follow the wind (or probably something much less poetic) where ever it blew him. It turned out to blow him mostly towards the Blasket Islands.

I wrote a bit about the Blaskets before – a divergent population that lived mostly on its own until the islands were evacuated in 1953 due to the government’s inability to offer adequate services combined with a diminishing population. Danny is an ardent proponent of Irish cultural traditions (such as speaking Irish in the schools and such) and I think he sees the … well, destruction of the Blasket community as a microcosm for what could happen to Ireland in his nightmares. In any case he spent a good deal of time telling us about the tradition of great writers that came out of the islands, and even took us to a graveyard where two of their best, Peig Sayers and Tomás Ó Criomhthain (don’t ask me to pronounce it). They both wrote, among other works, memoirs of life amongst the people of the Blaskets; works that are considered classics within Irish literature.

We drove for a couple of hours that day, just hearing stories. I barely remember the details, and honestly me telling them would be a pitiful attempt at recounting the day; the man was a bard, pure and simple. Storyteller, rogue, cager, farmer… heluva mix. After awhile, needing to check on his mother, I think it was, he took us to his home. A low-ceilinged, 100-year-old or more farm house, it was absurdly authentic. Five will get you ten that he knew exactly what he was doing, but we were both incredibly touched that he let us wander through his home while he attended to this and that, looking over the artifacts of his life. See, Danny is a doer of things. Those boats in the photo up top? In 2007, he traveled in one of those authentic boats (their crafting dating to the Bronze Age, apparently) with another man, a sculptor. They went 200 miles in a keel-less, light weight boat through the treacherous waters of the North Atlantic to follow in the foot paddlesteps of St. Columcille. You can read about it here. When we talked to him he was working on a documentary about an Irish immigrant in the U.S. who walked 1,000 miles from Peoria to New York so that she could return her 2 daughters to Ireland after her husband died. You can read about his progress here and here. He created a book along with a Swiss print maker and designed about the stone walls of Dingle. He was also planning another boat trip to recreate the travels of a Bible; I forget the story, sadly, but it’s another of those “you don’t realize it but the Irish actually created <thing that’s vitally important to civilization>” storied that you hear in Ireland, some of which may even be true. Meanwhile he raises herds of cattle and sheep, grows a bit, and writes poetry on the side.

He tells us great stories about all of these things, and then I accidentally tried to kill him. See, we learned throughout the day that he hates, haaaaaaaates, seat belts. He would drive an obscenely long time with the bell going off before reluctantly snapping the thing in. He told us how it was a relatively recent law in Ireland (actually in 1979, but they’ve never mandated retroactive fitting and I suspect he just drove older vehicles for the longest time). He also shared how, when coming home drunk from the pub, he’d wear his annoyance with the alarm bell all the way home. (Yes, you can eyeroll. We eyerolled. You think we were going to change his mind?) Anyway, I had recently seen a television show that had a key plot point revolve around the “fact” that police officers on stake out will buckle their seat belt and then sit over it; thus shutting the alarm off for good w/out actually having to be buckled in. I have no idea what came over me, but I shared this bit of trivia with Danny.

Well. I’ll be damned if his face didn’t light up like a very bright thing. “Oh, John! What a great idea!” Well shit. Still, the man had been drunk driving for who knows how long, with no seat belt and a bell yelling at him. Now there’s no bell, big deal. This is what I tell myself.

He dropped us off at the inn. Lisa got out and I pulled out my wallet. “You know, Danny, we never actually settled on the price.”

“Oh, whatever you think is fair.”

“How about 100 euro, then?”

“Can you make it 120?”

“Sure, Danny.” I’d have paid him whatever he wanted, really. There’s “authentic” experiences where the tour takes you to a “real pub” so you can have a Guinness while music is played in the corner, and then there’s a poet farmer who drives you around and tells you about dead cultures and his own fight to save his, who takes you for coffee at a pottery gallery (and has the good grace to act surprised when you offer to buy his) in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and who parks you in his house and recites his poetry.

