I left my heart in Co. Kerry, Ireland

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I spent the first week of my Spring Break in Ireland. As some of you may know I had always wanted to go to Ireland, ever since I was a little girl. I’m not really sure why, it has just always appealed to me; something about all that green, the music, Celtic art, and of course, that wonderful Irish accent. In more recent months, in preparation for my trip, I have been reading about the Irish people; not only about their history and their struggles, but about their culture, their traditions, their language, and above all their honest warmth and tendency to hang out chatting, singing, and laughing in pubs. Ireland seemed like a real, fascinating, and friendly place, as well as a stark contrast to the formal, cold, and suspicious feel I get in Bordeaux. There are many places I’d like to go to see the sights and eat the food, but in Ireland, I mostly wanted to get to know the people.

My first stop was Dublin. I had decided that I really couldn’t go on my first trip to Ireland without seeing its largest city. My flight was delayed, so I arrived in the early evening. Finding my hostel was easy enough, and although a bit, er… rustic, the hostel was fine. It definitely had that well-worn feel of a place constantly ravaged by drunken college kids, who, after tearing their way through Temple Bar, plunk down in the common room to drink mass quantities of cheap alcohol slopped into glasses with nauseating mixers. Blech. Being around it reminded me that I’m no longer in college and quite ok with it. Especially when, while checking my email in the lounge, I was forced to tolerate the inane conversation of a 22-year-old stereotypically-American moron who insisted that Irish food was disgusting (even though he’d only eaten at Burger King and Subway since he’d been there) and basically just came to Dublin to wreak havoc with like-minded tourists and get blitzed on Guinness, and still for some reason was convinced he could get with me. Oh baby, baby; sign me up! Sigh. Anyway, as I was saying, the hostel was fine. It was really centrally located, and for most of my trip, since it was off-season, I had my room to myself.

In my excitement, I got up way too early on the first day and found myself with some time to kill before my 11am historical walking tour. I strolled over to Grafton Street, a pedestrian-only shopping area which is sort of like a laid-back, easy-going version of rue Sainte Catherine in Bordeaux. Looking around me, it was so clear I was no longer in France. I saw smiles and laughter, softened expressions, instead of that pinched, closed-off look I see on nearly every face in Bordeaux. Dublin’s people looked happy and casual; no one clacked briskly past me in skinny jeans and high-heeled boots. Also, Dublin had significantly less dog poop.

Something was amiss, though. I had this very disoriented feeling from the moment I hit the streets of Dublin; something didn’t feel normal. And then it hit me: there I was, walking through what looked very much like a normal European city, surrounded by stunning architecture and history on all sides, and everyone, EVERYONE, was speaking English. I could understand every conversation around me without straining. When I looked out at the shops and storefronts lining my path I was greeted by familiar, comfortable English words. Of course it was twinged with somewhat unfamiliar grammar and vocabulary here and there (things like “rubbish bin” and “have you got a pen?”), but still, it was English. Beautiful, friendly English. I guess I’d never been anywhere in Europe where English is the main spoken language. Dealing with Euros in English also felt very strange. It definitely took me a few days to stop saying “excusez-moi” to people, and to remember to order my food in English. It was so liberating, though; to be in a totally foreign place but to be able to express myself to my full capacity, not constrained by my limited knowledge of a foreign language.

Another thing that was way more difficult to get used to that I expected was the whole driving-on-the-left-side business. I figured that since I would not actually be behind the wheel of a motorized vehicle that I would hardly notice, but it turns out that this slight adjustment also affects pedestrians. Think about it: when you cross the street, you look left first, right? Because in the US, or in France, that first lane of traffic you’ll cross into will be coming at you from your left. Then, you look right to make sure the next lane you’ll enter is clear. If you do this in Ireland, however, you’re likely to get run over; you have to do it backwards. It was also strange riding a bike (which I did later on, in the country), because you have to stay to the left. When cars came around a bend heading toward me, my first instinct was that it was on the left side and I panicked for a second thinking I was about to collide with 2 tons of metal and fiberglass on my measly little 18-speed. Then I would remember that everything is backwards and the car would whoosh by me at a safe distance to my right.

Back to Grafton Street. At the end of it is beautiful St. Stephen’s green. It’s a large, enclosed public garden, much like the Jardin Public in Bordeaux. I was lucky; the sun was shining, so the millions of photos I took there look pretty nice. Surrounding the park are plentiful examples of the city’s Georgian architecture. I later learned that while the rest of the world was tearing down its Georgian stuff in favor of the new, trendy, Victorian style, Dublin was too poor. So, the face of Dublin remains Georgian.

