Irrrreland.

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The last time I was on the West Coast of Ireland, I experienced the air as so clean, so refreshingly sharp, so sweet, that I gulped. Inhaling as quickly and as deeply as I could, filling my otherwise polluted London lungs from the City with clean Atlantic air. This time was no different. Landing at Shannon Airport, County Clare, I recalled how much I enjoyed the quiet, friendly, no-fuss simplicity of it. The ease with which one disembarks the plane and simply emerges into the fresh Irish air. I was travelling with a friend, we collected our hire car and drove the 170kms from Shannon to Dingle, stopping at village pubs and picturesque stops along the way. By far the most exhilarating of these was Conor's Pass; a 1.5 thousand foot high pass that connects Dingle on the south western end of the Dingle Peninsula. The narrow road weaves around the sharp cliff faces and every turn reveals other dramatic landscape, height or cloud filled drop. This wasn't one of those drives that is merely part of the commute from one end to the other; it was an integral part of the joy of the trip. Arriving into the coastal town of Dingle, we stayed right at the edge of the peninsula overlooking the water. The omnipresent overcast skies, the rolling greens, and the water were perfect. Not the sort one normally dreams of in holidays but for me; the sense of homeliness was therapeutic. There was little to do in Dingle other than enjoy traditional Irish hospitality, indulge in the rich dairy (overly so at Murphy's Ice Cream; a shop so popular that it has two sites on the same street and each one still has a queue outside), and walk along the coastline. We did take a boat ride one rather cold wet pelting day (they're all like that; the coastal days) and bought some knitted hats. A spontaneous purchase that turned out to be one of the best woolly winter hats I own. We did spot the infamous Fungi, much to the delight of the children onboard. The fresh oysters we ate afterward likely gave me a terrible stomach bug and I had to skip supper that night, much to my dismay. Dingle has a few Michelin guide restaurants and we intended to eat our way through them. Instead, I had a liquid supper at an Irish pub full of folk song, music, dance, cheer and warmth. On the final day we sat in the outdoors hot tub, steaming amidst the cold Irish air, overlooking the sea and the landscape. That was my lasting memory of that trip and a wonderful one it is to keep.

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