We knew that there were bee hive huts along the Slea Head Drive and that we should be on the look out for them as we drove. The first sign we saw looked very impressive, like it was an archaeological dig site. It was, of course, on an insane bend in the road, so we drove on thinking we would double back once we found any space whatsoever to turn around in. However, as we continued our drive we came across another sign… basically hand-written, in the yard of a quaint home (totally out of place here on the windy side of the peninsula, hard against the water), likewise offering  an up close view of bee hive huts. We pulled in.

There were, in fact bee hives on the property, and other structures whose name we never caught – circular, interconnecting rooms with no roofs on them, completely wind-proof. This isn’t just idle speculation, it was a blustery day that day and yet going into one of these rooms was like cutting yourself off from the world. But I get ahead of myself.

We pull into the driveway, slowly to avoid a barking dog bent on preventing us access to his territory (who, in the manner of such dogs, became suuuuuuuuuper friendly once we were parked). Following the instructions on another sign we knocked on the door. A lovely old woman named Maura Houlihan greeted us. She was very pleasant and kindly asked for 2 Euros each to spend as much time as we wanted on her property. Funnily enough, in the moment Lisa and I thought it was a bit heartbreaking that this poor woman had to get by on what passing strangers were willing to give her. I’ve since learned that she makes enough doing this to fly to New York every year to see her grandchildren. She’s doing foine, jus’ foine tanks.

“Mind the sheep,” she said, and she wasn’t kidding. We went through a gate and wandered a couple of acres fes-TOONED with Bee Hives and sheep. Here’s the thing, or at least a thing, about them. They don’t all look like the picture. There were, in fact bee hives on the property, and other structures  – circular, interconnecting rooms with no roofs on them, completely wind-proof. This isn’t just idle speculation, it was a blustery day and yet going into one of these rooms was like cutting yourself off from the world. (I really wish we had taken better pictures there… ah, here we go. Tom Clark has a good picture from above a set of these.) It totally makes sense – people would either learn to shelter from the shit weather or they’d migrate. It’s still pretty amazing.

Our last stop of the day (tourist-wise, at least) was at Dunbeg Fort. The exact purpose of it is unknown. Perhaps it was defensive, or perhaps it was ceremonial. What they know is that various things have been built there since B.C. times, until the 12th century or so (yeah yeah, “know” is probably a strong word when we’re estimating centuries) when the current structure was erected.

It sits hard by the water at the edge of a cliff. It’s hard to imagine the cliff being scaled, certainly in force, and so the defensive position eludes me.  If not to repel a seaside invasion, why put your back to the water? Now you’re stuck. And thus the mystery endures…

We completed the Slea Head Drive then, coming full circle into the town of Dingle. The innkeepers helped us settle on dinner at The Chart House, which was a cozy, authentic bite of yum. The innkeepers also helped us settle on walking there, meaning that we got rained on going and coming. Alas.

Monday: We meet a wonderful, unique man who takes us on a tour unlike any other. I would encourage all of you to seek him out, but he’s very likely dead now because of me.

As I said yesterday, we left Kinsale in fairly short order and with a twinge of regret. Nevertheless – onward! Our destination is the very popular Dingle peninsula, home to all manner of touristy delights. We arrive in the town of Dingle, where we shall stay for two nights, and check in to the most commercial B&B we’ll see all trip: Heaton’s. This isn’t a bad thing, just noticeable. The dining room is spacious and contains a dozen or so tables, and the place can probably accommodate 50 people or so. Still it is laid out like an overgrown B&B and thus shall I think of it. Lunch that day is at a fairly commercial restaurant with laminated menus and quickly-produced food. Dingle sees a lot of tourist traffic and has the infrastructure to prove it – the quaint seaside town is only found after peeling back a layer of multi-lane roads, parking meters (!!) and, well, laminated menus.

