County Kerry and Dingle

Breakfast this morning involved the first fresh fruit we'd seen for quite some time, and we fell upon it ravenously.

Just before breakfast, I'd received a text from Pat, asking in true-to-form suddenness whether I'd object to him joining the police force. My gut reaction was one of horror (but more on that later). Of course, rely upon my... angelic sister to lighten the mood. Her first response was "Ooh, you'll have a man in uniform!!" *Chuckles*...

Just as we were saying our thank-yous to our hosts and piling into the car, Pip accidentally crashed the bag she was carrying against the side of the car door, smashing her present to her friend Tess - a decorated piggy-bank. I picked up all the bits and showed a horrified Pip that the pieces can be glued near-exactly, but it meant there was an unhappiness to our departure. Silence reigned in the car, so I looked more steadfastly out the window than usual, at the impressive scenery. We were leaving the more built-up parts of Ireland as we headed south down the western coast.



The roads became curlier as they became more scenic. At one point we drove a set of 5 hairpin bend squiggles on a steep gradient, and popped out at the top into an incredible spot with panoramic views down the valley, to Galway Bay in the distance. Sheep grazed on all the hills in the foreground, on hilly fields that seemed to be infinite shades of rich green.

Mid-morning the land was becoming bleaker, and the animals scrawnier. Rocks showed above the grass in the fields, and we rounded a corner to find the enormous carpark that services the Cliffs of Mohr visitors centre. I could see it was windy even before getting out of the car; huge black crows hung on the blustery air, buffeted by gusts; or shot bullet-like over peoples' heads. We got out, cautiously, and donned two jackets each - plus every scarf, glove and beanie we could lay our hands on.

Across the road, hills rose on either side, and past them the world seemed to end. Once we got closer (battling the wind, which was literally threatening to blow Pip over), it became apparent why Nigel had recommended this spot so vehemently. Once you get to the railings, you can see the black cliffs on either side plunge at least a hundred metres straight down into the Atlantic ocean. They are craggy, and uncompromising, and wildly beautiful. The sea was rough and seal-skin blue to match the overcast sky. Towers of spray were shooting up at the bases of the cliffs, and white foam washed into the sea-caves far beneath us. There were seagulls suspended above the waves, somehow managing not to be dashed against the cliffs each time a gust of wind howled our way. They seem to roost mainly in one spot where the cliffs form a huge amphitheatre shape, and from above you can only make them out as white dots sprinkled down the cliff-face. Apparently brave people used to climb down to collect the gulls' eggs for food. Let me tell you - there is NO way those eggs can have tasted good enough to warrant such a climb.



After a good look, and a slow, wind-battered walk around the tops, we headed back for the car. For lunch we stopped at a little one-stop-shop in the middle of nowhere in county Kerry (or at least, as far from "nowhere" as it's possible to be in so small a country) and ordered pies and "Taytos" chips, because Nigel had recommended them to Pip. The girl behind the counter seemed appalled to be confronted by us (perhaps it was the accents?), but brightened up when Pip asked her what the sign saying "faílte" meant. "Welcome", apparently - we'd been seeing it in a lot of places, including on bars of handsoap. The other interesting thing about this shop was that they were selling bars of compressed peat for people's fireplaces, in place of wood.

We rattled on in the car, along typically Irish roads. Next time you drive along the freeway, take notice of how many hills have been cut in half to let you pass, and then consider what the road would be like if it instead followed the curve of every hill and bump along the way - that's what Irish country roads are like. I was practicing extreme pie-eating in the back as Mozart's Dies Irae played in the background (nearly ended up face-first in the filling several times - Pip found it hilarious).The advantage to these sorts of road is that the landscape around remains beautiful to look at, as you wind through it. Eventually we came to Shannon, and boarded the car ferry there - it saves a trip around the bay which would have added another half-day's drive or so.

By around 3.30, we had made it to the town of Dingle, where we'd booked rooms in Mrs O'Huiggins' bed and breakfast. She greeted us with delight, tea, and biscuits, in that order - all served in her living room - which, sure enough, was warmed by a peat fire. Before dusk fell, mum and dad and I set out to explore the streets of Dingle. It's a more traditional Irish town than Dublin or Galway, being untouched by skyscrapers and the like. In fact, in the summer it apparently becomes a sort of artists' colony, so many of the shops are devoted to arts and crafts. What I loved most about it, though, were the buildings lining each street: they were all painted in different bright colours. There were purple houses next to aqua ones, next to canary yellow and salmon pink shops. I even saw a pub that was fire-engine red. The effect wasn't garish, surprisingly... just cheerful and friendly.



