A breakdown of the weekend. (Notice, I'm foregoing the green in deference to popular demand.)
Our small but hardy band of six set out at 9ish on Saturday morning with our newly-procured rental car--of indeterminate brand, but with a lightning bolt symbol on the (right sided!) steering wheel, which led us to christen it Harry in honor of Harry Potter.
Our small but hardy band of six set out at 9ish on Saturday morning with our newly-procured rental car--of indeterminate brand, but with a lightning bolt symbol on the (right sided!) steering wheel, which led us to christen it Harry in honor of Harry Potter.
Ian the Belgian drove. And it was raining. And then it was reeeeeeeeally raining. And it was also cold and windy and cloudy and foggy and basically every form of less-than-ideal Irish weather that exists, aside from (gasp) an inch or two of snow. But we braved the elements nonetheless, and within a couple of hours we reached the town of Kenmare. After stopping there just long enough to pick up some pastries at a bakery, we embarked on the Ring of Kerry, a beautiful scenic route that covers a 110ish-mile region along the southwest coast of Ireland.
Not long afterward, we came to a crossroads. One road was marked by a sign that said "Ring of Kerry." The other boasted a sign reading "DANGER. Narrow roads ahead." Which one do you think we ended up taking? I'm really not sure how it happened (though there was certainly a lively discussion about it while we were driving the extremely narrow, winding roads that, quite honestly, are pretty much par for the course anywhere in Ireland) but it worked out all right, because soon enough we reached the town of Sneem and from there were able to get back on track. (But not before we explored the town, found out how easy it is for even the sturdiest umbrella to be flipped inside out by a strong Irish wind, discovered the raging rapids of the Sneem River flowing under a bridge that was just waiting for me to drop something small through its gaps, and walked down "the dark street of doom" to paraphrase Jessie's words.)
As I mentioned before, it was raining and cold and anything but clear outside, so the magnificent views were not at their most inviting. Every so often, though, we'd come across such an amazing vista--usually involving the ocean--that Ian would have to stop the car and we would all grudgingly get out to take pictures. ("I never knew rain could hurt!!" cried Kelsie after taking a raindrop in the eye.)
What little daylight there was to begin with lasted until about 5, which is typical sundown time for winter months in Ireland. We stayed the night at a very comfortable hostel in Killarney (in the Lion Room, though I would've liked the Porcupine Room or the Smurf Room) and the next morning we were up bright and early to head for the Dingle Peninsula.
Take all the adjectives I used to describe Saturday's weather and reverse them: That was Sunday. (Except for the wind; it was still pretty intensely windy.) It was a wonderful day for picture-taking...so of course, within an hour of our leaving Killarney, my camera died. But in a way, not being able to take pictures was liberating, because instead of snapping photos frantically every time we stopped, I was able to just soak in the sights and not worry about futile attempts to capture them.
The Dingle Peninsula, of course, is the place Katherine and Anna and I found randomly on the map in my guidebook, and which we joked that I would have to visit because the name was so funny. It also happens to be of the most gorgeous spots in Ireland. (Here are some poached pictures, just to provide a visual teaser.)
Amazingly green grass, stone walls, sheep, rolling hills, cliffs overlooking the ocean...
Um, yes, that ocean behind me...
Not to mention the mountains in the distance...
And more sheep.
This doesn't even scratch the surface, but you get the idea. In the afternoon we stopped in Dingle Town, which would've been the refuge of Marie Antoinette if she hadn't refused to leave France when her would-be rescuers turned up at the Temple Prison to spirit her away to safety. (This fate could've been prevented if she'd had a sassy gay friend..."What are you doing?! What, what, what are you doing? Look at your life, look at your choices.") Not only did the French queen end up with her body in two inconvenient pieces, but she also passed up the chance to see this charming little town, where we had the best ice cream in Ireland (locally made) and heard tales of Fungi, Dingle's friendly neighborhood dolphin, who has apparently frequented Dingle Bay for more than 20 years.
Unfortunately, we couldn't stay that long, as we had to finish our loop of the peninsula before dark. The most amazing view came toward the end, at Slea Head (almost the westernmost part of Ireland...the Blasket Islands off to the left are the true winners of that honor).
We got back to Cork that night to find that the outskirts of the city were still flooded from the rain the day before. (Remember, Cork is built on marshland...sort of like my house in Indiana. Gotta love continuity in life.) While sensible people were staying inside to avoid the elements, we were off on what the Irish would undoubtedly call a grand adventure. Marie Antoinette seriously didn't know what she was missing out on.
What little daylight there was to begin with lasted until about 5, which is typical sundown time for winter months in Ireland. We stayed the night at a very comfortable hostel in Killarney (in the Lion Room, though I would've liked the Porcupine Room or the Smurf Room) and the next morning we were up bright and early to head for the Dingle Peninsula.
Take all the adjectives I used to describe Saturday's weather and reverse them: That was Sunday. (Except for the wind; it was still pretty intensely windy.) It was a wonderful day for picture-taking...so of course, within an hour of our leaving Killarney, my camera died. But in a way, not being able to take pictures was liberating, because instead of snapping photos frantically every time we stopped, I was able to just soak in the sights and not worry about futile attempts to capture them.
The Dingle Peninsula, of course, is the place Katherine and Anna and I found randomly on the map in my guidebook, and which we joked that I would have to visit because the name was so funny. It also happens to be of the most gorgeous spots in Ireland. (Here are some poached pictures, just to provide a visual teaser.)
Amazingly green grass, stone walls, sheep, rolling hills, cliffs overlooking the ocean...
And all kinds of little streams and waterfalls flowing down the aforementioned rolling hills, which were also dotted with some of the most impressive rocks I've ever seen...
Not to mention the mountains in the distance...
And more sheep.
This doesn't even scratch the surface, but you get the idea. In the afternoon we stopped in Dingle Town, which would've been the refuge of Marie Antoinette if she hadn't refused to leave France when her would-be rescuers turned up at the Temple Prison to spirit her away to safety. (This fate could've been prevented if she'd had a sassy gay friend..."What are you doing?! What, what, what are you doing? Look at your life, look at your choices.") Not only did the French queen end up with her body in two inconvenient pieces, but she also passed up the chance to see this charming little town, where we had the best ice cream in Ireland (locally made) and heard tales of Fungi, Dingle's friendly neighborhood dolphin, who has apparently frequented Dingle Bay for more than 20 years.
Unfortunately, we couldn't stay that long, as we had to finish our loop of the peninsula before dark. The most amazing view came toward the end, at Slea Head (almost the westernmost part of Ireland...the Blasket Islands off to the left are the true winners of that honor).
We got back to Cork that night to find that the outskirts of the city were still flooded from the rain the day before. (Remember, Cork is built on marshland...sort of like my house in Indiana. Gotta love continuity in life.) While sensible people were staying inside to avoid the elements, we were off on what the Irish would undoubtedly call a grand adventure. Marie Antoinette seriously didn't know what she was missing out on.
Solving the mystery of the lightning symbol on Harry:
ReplyDeleteHarry was an Opel, a car of European origins (sorry not to be able to give an exact country). I spent 1999-2002 standing on street corners in Chelmsford, England, waiting for buses seeing how many car logos I could recognise. I saw my fair share of Opels - and also Vauxhall (a griffin logo)), peugeot (a french car, with a lion for a logo. Pronounced "per-joh" with a slurred r and j, not "pea-gwot") etc...