The proprietess in Kenmare, an entrance and exit point to the Ring of Kerry, asked me directly, "Are you all on your own, then?" Well, "yes." Usually, the question went unspoken.
Abandoning hope that the sun would come out, I left Glendalough and drove the short thirty miles to Dublin and somehow managed to bring the car into Ranelagh in South Dublin where I'm staying again at Marie MacMahon's. It feels like a month has gone by since I was last in Dublin.
Major accomplishments in Ireland:
I didn't book the first flight home the day the hubcap fell off.
I didn't get killed on the road. Large block-letter roadside signs in every county say something like this: "142 people killed on County Cork roads in the last 4 years." Terribly reassuring.
In addition to my life, I'm returning with all my limbs. Only minor feet blisters, and those are from France.
I've lost no money or important documents; only a ring.
Today, I have the thought that mythic pilgrimages always come with obstacles, otherwise they're not mythic. Perhaps this visit to Ireland has been a mythic pilgrimage of a kind. My car, my lame horse. The rain, rivers to ford. The back country roads, the pathless wood.
Although, I'm not home yet. Ahead of me is the 7:00 drive tomorrow morning to Dublin Airport, where I must face the Avis tribunal. And then, having made it to the airport and having received my rental-car punishment, as long as I don't lose my passport and driver's license, I board Air Canada for points across the Atlantic.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
County Kerry to County Wicklow
Yesterday, wearing two wool sweaters, I drove the whole day in the rain from Kenmare in County Kerry to Cork to Waterford and then up to the tiny village of Glendalough in the Wicklow Mountains. The radio reported flash flooding in Dublin. I arrived in Glendalough early enough to knock on three doors before finding a B&B with an available room. My window opened to a backyard of trees and the sound of a roaring river. The proprietess, Ingrid, single mother of three young boys, said worry existed about the river rising even higher. This morning, as some of us stood outside under umbrellas, the tour guide said, "We're used to rain, you know, but soft rain, not these torrential rains; it's scary."
Curtains of blowing rain hid most of the wild hills and two deep lakes of Glendalough, nickname the "garden of Ireland." In addition to Dingle, this would be the other place I would want to return to in Ireland, when the sun is shining, to hike the 127 km Wicklow Way, which is the oldest marked hiking trail in Ireland. Staying at the B&B were two couples from Holland who were taking three days, in rain gear and all, to hike it. They seemed ecstatic. I know that feeling, when you're really out there touching the wild.
What I did get to see at Glendalough were remnants of a monastic settlement and pilgrimage site going back to the sixth century, including an impressive 100-foot tall, intact stone tower. In the ruins of the stone church was a 1789 carved gravestone for a Kehoe, my mother's maiden name. Glendalough is the only ancient monastic settlement whose entrance gate still stands. Directly inside is the sanctuary stone, a large boulder marked with an ancient cross, to signify that all who enter are now under the abbot's authority and not the king's. Sinners and criminals would come to seek refuge and forgiveness. Pilgrims who couldn't make it to room would do their best to make it to places like Glendalough, more than once, in the hopes of insuring their entry into heaven. Rain water contained in hollowed out stones was said to be curative, especially for the face. I was the only one in our group who cupped the water in my hands and splashed my face.
I had my usual Irish breakfast this morning: muelsli, brown bread, and hot tea.
Curtains of blowing rain hid most of the wild hills and two deep lakes of Glendalough, nickname the "garden of Ireland." In addition to Dingle, this would be the other place I would want to return to in Ireland, when the sun is shining, to hike the 127 km Wicklow Way, which is the oldest marked hiking trail in Ireland. Staying at the B&B were two couples from Holland who were taking three days, in rain gear and all, to hike it. They seemed ecstatic. I know that feeling, when you're really out there touching the wild.