My walking tour was really informative. It was lead by an enthusiastic history Ph.D. student named Lisa, who spoke with a lovely Irish accent. That might have made the info more interesting, actually. She gave us the 2-hour run down of Ireland’s history, while showing us a number of the cities important landmarks. I had only known an extremely basic summary of Ireland’s conflicts with England over the centuries, so it was incredibly interesting. I also really got a sense of the lingering bitterness that hangs in the air in Ireland. The Irish were really beat down by the English for so long, it’s no wonder that, even though they may laugh off their resentment in casual conversation, the Irish can’t help but feel the dull ache of old wounds. Just to give a few examples, Queen Elizabeth took pretty much every basic human right away from Catholics in Ireland, and then the Irish language (known to most of us as Gaelic) was banned and children were beaten for speaking Irish in school. During the Great Potato Famine, although potatoes wouldn’t grow, other food would and England had it all shipped back to her citizens, leaving the Irish to die or emigrate. Ireland’s population shrunk by insane proportions. Add to that all of the battles and failed rebellions, and political and religious oppression, and then throw in all the troubles that still go on in the North, and you’ve got a recipe for bad blood.

But enough of the soapboxy history lesson. After the tour I got lunch at a pub called O’Neill’s. I had corned beef and cabbage, and felt very happy that I was making up for my lack of proper St. Patrick’s Day fare back in March. Yummm.

Next, I went to a museum called Number 29 Georgian house, which is a house restored to look as it did back when it was first built. It was an incredibly interesting look at everyday life for upper-middle class families in Ireland during King George’s rein. I would definitely recommend it. Across the street was Merrion Square, a wilder, more natural-looking (and in my opinion, more beautiful) version of St. Stephen’s Green. In the park stands a comical, realistic statue of Oscar Wilde, reclining sarcastically on a boulder.

The highlight of this particular day was definitely the Traditional Music Pub Crawl I did in the evening. Two musicians led a bunch of us tourists around to three different Dublin pubs, where they demonstrated and explained various traditional musical instruments. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve always been interested in the music, so you can imagine how I enjoyed this. The music itself comes in many forms and many moods; from lively jigs to mournful ballads. I was a bit sad when the evening was over, but I did meet two rather cool American girls, and ended up getting dinner with them afterward, in Temple Bar. It occurs to me I didn’t mention Temple Bar yet. Temple Bar is the main night-life area in Dublin, and it consists of a long cobbled street near the River Liffey, lined with pubs and shops and excited tourists. It’s kind of pricey, but very lively and worth a look.

The next day was rainy. I started off with a full Irish breakfast and it was amazing. On the table in front of me sat a cup of tea (done the way I like it, with milk), a glass of orange juice, several slices of warm, crunchy toast with butter and marmalade, and a plate loaded up with fried eggs, bacon, sausage, baked beans (delicious with eggs, who knew?), a grilled tomato, and both black and white pudding. YUM. For those of you who aren’t aware, black pudding is a sausage-y thing made with oatmeal and blood. Sounds weird, I know, but it’s actually delicious. White pudding is similar but just has pork instead of blood. It’s good too. I love French food, don’t get me wrong, but the Irish really know how to do breakfast. It was amazing, and, unlike a stupid croissant or bread with butter and jam, it filled me up until lunch.

My sightseeing started with a hop-on, hop-off tour bus ride to the old Kilmainham Gaol, which is a restored jail that was used for a long time for political prisoners. The tour guide gave us what would have been a moving explanation of the jail’s history and former occupants, if this one bright bulb had not decided that it would be a swell idea to bring along his two-year-old son. This obnoxious little boy kept cooing, singing, and laughing as loud as he could manage, throughout the whole freaking tour. It kind of took the dark edge off our experience, to hear little-boy gurgling echoing gleefully around the room, smothering the somber, hushed voice of our guide. Seriously, who brings a toddler to a jail? Ugh. But still, it was pretty interesting.

Next I decided it would be a fantastic idea to walk, in the pouring rain, to the Guinness Storehouse. Bad call. I got rather lost, and really wet, AND I destroyed yet another umbrella in the process. But still, I suppose getting drenched is part of the Irish experience, right? The tour was ridiculous; somewhere between a theme park and a shrine to Arthur Guinness. A long row of beeping and clanking computerized turnstiles funneled hoards of eager tourists into a sound effect and flashing light-laden warehouse, where we all learned about the ever-so enthralling process of beer-making, complete with virtual tour guides and fountains and giant LCD screens, and even a huge ornamental vat of barley. A big eye-roller, if you ask me. But, it was something to see, and I did get a free pint at the end.