I kid about the food, but it wasn’t actually fast food; it was pretty good and we ate there again the next day. For one thing, they had cold Bulmer’s, a hard cider that my blushing bride had by then developed a fondness for. It is not to be confused with Strongbow, which a tour guide in Dublin would later tell us was “unadulterated piss.” I’m not sure which one leans where, but I got the feeling that even the ciders had fallen into line along the Catholic-Protestant border. Thank God for the Good Friday Agreement.

After eating and settling in, we make for the Slea Head Drive, which is a route that takes you all along the peninsula, including a fort right at the edge of a cliff and some of the oldest human domiciles; all that plus a 1000 year old chapel. The Slea Head Drive is a favorite of bus tours full of 3rd generation Irish immigrants in search of their roots. Phaw! We laugh at bus tours. Americans are rugged individualists who take challenges head on… provided they are prudent in their risk management & allocation beforehand. This message has been brought to you by Comprehensive Auto Rental Insurance. Comprehensive Auto Rental Insurance: Your Best Friend in Ireland(c)(tm).

We set out counter-clockwise, which is not what is recommended. See above – phaw etc…  actually the clockwise advice is probably sensible if only for the particular slant of the ever-present mountain hugging roads, which gives better views if you’re approaching clockwise. Still, a minor point. Our first stop is at Gallarus Oratory, your typical thousand-year-old chapel that remains completely waterproof through the cutting edge technology of stacking rocks on top of one another. It’s not “bone dry” inside but only because it has windows.

We moved on from the Gallarus Observatory and promptly got lost. Not LOST lost, like, we didn’t leave the Peninsula or anything; we just fell victim to the complete lack of signage that is a staple of Irish hospitality. (Seriously, though, Lisa was almost perfect at avoiding these kinds of hassles through sheer willpower, so it stands out that we had an issue at all.) We got back on track, eventually, and made for the Blasket Centre. Now this is a long and complicated story that would derail the blog if I went too far into it. The shorter version is that there was an antiquated community on two islands off the coast of Ireland called the Blaskets. As a humanitarian issue they were evacuated to the mainland in 1953, but this essentially destroyed the lineage of this unique sect. The Blasket Centre sits on the coast with a view of the islands themselves; it contains exhibits, testimonials, recreations, etc.. of these people. Not that they were martians or something, more like a slight evolutionary variation that nevertheless yielded some fascinating differences. Of particular note is the disproportionate number of published authors that the island produced. (More on that in a couple of days.) Anyway, that’s the short version. I was intrigued, Lisa was more tired, so we wandered a bit and then moved on.

Tomorrow, the second half of our trip around the Dingle Peninsula, including a nice old lady that skivs euros off tourists to look at the ancient ruins in her backyard.

I am not a religious person. (Hi, mom. Now you know.) I think people who are certain that there’s “nothing else” out there are arrogant in the extreme; nevertheless, I’ve never been persuaded by … well, anything, really. At least, no-body that has attempted to present an argument. Sometimes, though, an argument presents itself.

We arrived at Drombeg Circle with food. I don’t really remember how this happened; it wasn’t good food, it was sammiches and a bag of chips or something. Fruit, too, I think. We follow the sketchy signs (again, the Irish really could not give a shit) to the car park, then sit on a patch of grass (there are no seats of any kind) and nibble.

Actually, I think it’s time I confess something about the Irish and their attitude towards these ancient relics: it makes total sense and I get it. See, Ireland is far from a rich country. Yes, they had a tech boom a while back, but that merely punctuated different eras of austerity and want. Simply put they can’t afford to make grand parks out of their monuments. In fact, what actually happens is that Irish Farming Family X has been going about its business on such-and-such plot of land for hundreds of years, and then the government happens by one day and says “hey! Those giant stones you’ve been threshing wheat against? Those are priceless relics!” And Irish Farmer X the Ninth says “I assume by ‘priceless’ you mean ‘horribly expensive and we shall compensate you appropriately?’ and the government says ‘noooo not as such. You need to make access available to the public and keep an eye on it,” and so he does… to the minimum extent he can get away with, since he’s got his own shit to worry about. And so, a sign goes up that he may or may not keep an eye on, and a small patch of land is put aside for cars, and a path is kept roughly clear, and that’s about it. So I kid the Irish, because I’m me, but it is not a shock that folk of modest means aren’t spending all of their own money buying picnic tables for American tourists to enjoy.