What I did get to see at Glendalough were remnants of a monastic settlement and pilgrimage site going back to the sixth century, including an impressive 100-foot tall, intact stone tower. In the ruins of the stone church was a 1789 carved gravestone for a Kehoe, my mother's maiden name. Glendalough is the only ancient monastic settlement whose entrance gate still stands. Directly inside is the sanctuary stone, a large boulder marked with an ancient cross, to signify that all who enter are now under the abbot's authority and not the king's. Sinners and criminals would come to seek refuge and forgiveness. Pilgrims who couldn't make it to room would do their best to make it to places like Glendalough, more than once, in the hopes of insuring their entry into heaven. Rain water contained in hollowed out stones was said to be curative, especially for the face. I was the only one in our group who cupped the water in my hands and splashed my face.
I had my usual Irish breakfast this morning: muelsli, brown bread, and hot tea.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
From Dingle to Killarney to Kenmare
I changed my mind about driving the 120-mile Ring of Kerry today. Nothing could be more beautiful than Dingle. (The two nights in Dingle were a rest I needed.) So I planned an easier day of driving, ending up in the little town of Kenmare (population 2,672) as originally planned. The church steeple just rang 4 pm. I'm staying right in town in Hawthorn House, probably the best B&B since I've been on the road. Only a spot of rain today, so the drive out of Dingle was magnificent, with views of the Ring of Kerry all along the way. Instead of the Ring, I drove about 30 miles north to Killarney and then drove down through the Killarney National Park, which is forested and mossy with all forty shades of Irish green. Freshwater lakes. Waterfalls. [Note to Colleen: I got over my prejudice about the English having owned the Muckross Estate and visited the house. Mary O'Neil, my Dingle connection, explained how the entire estate of 11,000 acres had been donated to the Irish government, so that made me feel better about stepping across the threshold of Muckross House. First time I've been in a manor house with a literal upstairs/downstairs.]
After checking into the B&B, I walked the town and found signs to a prehistoric stone circle, as it turns out, the biggest of its kind in southwest Ireland. It's tucked up a tiny Kenmare Street. Three beautiful horses were grazing alongside.
After checking into the B&B, I walked the town and found signs to a prehistoric stone circle, as it turns out, the biggest of its kind in southwest Ireland. It's tucked up a tiny Kenmare Street. Three beautiful horses were grazing alongside.
PS Dingle
Stephen, the B&B proprietor's son, talked to me about "blow-in's," people who come to visit Dingle and end up staying. I told him I might be a "blow-back-in." The population is only 1,828; just about the right size for me.
Writing yesterday, I omitted having learned about an island off the far western tip of the peninsula, Great Blasket Island, which was a completely Gaelic-speaking island for 300 years until, having dwindled to twenty residents, they were forced to evacuate in 1953. What has made the residents' story so compelling is that a half-dozen or so Blasket Islanders became writers. Scholars visited the hardscrabble island to study the language and to meet these native writers. Ultimately, much of their work, largely autobiographical, some letters, were translated into English and are available now in print. Standing within sight of the island, a remarkable center has been built in homage to its former residents and to the Irish language.
Writing yesterday, I omitted having learned about an island off the far western tip of the peninsula, Great Blasket Island, which was a completely Gaelic-speaking island for 300 years until, having dwindled to twenty residents, they were forced to evacuate in 1953. What has made the residents' story so compelling is that a half-dozen or so Blasket Islanders became writers. Scholars visited the hardscrabble island to study the language and to meet these native writers. Ultimately, much of their work, largely autobiographical, some letters, were translated into English and are available now in print. Standing within sight of the island, a remarkable center has been built in homage to its former residents and to the Irish language.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Dingle (An Daingean)
I woke up this morning to the dramatic sounds of wind and rain. I just stayed in my B&B bed for a while listening. At breakfast downstairs, I discovered that I am the sole occupant of Mary O'Neill's B&B at the moment; I also have Room 1, which was my room number in the Doolin B&B as well. (Is this a pattern I see?) So Mary's son Stephen did the honors of serving breakfast to the only guest. (The first two weeks of September are slow for Dingle; so I've come at a very good time.) By late morning the rain hadn't let up, so I decided to explore the peninsula anyway and take my chances. [Interruption: the sun just broke through, it's early evening.] So I walked to my awaiting little car and discover that the right front tire is nearly flat; also the power steering light is back on. No panic, no problem. I knew the wherabouts of Dingle's petrol station, took myself directly there, and put air in the tire. While doing so, I noticed that in addition to the tire's hubcap being gone, the rim is dented. Oh, no. Avis will ruin my life for sure. "I can't go on, I go on." I went on. I knew there was a good chance the "PS" light would turn off, which it did. So at least one of the wrong things was partially right. Am I visiting Ireland or am I having a relationship with a car?