Speaking of which, Guinness is a really big deal in Ireland. You think Americans like it, the Irish absolutely adore it. It is the epicenter of pub life and social gatherings, and pouring it is a science. One must pour it about an inch or so from the top and then let it rest for quite some time; I’d say over a minute. Then, and only then, can one finish pouring it, letting the thick, creamy foam gather slowly at the top. Out in the country an old man with about half of his teeth told me a story about a trip to Boston he had taken many years ago, where the bartender poured his Guinness all at once. He was outraged and disgusted and flatly refused to drink it. Apparently, Guinness also doesn’t travel well, and so many Irish people refuse to drink it outside of Ireland. It may seem a little over the top to some, but really, I think they’re right. I’ve never particularly enjoyed Guinness before, but in Ireland I gladly consumed more than my fair share.

After finishing my pint, I hopped back on the bus and made my way to the Old Jameson Distillery. I had about 20 minutes before my tour was to begin, so I ordered a hot whiskey from the bar and sat at one of the little tables to take in the warm, whiskey-themed decorations around me. While I was waiting for my mug to cool off a bit, pushing the clove-covered lemon around with my spoon, I was joined by two American guys about my dad’s age. Turns out one of them lives in Holland and the other one (from Oklahoma) came out to Europe to visit his friend and tour around a bit. We were all in the same tour, so we headed into the auditorium together.

In the auditorium, a good-natured, red-haired, beer-bellied, goateed, 30-something Irish guy welcomed us to what was to become a very interesting and down-to-earth tour of the original Jameson distillery. The whole experience seemed a lot more personal and real. Our guide was funny as well as very clearly interested in whiskey-making, and gave us the information without blowing the whole thing out of proportion a la the Guinness Storehouse.

And it certainly didn’t hurt that, at the beginning of the tour, our leprechaunish guide announced that he would need eight volunteers to participate in the whiskey taste-test at the end. Fortunately for me, he selected four women and then four men. Because few women were even present, and even fewer were interested in participating (and because I shot up my hand the instant he got the words out) I got to be one of the lucky eight. As we left the auditorium, my two new dad-aged friends hurried up to me and firmly shook my hand, introducing themselves enthusiastically. I guess they were pretty impressed that this 25-year-old female world-traveler actually likes whiskey. Hilarious! The tasting was pretty cool, too. They gave each of us a small glass of three different types of whiskey: Scotch whiskey (Johnnie Walker Black Label), Irish whiskey (Jameson), and American whiskey (Jack Daniels). He had us taste all three (using a specific detailed procedure he described) and then explained why they all tasted so different. Then, we all got another, normal-sized glass of Jameson, any way we liked it (they had an array of mixers, even though our guide seemed mildly disgusted by the idea, or we could have it straight or on the rocks). Another thing that I thought was interesting was that he told us that whiskey is meant to be consumed with at least a little water, and so he had put just a drop (literally a drop) in each of our samples, so we could get the full effect the way it was meant to be tasted. It was really cool to see the stark contrast between each kind of whiskey, and also to realize that my days of partiality toward Jack have come to an end. Jameson really is just so much smoother. I still don’t really like Scotch. Tastes like burnt tires.

After that tour, I headed back into town, and then back to my hostel to relax a bit, eat something, and shake off the heavy buzz my two alcohol-themed excursions had left me with. I bought a greasy, newspaper-wrapped bundle from what my hostel reception person called the best fish and chips in Dublin, and sadly, was rather disappointed. It was pretty bland. I meant to try again out in the country (and right on the coast), but I didn’t get around to it this time. Another reason to go back!

That evening I met a bunch of other young foreigners for a backpackers’ pub crawl lead by an Irish girl about my age. She took us around to a number of different pubs (and then ended with a club where we could dance) that were off the main Temple Bar drag (where tourists abound and locals are sparse). It was pretty fun and I met a few interesting people. I even got to use my French a bit with a couple of Belgians Spring Breaking in Dublin. Sadly the only Irish person I met, aside from our lovely guide, was a rail-thin, extremely goobery, seven-foot-tall 18-year-old whose eyes widened when I told him I was from California, and who tried (unsuccessfully) to kiss me within 15 seconds of meeting me. Yay.