Anyway. We still don’t know what exactly we’ve come to see, other than from a couple of photos on a website. We wander a path that is probably used as much for farm equipment as for tourists until we come to a large clearing, where we see it.

Drombeg Circle is massive. It is, as far as anyone can tell, complete (although surely worn down). The stones did not come from all that near by; they were hauled tremendous distances. (Maybe “only a few miles,” but this is before much in the way of tools.) What always gets me, though, is the humanity in it. They did their best to have big stones trail to smaller stones, on both directions of the circle, from the “portals” to the flat table stone. Here’s the kicker. Looking through the portal stones in the photo above, you see the notch in the hillside? That’s no accident; the sun descends through that notch, basically at this angle, on the winter solstice – down into that notch and viewed through those portals.

So here’s where I get … contemplative. I can imagine the people in my office talking about this project. Where to put it, how to get the stones, how to test alignment, why we’re doing it in the first place… this is a level of thinking and coordination worthy of folk of this age. They did this ~3800 years ago. Conceived, planned, executed, and all for a purpose. (And mind you, with some of these projects, like Newgrange, those that conceive it don’t live to see it.) I can’t tell you that I draw any conclusions in these moments, but it’s the argument that gives me pause – something is going on here.

We stay for awhile, and then other tourists show up and get very chatty and any pastoral mood we might have had is gone. We move along.

Our day ended in Kenmare, and this is where the regret really comes in. We got into town in the early evening, with time to check in to our B&B, Sea Shore Farm, and then off to dinner at The Lime Tree – a real treat of a restaurant. If this place was local we’d eat there once a month. Wonderful people, great food, in a converted schoolhouse dating back to 1832… so great. A standout of the whole trip, really. Our accommodation was a lovely converted family home, veeeeeeeeeeeeeerry Catholic, with a pleasant Irish stereotype of a woman running the joint. It had acres of land heading out to the water, and I actually meandered down to the rocky shore hunting rabbits… well, not hunting rabbits, but watching dozens of them sclamber away.

Lisa actually has great notes of the place in our travel journal:

SeaShore Farm is lovely. Very much a “maiden aunt” or “grandma: visit. Lots of florals, many things don’t “match” but have the feel of being lovingly used over the years. She’s got some nice Belleek pieces in her china cabinet. Patricia is the woman who met us – she’s a bit frail, and I can’t believe she’ll be the only one taking care of us for breakfast. Or doing the cleaning etc… required in making an inn successful.

[The next morning:] Patricia runs SeaShore Farm with her husband who’s name I never got. Breakfast was a delightful scrambled egg + salmon for me, fried egg “full Irish” for John. He asked for his egg yolk broken + cooked hard, and she fretted at it being ‘mutilated’ like that and asked him if she could just serve it cooked hard. Which she did.

Don’t you love it? “Mutilated,” says the old Irish lady in her classic lilting accent.

So what was the regret? Kenmare was beautiful, it made a heck of a first impression, the people were all great, and we had to up and go the next morning right after breakfast. Lisa and I rate the pace of our honeymoon generally at “just about right,” but she teeters towards the “too rushed” (or at least “too much time spent driving”) side by a few points. Normally I don’t agree with her, but I wish we’d found another day for Kenmare.

Tomorrow: the Dingle peninsula on our own (which foreshadows Lisa’s favorite day in Ireland, the day after.)