(Regarding the matter of driving in Ireland, I've quickly discovered that it's an issue for locals as well. Eamonn, my hero at the petrol station in Doolin, told me he'd lost three cars on Ireland's roads! I braved the peninsula's back roads last night to go to a nearby tiny village for an AA meeting, which consisted of four men and myself. The men assured me that having the entire left side of your car scratched and mutiliated from hedges and such is quite routine.)
As I was saying, despite the rain, despite the car, I went on and drove a thirty-mile loop around the very end of Dingle Peninsula, which is the most westerly point in Europe. This is a place of the most extraordinary beauty, rolling hills and valleys, a mountainous spine running down the center, offshore islands, a view across Dingle Bay to the Ring of Kerry, a four-mile long beach, ocean and bay surrounding the peninsula on three sides; a powerful coming together of wild and tame, sparkling and misty, soft and ragged, the ancient lands and the forever newborn green. I'm told there are 500,000 sheep here; 2,000 prehistoric stone monuments, ruins, and remnants of monastic settlements; and 10,000 people. (Before the famine, the human population was 40,000.) I could live here. Two bookstores in Dingle. The locals' faces look calm. Out on the western end of the peninsula today, I saw a woman walking with her child and dog and she was wearing the warmest of smiles.
(Regarding the matter of driving in Ireland, I've quickly discovered that it's an issue for locals as well. Eamonn, my hero at the petrol station in Doolin, told me he'd lost three cars on Ireland's roads! I braved the peninsula's back roads last night to go to a nearby tiny village for an AA meeting, which consisted of four men and myself. The men assured me that having the entire left side of your car scratched and mutiliated from hedges and such is quite routine.)
As I was saying, despite the rain, despite the car, I went on and drove a thirty-mile loop around the very end of Dingle Peninsula, which is the most westerly point in Europe. This is a place of the most extraordinary beauty, rolling hills and valleys, a mountainous spine running down the center, offshore islands, a view across Dingle Bay to the Ring of Kerry, a four-mile long beach, ocean and bay surrounding the peninsula on three sides; a powerful coming together of wild and tame, sparkling and misty, soft and ragged, the ancient lands and the forever newborn green. I'm told there are 500,000 sheep here; 2,000 prehistoric stone monuments, ruins, and remnants of monastic settlements; and 10,000 people. (Before the famine, the human population was 40,000.) I could live here. Two bookstores in Dingle. The locals' faces look calm. Out on the western end of the peninsula today, I saw a woman walking with her child and dog and she was wearing the warmest of smiles.
From Doolin to Dingle
Ireland, both coasts as it turns out, has had a summer of almost constant rain. Fortunately, driving from Doolin to Dingle, there were cloudbursts mixed equally with sunbursts, although the downpours were severe enough that even the windshield wipers of my little car cowered. Speaking of the car again, when I turned on the ignition ready to leave Doonmacfelim House that morning, the "PS" light for power steering malfunction was on. Oh, no. First a hubcap. Now, the power steering. I made my way a mile up Doolin Hill to the "petrol station," where Eamoon not only filled the gas tank but checked all the car's fluids. Plenty of power steering fluid. He started the car and, voila, the red light had gone off. Eamonn wasn't an employee of the petrol station; just a kind Doolin stranger hanging out at the one and only petrol station in town. The kindness of strangers is Ireland is the singlemost important reason I've been able to navigate in any way whatsover in this country.