The next day was when the magic of my trip really started. After taking a quick look around the National Historical and Archaeological museum (interesting, but not worth getting into here), I headed back to the Dublin airport to catch a Ryanair flight to County Kerry. Ireland is divided up into counties, and Kerry happens to be located right on the southwest coast of Ireland. In many places, the region’s local language is Irish, not English, and I had heard that the countryside there was incredibly beautiful. On top of that, Rick Steves recommended a little town called Dingle (though the all-Gaelic signs leading there pointed only toward “An Daingean”), popular for its traditional music scene and charming, small-town atmosphere. I decided months ago that I had to see it.

Here is where my task becomes truly difficult. I’m not sure I can accurately describe to you the feeling this little place gave me, except to say that I fell in love. By the beginning of day three, brought to my knees by the region’s indescribably beauty and its honest, open, and very real people, I knew that I’d be back. Leaving Dingle broke my heart more than ending any other vacation has ever done; and the days following found me deep in an achy depression that I haven’t yet fully snapped out of. I felt like I’d left behind a person, not a country, and actually cried a little the night I found myself back in Bordeaux, cooking dinner by myself. Considering that I hadn’t shed a single non-sad-movie-related tear since the day I arrived in France, in spite of the all of the harrowing stuff I’ve put myself through, that’s saying something.

It begins with a taxi driver, and a ride from Kerry Airport (one runway, two gates, one small building; ours was the only plane on the tarmac) to Tralee. John was a gruff-voiced Irishman with a sailor’s mouth and a number of strong opinions about tourism, Irish history, and American politics. He was the perfect way to start off my journey into another world; his rough, good-natured conversation was not something I would ever get from a Bordelais. We talked non-stop, and by then end of the trip I felt like we should go get a pint or something. He actually apologized for charging me for the trip, and even knocked the price down a little. I walked toward Tralee’s bus station shaking my head and smiling at the contrast.

After wandering around Tralee for a bit, I took a bus to Dingle (about an hour and a half away). As we wound our way through the hills, I took in the rolling green patchwork of fields sprinkled generously with sheep. Sheep abound in the Irish countryside. I may have seen ten times as many sheep as people. Anyway, the ride was beautiful, but was still only a mere hint at the awesome sights I would encounter later on.

The bus dropped me off just as the cloudy sky was starting to dim on a quiet street between a quaint little harbor and the backside of a grocery store. Since Dingle is really tiny (population: 1,300, not counting sheep, of course) finding my hostel, tucked away on an even smaller, quieter street, was not a difficult task. The hostel was pretty much the exact opposite of my lodging in Dublin; it was more like a big house with lots of bedrooms upstairs than a business. The place, called Hideout Hostel, was run by three people; a youngish man named Michael (pronounced MEE-hall), a 50something-year-old woman who might have been Michael’s mother (never really figured that out for sure), and a 50something-year-old American guy named Tom who I believe was the aforementioned woman’s husband, and so, maybe Michael’s stepdad? I need to pay more attention. They all lived there, though, and were all very welcoming and helpful. Later in my stay Tom said he meant to come to Dingle for two years, but was currently working on his ninth year. Apparently this is not an uncommon phenomenon; it’s impossible not to fall in love with Dingle.

Oh, and, in case you were wondering, I was able to get totally used to the name “Dingle” by the end of my trip. It no longer makes me snicker. But please, feel free to chortle away over there.

But I digress. After settling in a bit, I slipped back outside to get a look around before the sun had completely set. The town is pretty much two east-west streets and three north-south streets lined with pubs and little shops, all of which are painted in cheerful pastels. Rick Steves informs me that originally the buildings were whitewashed, and carry their colors now as a result of a tidy town contest. Many of the signs were lettered only in Irish, although most were in English as well. And to my delight, many of the pub windows advertised frequent live music.

I chose a pub Mr. Steves had recommended for my dinner, called John Benny Moriarty’s. My food was pretty decent (butternut squash and goat cheese risotto with a delicious little salad on the side), but the barman, a 60ish, white-haired man whose name was Pat, I think, informed me that there would be no music that night; I’d have to wait until tomorrow. I chatted with him a bit, but other than that my dinner was pretty solitary. I headed back to my hostel to rest a bit and prepare for a solo pub crawl that would hopefully lead me to some new friends.