There were several other sights, including a hotel built spanning a small river. Close by was a large sculpture of a crucifixion scene, that turned out not at all to be a world war memorial like we had guessed - but instead a war of Irish independence memorial. Those wounds obviously still run very, very deep, especially here in the west country.

The three of us wandered quite a long way in the light drizzle, down the hill and around to the docks. It being winter, many of the fishing boats were drydocked, but there were still a few in the marina (I suppose even in off-season there are still different types of fish to catch). All the orange and green fishing nets had been thrown in piles on the wharf, as well - though if that was so they could dry out, then it was a triumph of optimism.



Mum then split from us to go and find a bookshop - she was after a copy of a famous oral history she'd been keen to read, all about life growing up on the Blaskets - islands just off the Dingle peninsula. Dad and I scurried back to the main street, hoping to find a wool shop before everything closed - I was thinking that lovely Irish woolen scarves or jumpers would make nice presents for family and friends. Well, we found the shop I'd seen, and the things on sale were beautifully snuggly and well-made... but at 75 euros a scarf I decided I'd better think up other ideas. Meep!

By 5, dad and I had decided we'd better walk back down to near the docks to find mum. It turned out she'd gone back up the hill to our b & b, so dad and I got tricky and decided we'd find a shortcut.

About 8 shortcuts later we were hopelessly confused, and retraced our steps right back the way we had come - a gigantic dogleg in the dark. Dad was making consoling comments about the map not being to scale, but I wasn't bothered overly much - I'm just so used to being lost...



We returned at about 6.30, to find mum and pip writing postcards. After a desultory attempt to dry our clothes off a little, we set out once again down the hill to the waterfront... but this time taking the approved shortcut, which mum had actually managed to find earlier in the day. We had dinner at John Benny's waterside pub, which involved lots of chips and carnivorous stuff, and was extremely yummy. I noticed almost every local made their order in Gaelic, not English.

Dad took Pip back up the hill soon after dinner, because she was falling asleep. Mum and I, on the other hand, had decided we weren't going to leave Ireland without having heard some traditional pub music first! The band didn't arrive until 9.30, so we set out in search of an internet cafe in which to spend the in-between time. Dingle possess two internet cafes, signs of modern times creeping in - but of course they resolutely shut early on a Saturday night, ready for the Sabbath the next day! Instead we bought more postcards and stamps, and located the nearest postbox.

Back to John Benny's we went, and by the time we;d written postcards, and mum had ordered us each a half pint of Guinness, the band had started arriving. The guitarist was the first to arrive, and I was a little dubious as to how "traditional" this music was going to be. However, not long after he'd skulled half his Guinness and tuned his instrument, another man turned up and unpacked an accordion. The two of them started to play - wonderful! The notes came very fast, and followed the same sort of repeated patterns I'm used to from Irish fiddle music - but these two varied their rhythm and their little trills each time they repeated. At a wink from the accordion player, they would embark upon a new piece, grafted straight onto the old one, without missing a beat. Mum and I were sitting in a corner just across from them, and the music was infectious - I couldn't help but keep time with one foot.

About 15 minutes into their set, another man arrived with a mysteriously-shaped case. I guessed fiddle, and was very excited at the thought. But, even better: when he produced his instrument, it turned out to be a set of the Irish bagpipes! I'd seen them, but never heard them played. He settled down with the other two mid-song, and joined in. The Irish bagpipes aren't blown into, like Scottish ones; they seem to work instead by way of a pair of bellows that the player keeps tucked under his arm, which powers the "flute" appendage. The bagpipes player seemed to be the most experienced of the three (maybe that's why he got away with turning up late?), but the other two were very good as well. The guitarist seemed a little nervous before each key change, but I don't remember him ever slipping up. I also noticed that whereas the other two spent their time grinning and winking at the people seated around them, the accordion player stared steadfastly at the ceiling, with a look of utmost concentration.

Mum and I spent an enthralled hour and a half drinking and listening, before quite suddenly becoming aware of the fact that we were beginning to sink face-first towards the table with sleepiness. We left not long after I had my first victory over a half-pint. Back up the hill we went at 11 and were nearly locked out, but we were rescued by Mrs O'Huiggins just before she went to bed.