Don’t let the title fool you, it was a good day; we just wish we had stretched it out. You’ll see. We made a slow start thanks to a misplaced itinerary and a recalcitrant internet cafe that deigned not to open. Ever. Unshaken, we finagled access via neighborly iPad, re-oriented ourselves to our plans, and wound our way out of town. Now, the drive to our next destination, Kenmare, required us to resolve a small decision tree. The accepted route, via google maps and the advice of the tourist center, would involve a slight bit of back-tracking to get to the major highway system, after which it would be a pleasant, speedy trip. Speedy but, you know… dull. Irish highways are a lot like American highways – put in the middle of nothing because that’s the cheap, flat land, and devoid of much to look at. If, on the other hand,  we were to  go south, we would enjoy the seaside view as we drive along. The road is “N” caliber, which is the same as the other highway we were being directed to.  Besides, Courtmacsherry is that way and will make an excellent cutesy photo-op. No no, much better to take the scenic route.

sce·nic
/ˈsinɪk, ˈsɛnɪk/

adjective Also, sce·ni·cal.

1. having pleasing or beautiful scenery.

2. a scenic tour: to arrange scenics in advance.

See also: a means of attempting suicide in Ireland. 

The drive was ridiculously beautiful, I hear. Hugging the mountainside, with the cool (25 degree F) waters of the North Atlantic practically within arm’s reach. With each razor-sharp hairpin turn we were afforded clear views of the shear drops that waited for us on our left… ever on our left… waiting for us. Anyway, yeah, this was not the first time we had hair-raising roads but it definitely forged the mindset that would guide me (the primary (read: only) driver) for the next couple of weeks: “I don’t want to die.” Helluva honeymoon, ya know what I’m sayin’? The drive was extra enjoyable because the classic car enthusiasts from the Kinsale rally were out enjoying their classic cars, so the traffic was surprisingly fun to look at as it careened at us with murderous speed.

 

I’m overdoing it a little bit, obviously, but the coastal drive that day really was pretty tense for my American sensibilities. Nevertheless it was gorgeous and I’d do it again tomorrow.

 

The third “tourist” opportunity was our first ancient thingy of this stretch of the strip. Now, when Lisa first started on the itinerary (and let’s be clear, she always does like 90% of the heavy lifting on these things) she came to me and said “ok, I don’t exactly what we’re going to do, help me out.” So I went away for a couple hours and ran a few searches on the theme of “best ancient thingys in Ireland.” Bam, twenty or so must-sees for us to plot on the map. Some of it you’ve read about already (Hill of Tara, Newgrange, etc…) but on this leg of the trip our first encounter was with Templebryan. Naturally this ancient holy site was signposted and had explanatory flyers available for pilgri- who am I kidding? It was in horse pasture, and the only way to reach it was to find accommodating stones jutting out of the retaining wall by the side of road (having parked the car in a ditch).  You only know you’ve found it because there are massive stones in a circle. God I love the Irish… “what the fuck do we care? Swing a cat, hit a megalith, you try it for awhile and see how much you revere the bloody things!” Or so they seem to say. After taking it in, and all kidding aside I can stare at these things for hours, one of us may or may not have adopted the local attitude by peeing in the field. Not naming names or anything…

We shall continue this day’s journey tomorrow, with MEGA megaliths, a holy experience from your resident skeptic, and perhaps the best food we ever et in Ireland.

As I said yesterday, we were up early this day to…

… what?

That’s right, yesterday. You want to fight about it, or do you want to read about our honeymoon?

So as I said yesterday… *peer*… we were up early to catch a flight back to Dublin. No problems there, and picking up our rental car was no hassle at all. Now, this series of blog posts has been pretty light on actual travel advice, but here you go, the literal payoff to faithful readers:

GET THE COMPLETE AUTO COVERAGE.

No matter how expensive it sounds, it is soooo frickin’ worth it. Hedge damage to paint, dings from concealed stone walls, under-carriage who knows what from innocent looking puddles that conceal 17″ potholes… the look on the guy’s face when we turned that car in after 2 weeks and he saw we had the coverage was worth it alone. Anyway.

We peeled out of Dublin, still fresh in the morning thanks to an early flight, but that’s good because we actually had a bit of an agenda for the day. First stop: Saint Brigid’s Well.