Even though my sources assured me that starting conversation with random pub-goers would be perfectly acceptable in this part of the world, I have to admit, I was a bit nervous. I followed my ears to my first stop, a large pub bursting with traditional Irish music, just around the corner from my hostel. The music was lively and the place was packed, but looking around I saw mostly Americans, and it was too loud to talk. I stayed for only about 15 minutes, and then I headed down the road to Dick Mack’s, a smaller pub with no music that Tom back at the hostel had recommended.

I walked in and found a smallish room with a bar on one side and bunch of hardware and leather goods on the other. My guidebook says that Dick Mack’s used to be a leather shop by day and a pub by night. Apparently the place still rents out bikes, but I think it’s mostly just a place to chat and have a drink nowadays. I sat awkwardly at the bar in front of my glass of Smithwicks for a few minutes, noticing how empty the place was and hoping I didn’t look as out of place as I felt.

And then a couple in their forties came in and sat down next to me, chatting with the girl behind the bar. Turns out they’re American too, from Buffalo, and have been coming to Dingle for years. In fact, they love it there so much they even bought a cottage to stay in on their frequent trips. Ruth, the wife, is a high school history teacher, and so we had lots to talk about. Her husband originally discovered Dingle because he’s really into traditional Irish music, and he was planning on playing in another pub the following night. I ended up staying until closing time, planning to see them the next night back at John Benny’s, where Ruth told me they would be stopping by. I walked happily back to my hostel, already feeling very optimistic about my stay.

The next morning I ate breakfast in the hostel dining room and headed off to a stables just out of town for a trail ride I had scheduled before my arrival in Ireland. It was an absolutely gorgeous day. It was still only 10:00am and the sun was streaming through the thinning clouds, lighting up the countryside’s different shades of green. I noticed that the only sounds I heard were birds singing, the breeze blowing, chatter in the street, the occasional car rolling by, and of course, sheep. No buses, no underlying freeway roar, no sirens, no tram coming around the bend, no honking. Just the birds, people and boats moving around in the harbor, and the leaves rustling softly in the trees. It’s so easy to tune out that other stuff in the city, but when it’s gone you notice. It made the town feel like some kind of fictional place; a storybook land where the grit of “real life” had been removed.

I found Dingle Horseriding up a little hill and down a gravel lane, past a few charming little houses. As I approached the little ranch, three dogs bounded out to greet me, tails and tongues wagging. One of them was a large and extremely scruffly black puppy with a fuzzy head and all kinds of sticks and bits of grass stuck in her fur. I later learned her name was Snoopy and she was just a few months old. A girl about my age came out and led me into a little room off of the stables where there was a desk and bunch grubby pairs of rubber boots. She looked up my name and went to take care of some things while I stuck my foot in all the boots, trying to find a pair that would fit.

The trail ride was nice. It was just me, the girl who had brought me to the boots, and two 11-year-old girls. My horse, Smokey, was good to me and it wasn’t at all difficult to ride her, in spite of the fact I’d never been in an English saddle before. I was a little disappointed I never got the chance to try anything more interesting than a walk. Must learn how to ride a horse one day. Anyway, the hour-long trek was beautiful, up a hill and over back toward the harbor, giving us a stunning view of the glittering water strewn with boats and surrounded by a patchwork of green.

When I got back to Dingle, I made myself a little lunch with soda bread, peppered beef, blue cheese, yogurt, and a banana. Soda bread is pretty awesome. It’s whole wheat, and made with baking soda instead of yeast (hence, soda bread), and I don’t really understand why it’s so delicious but it is. I’m pretty sad I stupidly left the rest of my loaf in the hostel kitchen when I departed; it would have made a nice (if temporary) souvenir.

Next I did an hour or so walk along the harbor and out to an old lighthouse at its mouth, where the harbor meets the Dingle Bay. There’s a dolphin that hangs out there and has become quite a tourist draw for the little town. Yes, a dolphin. In Ireland. I know, I don’t understand it either, but he’s been there since the 1980s and the locals have named him Fungie. Tourist boats go out there several times a day to see him and there are a couple Fungie-themed souvenir shops in town. I did see him, but only once, and only out of the corner of my eye. Besides the unexpected marine life, the walk was lovely. The sunny morning had dried up the trail a bit and I was able to walk down to the water. I took a ton of pictures, of course.

