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Published: December 28th 2007
Ross Castle
Ireland does good Castles: grey, battlements, scary.Ireland. Who isn't part Irish? No-one that's who. In Italy, being of fairly dark complexion, I had to get used to people assuming I was Italian and hurling a barrage of indecipherable language at me, and having to shrug and say, "Me non parlo Italiano!" In Ireland, it was Sarah's turn to be mistaken as a local, and have people hurl indecipherable language at her.
From our arrival at the non-existant town of Shannon on the Western coast of the Island, we hopped into a rental car and tuned the radio to a Gaelic station and had Irish jigs as road music.
The pocket of Ireland we chose to visit for this Autumnal October weekend was the Dingle Peninsula - the most Mountainous part of Ireland, jutting out like a pointing finger into the Northern Atlantic.
Our first meal on the way to Dingle was in a small town called Castleisland. No island, and unusually for Ireland, no castle. Still, we had a hearty lunch of sausage, bacon, baked beans and a pot of gumboot tea.
Back in the rental car, we thought we were were going to be stuck in Castle Island for the rest of
our lives until a helpful and amused local demonstrated how to use the reverse gear in E.U. Regulated countries.
Dingle Peninsula was wild and windswept, covered in undulating hills and browning heather. The comparisons to New Zealand at its most isolated were obvious. Especially when we were marooned on a country lane by a heard of strange looking sheep. We were fairly sure the farmer was speaking English to us, but we had no real way of proving that.
Connor Pass, Ireland's highest road, was Arthur's pass in miniature, with ancient stone formations and a wind so strong we had aching ear-drums.
On the other side, Dingle township is a dinky touristy little fishing village with winding lanes and brightly coloured houses. It was so cute it just needed a pair of fluffy bunny ears to complete the effect.
But the pubs. Wow. Such a wide array for such a small place: there was a big sea-faring one, a small barn-like one with live music setting the place alight, a dark, labyrinthine one... and more. We partook in one hearty meal after another and the inevitable Guinness flowed freely.
On the Saturday we drove to
Slea Head at the end of the peninsula and were briefly the most Westerly people in Europe - more sore ear-drums - and had a picnic atop a strange orange heather covered rocky monolith.
On the Sunday we walked through Killarney National Park and got our last blast of Country air and rural beauty before another quick plane ride took us back to dim, smelly London.
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