Kildare was lovely, although to be honest we were only making a pitstop there for the Well and thus didn’t see much of the town. For example we saw Kildare Cathedral but only from the outside, and the weather was turning so it boiled down to “pretty old building okay let’s go.” We had a spot to eat, though, and by then the weather had turned again, easing into a bit of sun for our actual … well, pilgrimage is a strong word, but Lisa had very strong feelings about being there, and so we went. It truly was a special place, whatever its provenance. (You can read more about what I’m talking about here; it’s a whole thing that would consume the blog.) I will say that the Irish seem perfectly at ease being Catholic while holding to some increeeeeeedibly pagan rituals.  There were little strips of cloth tied to tree branches, set there as prayers for sick / injured loved 0nes. That’s in the Bible, right?

We moved on after Lisa got her fill of pictures and we sat quietly for a bit. Heading south we passed the Rock of Cashel. I am not going to relive this particular moment very deeply. Suffice it to say there were renovations, we had a bit of a mis-communication that quickly spun out of control, and a poorly timed attempt at theft disguised as a parking fee that sealed the deal. We drove on. Hopefully we can revisit the Rock next time we’re in Ireland.

Lisa and I are not ones for joke photos. There will never be a picture of us holding up the Leaning Tower (or turning it into a penis), or holding the Eiffel Tower between our fingers… if for no other reason than it’s been done. Nobody’s going to laugh, it’s just a check box: “yep, they got that photo. What else?” You can see where this is going… but yes, once I saw the signs for Tipperary I was not going to be denied. The one compromise was that, since it was nowhere near the direction we were going, I got “close enough” and did not ask Lisa to put up with going even farther, hoping for an even better sign.

After this it was back on to the M (a top-class highway, with ramps and everything) and down to Kinsale. Kinsale is a lovely little harbor town, very quaint and quiet, with tiny meandering roads tucked hard on a hillside that make for a somewhat mystifying but pleasant, almost maze-like environment of quiet and contemplation. Ooooorrrr the Kinsale Vintage Club can hold their annual rally that weekend and the place can be a maddening swarm of too many cars on too few roads, all barely one way, the drivers all drunk in the finest of local traditions, and we with no map because we figured data plans were too expensive in Europe. Never Again. Still, we eventually made it to the lovely Cloisters B&B, where our charming hostess took the dinner plans out of hands and directed us to Crackpots, where we had a relaxing, delicious meal (nothing of note, just well-prepared classics and good wine (I hear)). A new theme for our trip was quickly established – the driving in Ireland requiring so much focus, a day of that + site-seeing left us ready for sleep at an invariably early hour. No problem, we’ll hit a pub tomorrow.

Having spent a quiet night recuperating, watching tv, and generally existing in a “powered down” state, we were ready to tear through the sites of Edinburgh, right? Right. Wait. I’m bad at words. No, that was completely wrong. We awoke to a dull, gray, rainy day and decided almost immediately to succumb. I mean, we looked at the tourist map and plotted a route – Edinburgh looks to be a very walkable city, at least the central tourist-y bit. Nevertheless, our absolute best plan for the day was to go past some interesting looking things… on our way to a movie theater. To see The Avengers. Yep.

Look, we aren’t proud of it, but honestly we were tired, plus it’s not like in one day we could really do that much of Edinburgh. So, we resolved ourselves to coming back some time and really digging in to the city, and in the meantime acknowledge that this was just a pit stop before beginning the Irish leg of the trip. We walked from our flat to the city core, through the rain (waaa waa, I know) and into a tourist information center, for the information we sought (plus internet access, cafes were not abundant here) was surprisingly hard to come by. Once situated, however, we made our way to a quaint local institution known as “a mall,” to view our film at “the multiplex.”

Actually, funny story, despite being in a country that ostensibly shares a language with ours, we accidentally ended up seeing the movie in 3D, despite Lisa’s long-held opinion that she did not like 3D and it would give her a headache. Turns out that she liked it fine and it didn’t hurt, so we’ve unsworn-off 3D movies going forward. So hey, that’s a plus.