That night I had the world’s most delicious dinner. I walked past a seafood restaurant called Fenton’s and noticed seared scallops (fresh from the bay, of course) with smokey bacon over crushed potatoes and black pudding. MM. Then I saw that it was 30 Euros, chuckled, and moved on. But none of the other places in town had anything that sounded even remotely as tempting, so I found myself gravitating back toward a total splurge. It was so worth it, though. The scallops were perfect; every bite was just the right texture and flavor combination of the freshest seafood and warm, rich bacon. I’ve already been over how much I enjoy black pudding, and mixing it with crushed potatoes and onions worked amazingly well. The crisp, citrusy, Italian white wine I paired with it didn’t hurt either. Oh man, I wish I could have another plate right now. So good.

As planned, that night I found my way back down to John Benny Moriarty’s. I was a bit early for the music, so I plunked down, feeling sun-kissed, warm and full of good food, at the bar on a stool that ended up being the best seat in the house. When I looked directly to my left I saw, to my delight, the mics and stools awaiting their future occupants: the evening’s musicians. They strolled in just as Pat, who remembered me from the night before, was pulling me another glass of Smithwicks. The players were two youngish guys on guitar and banjo, John Benny himself on the box (Irish version of an accordion), and Eilis, John’s wife, carrying with her two types of flutes and her own hauntingly beautiful voice. The music was incredible; mostly because of Eilis’ amazing voice. As she sang her first song, the rest of us listened in complete stunned silence. I’m sure my mouth hung open in a really attractive way. She was incredible. I asked someone if she had any CDs, and she did; I went back to the pub the next day and bought one.

But back to that night. Talking to people was not a challenge at all. Within 15 minutes or, a 50ish man named Steve was showing me an album of photos of his new baby daughter and chatting with me about Ireland’s history and life in the United States. Hanging out in Dingle’s pubs was unlike doing the same in a city because everyone knows everyone. A local would walk in and would instantly be surrounded by friends and family, greeting everyone, clapping backs, and laughing at familiar jokes. Imagine living in a place where you know that wherever you pick to go out that night you’ll be in warm familiar company, even when you leave your house alone and totally without a plan! Toto, we’re not in L.A. anymore! I don’t think I could see myself living that life forever, but there is something very appealing about finding oneself in an environment where it would be virtually impossible to be lonely. By the end of the night I felt like I was part of it all too; I felt more at home in that pub talking to people I’d met mere hours ago than I’ve ever felt out for the night in Bordeaux, even though I’ve lived here for over seven months. I met a few other people that night, and although I didn’t see that American couple from the night before, I stayed until closing, finally strolling home at around 12:30am, smiling all the way.

The next day was the best day of all, by far; definitely one of the most memorable days of my life. I rented a little 18-speed from Paddy’s Bike Hire, which was just a few doors down from my hostel, and set out on Slea Head Drive. Dingle town is right on Dingle harbor, which sits on the Southern side of the Dingle Peninsula, a small peninsula jutting off of Ireland on the southwest side of the island. The peninsula is ringed by a scenic loop called Slea Head Drive, and it’s about 50 km around, leaving and returning from/back to Dingle town. With frequent photo-taking stops and one stop for lunch, the tour took me about six and a half hours.

I can’t even begin to do real justice to the mind-blowing beauty of this drive; you’ll have to do it yourself. The sun was shining, and the ocean glittered so brightly and looked so unrealistically magnificent crashing in foamy sprays against the black rocky cliffs or washing gently onto sandy harbor beaches, the shallow bottom glowing emerald through the dazzling shimmer on the surface. And even those sights can’t compete with the most intense of greens, so much green, more green than I ever thought could possibly exist, rolling over the hills and through the fields, quilting the horizon like I’d always imagined but never expected to actually find in real life. My path alternated between peaceful, shady, tree-canopied tunnels, the asphalt dappled with the warm yellow patches of light that filtered through the leaves (which reminded me of parts of Northern California, actually), and wide open spaces; sometimes my route was just an insignificant ribbon of black through expansive fields of grass and sheep, low stone walls carving out rough rectangular patches up and down the countryside, parceling out the overwhelming green under the wide blue sky. I spent a good portion of my journey shaking my head and swearing under my breath, in complete disbelief of how any place could ever be that, that, aah! I’ve written the word beautiful so many times, but there’s no other way to put it. Just beautiful! You must do it. You must.

As if this bike ride needed any other attraction, there were also several ruins and ancient things to see along the way. Forts, stone huts, churches and cemeteries dotted the coastline and I stopped to check out most of them. And of course there were sheep. There were so many sheep hanging around one place I stopped I even took a video on my camera just so I could record the ridiculous volume of their baaahing.