So we watched the Avengers. Despite me writing this travelogue as though we just kinda got back, I’m not going to review a movie that’s a year old. Afterwards, we scrounged for food. Being in a mall, it was exactly as non-authentic as you’d guess, so we didn’t even try. In fact, we pulled a criss-cross and went to a cheesy joint with all “American” themed decor and food. The next time somebody rolls their eyes at how badly an American movie/tv show/commercial/whatever mangles something Scottish, roll your eyes right back; it’s a universal phenomenon, apparently, and they were just as bad at Americanisms. Not a bad meal, mind you, but seriously goofy takes on what signifies America. (And any excuse you might make for them, reverse the nations and you now have the excuse for when it goes the other way.) After dinner it was a stroll back to the flat and another quiet night of television and packing.

Tomorrow we switch into high gear, with a flight back to Dublin, another car rental, and an immediate immersion into real Ireland… for better or for OHMYGODWE’REGOINGTOCRASHLOOKOUT worse.

We left the House Over By (the attached inn to Three Chimneys) after a good night’s sleep. Can’t always count on that as we can be finicky sleepers, especially when it comes to road noise. Well, when you’re …. look, are you aware that Neil Gaiman’s forthcoming new novel is called The Ocean at the End of the Lane? We slept there. So yes, very peaceful. We got up, ate a bit, and then got moving. As we (that is, Lisa) planned our itinerary a great deal of effort was spent not to have days where we spent all day driving. This one couldn’t be avoided, though, and we made for Edinburgh, almost literally as far from where we currently were while still being in Scotland. Still, what we learned about this trip is that when you drive on harrowing roads through gorgeous vistas, the combination is enough to keep you interested.

Mind you, the trip wasn’t completely devoid of signature highlights. Take, for example, the warning sign for “feral goats.” We saw that and chuckled. “Oh the Scots,” we said to each other. “Perhaps an occasional goat gets out of its pen and…” Nope. Feral goats indeed.

They really couldn’t give two shits about traffic, which you’d think would have been a poor trait from an evolutionary point of view. The signs must really do the trick. They romp, they frollic, up the hill and down without a care in the world. None of the drivers we saw (most of whom figure to be locals) seem to mind – cruising along in 1st with no impatient zooming around them, the goats were accepted as naturally as orange cones or a stop light. Meanwhile, the tourists from America giggled maniacally and drove back and forth to make sure that they got good pictures.

Before we left the island we made one last stop for, despite being in the nations of sheep, Skye has a reputation for its wool products. Lisa and I are both kind of bad at buying souvenirs (which is great from a clutter in the house standpoint) but really it’s to the point that we don’t have many reminders of our travels. Thus it was that we navigated to a perfect little shop purveying locally made yarn and clothing. Lisa bought yarn for a knitting friend of hers while I bought a scarf that turned out to be a little too itchy, alas, plus a hat that I adore and that keeps my ears warm on many a chilly dog walk.  The shop we found was right on the water, next to the ruin of an old farm house. We’re tourists, by golly, so of course we took pictures!

After this last dawdle on Skye we made across the top-ish of Scotland. It was a fairly direct route (nearly getting lost starts being a problem in Ireland… you’ll see) on two lanes, but if we ever needed to pass there was plenty of visibility. We stopped for lunch at an inn surrounded by nothing. Seriously, they had a sign in their window apologizing for the fact that they’d have to charge a fairly steep rate for WiFi owing to the fact that satellite was their only option. It sat right in the transition from Highlands to Lowlands, though, so we sat in the be-windowed dining area while a young lady who probably ought to have been in school served us Shepherd’s pie (I think? something local…) and we took a breather. Then it was  back on the road, pretty much straight through to Edinburgh, where we turned in the car at the airport and took a cab to a flat we were renting for a couple nights.

Once we were in the flat, we were ex-HAUSTED. So much so that we went to the grocery store across the street and scrounged some bakeable nosh and a bottle of wine before retiring to some local tv + frozen pizza. I believe, although I’m not positive, that this was the night we saw the dog win Britain’s Got Talent.

Tomorrow: We power down in Edinburgh, wet and exhausted, and sample the local cinema.