I was quite alone on my journey. I would sometimes go almost an hour without seeing a single other person. Occasionally a car would pass me, or pull up to one of the lookout points I had stopped at, and I could convince its occupants to take a picture of me (to please my mother). But other than that, it was just me and Ireland, getting to know each other out in the middle of nowhere. So you can imagine my surprise when a jogger passed me going the other direction. Yes, a jogger. Here I was, out in the Irish boonies, feeling quite impressed with myself for having biked so far out, and a smiling, sunburned, blond-haired Irishman jogs by me. He waved and jokingly called out, “I passed you hours ago!” That’s pretty freaking hardcore. Remember this; it becomes important later.

Once I got around Slea Head, the western-most point in my tour of the peninsula, the landscape started to change. The fields grew wilder, the sky grew darker, and the higher points on the hills were barren and grey. A mist hung out on the water, partially blanketing the dark silhouettes of the Blasket Islands lying just off the coast. Our dear friend Mr. Steves says that the grey, lifeless patches high on the hills are the remnants of blighted fields during the Famine. Once the country got back on its feet people turned over the lower fields and replanted them in the area’s characteristic green, but the dull, rocky terrain looming at higher altitudes serves as a dark reminder at how much the Famine hurt the Irish; the population still, after all this time, has not recovered enough to need that higher farmland to sustain its once much more numerous people.

About two thirds the way through the loop, I came upon a tiny town called Ballyferriter (or Baile an Fheirtearaigh in Irish). It looked to me to consist of one short street and a few shops and pubs, and a small cluster of farms and homes settled behind it. I leaned my bike against a low brick wall, and as I locked it, I realized how unnecessary and silly that probably was. I took a couple pictures; I only needed two or three to cover all of Ballyferriter. I went into one of the pubs to get a pint of Guinness (why not? How many times am I going to have a chance to get a pint in a tiny rural village in Ireland?), and checked when I saw the girl standing behind the bar. She was about eleven or twelve years old and her head barely cleared the taps. I stood there in stunned silence for a moment, wondering if I was really supposed to order my beer from a child. But she asked me what she could get me, so I did. After sitting there for a few minutes, I realized I was probably the only one who was not family. A couple boys in their young teens sat at a table in the corner playing a card game, and another teenager sat by the window reading a magazine. I heard a voice call out and the magazine guy got up and headed into… the house! An open doorway led from the pub and my chair to what looked like the inside entryway to a house and a stairwell that probably led to a set of family bedrooms. I was drinking Guinness in a rural Irish family’s house/pub. Whoa.

On my way out to my bike I passed a couple men sitting on a bench outside the pub and one of them said something to me. I didn’t understand, so I asked him to repeat. He did, and I still could not distinguish a single word I recognized. Ah, I thought. He must be speaking Irish. I said, “I’m sorry, I only speak English.” He looked at me like I was crazy and said it again, this time more slowly. It was English, just English with a really strong Irish accent. Oh god. How embarrassing. He asked me where I was from and when I said California he got this far away look in his eyes, smiled, and said, “Ah, I thought I detected a bit of a Yankee accent there.” I chatted with them for a minute and then set off on my way.

Not too long after Ballyferriter, maybe three quarters of the way through my ride, I started getting pretty tired. Another couple kilometers, and I was getting really tired. At one point I saw a sign that said, “An Daingean, 10 km” and I thought, ok, I can do this. If there are only 10 km between me and Dingle, that means I’ve gone 40 km already, this is nothing. There was a lot of uphill stuff though, and a bit down the road I was eager to read the next An Daingean sign I passed. But it said 10 km too! Aaack. I had a map and Rick Steves’ play-by-play description of the route so I stopped to try to figure out where I was. I noticed that there must have been a ruined church I missed a while back, oh well. I kept pedaling.

And ten minutes later I saw the church. AAAh. So I wasn’t even as far as I thought. I got off my bike and staggered, my legs a pair of lead pipes, up the hill to take a look. And then I took off again, rather slowly.

Rick said that the last three miles were all downhill, and since three miles is about 5 km, I figured I didn’t have too far to go. But I’m telling you, that last 3 or 4 km up that hill were killer. I had my bike in first and I felt like I was peddling underwater. I think a toddler could have passed me in his walker. But I kept on.

And oh, when I crested that hill it was like magic. Up and over I followed the signs pointing toward home, sailing down toward the harbor, laughing joyously at my freedom, not even caring about the multitude of bugs hitting my face and sticking to my hair. Glorious, glorious downhill! I coasted into Dingle and with a small burst of energy, peddled my way up the short hill to Paddy’s Bike Hire. I staggered back down the hill to my hostel with a deliriously exhausted smile on my face, and then hobbled directly up the stairs to take the most amazing long, hot shower of my life.

Seriously, do Slea Head Drive. I think it might be one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had.

After resting for a couple hours, I set out to find an internet cafe to check in for my flight (while trying not to think about the fact that I only had a few more hours left in this wonderful place). And who should I run into in the street but the jogger from several hours before! He introduced himself as Paddy (not to be confused with the nice but significantly older bike hire guy). We chatted for a bit, and actually ended up getting dinner together at a restaurant nearby. He was a really interesting guy who has done a lot of traveling over the years, and he actually did undergrad at Cal Poly SLO, too, so he even knows California pretty well. He was originally from County Cork (a bit farther south) but now lives in London, and was just in Dingle on vacation. After dinner, Paddy took me to a small pub full of locals (that also happens to sell clothing and other things by day). I think I was the only non-Irish person in there. It was great. I would not have had the courage to go in there all by myself, the awkward American, so I’m really glad Paddy was there to introduce me to people, especially since he’d been to Dingle many times, so he already knew a lot of the locals. At one point it hit me that there I was, sitting in a pub in the middle of the Irish countryside, chatting happily with a bunch of people I didn’t know at all a couple hours ago, having the time of my life. I think the little girl that used to dream about going to Ireland would have been pretty floored to know she’d be me one day.

We didn’t leave the pub until around 1:30am, and Paddy walked me home. He’d talked me into letting him drive me to the airport the next morning (I was going to have to take a cab, since the buses didn’t run early enough on Sundays), which was extremely nice of him considering the drive would take about an hour. I went to bed feeling pretty darn awesome.

I was really sad to leave Dingle. After I said goodbye to Paddy at the airport, I felt deflated. I still had a day left in Dublin, but I wished so badly I’d given myself more time in the country. I have to go back. And soon.

So that was my adventure in the magical land of An Daingean. My last night in Dublin was nice too, though. I got dinner at the same place I’d eaten the first night, and it was a rather delicious spread of roasted chicken and potatoes with veggies and some kind of honey herb sauce. I also ordered Bailey’s panna cotta and a really amazing glass of Irish Rebel lager. Not bad, but I missed the jolly communal sprit of dear Dingle.

That night I went to a pub down by the River Liffey, several blocks away from noisy Temple Bar, where a band of guys my dad’s age were playing some upbeat rock; some covers (everything from Johnny Cash to Turkey in the Straw) and some original stuff. They were pretty good and the crowd was really into it, dancing, laughing and singing. I sipped my last Guinness in Ireland and took in the events of the last seven days. The band ended the night with “Hey Jude”, and I walked back to my rowdy backpacker-haven hostel humming to myself out in the brisk Dublin air.

And here ends my tale of the best trip ever. Good job surviving this far, I know I’ve written quite a novel here. Eventually I’ll get around to writing about Madrid and Berlin (where I went back in February). I’m leaving France a month from yesterday, if you can believe it, and tomorrow I’m turning 25. Man, time going by fast these days. As always, thanks for reading, and I’ll see many of you guys very soon!

P.S. A link to more pictures should appear within the next couple days.

P.P.S. I’m going back to Ireland… next week! 😊

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Photos

Dublin
the day I arrived

Temple Bar
a relatively quiet weeknight

Bilingual Sign
at Trinity College

More Merrion Square
with some Georgian architecture in the back there

Tulips
in Merrion Square

Oscar Wilde
hanging out in Merrion Square and disapproving of your face

My glass of Smithwicks
at the traditional music pub crawl

Full Irish Breakfast
MMMMMM!

Kilmainham Gaol
The new part

Our guide
at the Jameson Tour

whiskey tasting
at the end of the Jameson tour

view from the bus
heading to Dingle

Dingle town
<3

homemade lunch
soda bread, peppered beef, blue cheese, Cadbury chocolate digestive biscuits

amazing scallops
from Fenton's

my noble steed
and companion around Slea Head Drive

Ventry beach
one of my first stops on Slea Head Drive

Slea Head
View from an old fort I stopped at

On the other side
heading back east

Go Mall
means "slow down" in Irish

Ballyferriter
those guys on the bench on the left are the ones I talked to. The pub behind them is where I had my pint.

The ruined church
I staggered to in the exhausting last 10 km of my ride