Just a few miles south of Doolin are the famous Cliffs of Moher. Again, no tour buses, just a few of us diehards willing to brave the rain and headwinds with water-repellant jackets and umbrellas. I decided to obey the stark danger signs and venture no further than what was recommended. My physical luck hasn't been feeling at its strongest on this three-week trip. So I just took in these iconic cliffs with my own eyes and in my own time. Again, just two miles south of the Cliffs of Moher was my next important stop: Saint Brigid's holy well. Another place I've longed to see for many years. Brigid, at one time, was actually co-equal with Patrick in her importance in Ireland's early Christianity. They were the twin pillars holding up the Catholic Church here. (Before the actual Brigid, there was the Irish Brigid of myth as well.) As it turned out, her holy well was just alongside the coast road, well-marked, and with space to pull-over and park. The well, with running water, is embedded in a kind of limestone alcove, full of pilgrim's mementoes, statues, rosary beads, memorial cards, notes, handkerchiefs. I added small flower buds for each member of my family and other loved ones. I touched my forehead to the ground.
From Saint Brigid's well, to get to Dingle on the Dingle Peninisula in the far southwest of the country, I drove through towns like Liscannor, Mullagh, Kilrush, Killimer, Listowel, and Tralee. At Killimer I took the ttwenty-minute Shannon car ferry across a small bay which saved 86 miles of driving. A good thing, even though at this point, the driving was going a whole lot better than the day before. The car still felt like it was made of bone china, but I was getting used to it. I only got lost once and only had to knock on three doors. The route from Doolin to Dingle was still narrow two-laned, but mostly two lanes that could reasonably fit two small cars passing each other.
I arrived in Dingle yesterday at 2:30 pm, so early I was kind of in shock to be here so early before sunset. Here I'm staying at O'Neill's at the "quiet end" of Main Street, a two-story B&B run by Mary O'Neill and her son Stephen, with a holy water fountain at the inside front door. My room overlooks the street and has a window box which made me fall in love with it immediately. In fact, I think I'm in love with Dingle and the Dingle Peninsula. This may be the most beautiful place I have ever seen. More to follow.
Just a few miles south of Doolin are the famous Cliffs of Moher. Again, no tour buses, just a few of us diehards willing to brave the rain and headwinds with water-repellant jackets and umbrellas. I decided to obey the stark danger signs and venture no further than what was recommended. My physical luck hasn't been feeling at its strongest on this three-week trip. So I just took in these iconic cliffs with my own eyes and in my own time. Again, just two miles south of the Cliffs of Moher was my next important stop: Saint Brigid's holy well. Another place I've longed to see for many years. Brigid, at one time, was actually co-equal with Patrick in her importance in Ireland's early Christianity. They were the twin pillars holding up the Catholic Church here. (Before the actual Brigid, there was the Irish Brigid of myth as well.) As it turned out, her holy well was just alongside the coast road, well-marked, and with space to pull-over and park. The well, with running water, is embedded in a kind of limestone alcove, full of pilgrim's mementoes, statues, rosary beads, memorial cards, notes, handkerchiefs. I added small flower buds for each member of my family and other loved ones. I touched my forehead to the ground.
From Saint Brigid's well, to get to Dingle on the Dingle Peninisula in the far southwest of the country, I drove through towns like Liscannor, Mullagh, Kilrush, Killimer, Listowel, and Tralee. At Killimer I took the ttwenty-minute Shannon car ferry across a small bay which saved 86 miles of driving. A good thing, even though at this point, the driving was going a whole lot better than the day before. The car still felt like it was made of bone china, but I was getting used to it. I only got lost once and only had to knock on three doors. The route from Doolin to Dingle was still narrow two-laned, but mostly two lanes that could reasonably fit two small cars passing each other.
I arrived in Dingle yesterday at 2:30 pm, so early I was kind of in shock to be here so early before sunset. Here I'm staying at O'Neill's at the "quiet end" of Main Street, a two-story B&B run by Mary O'Neill and her son Stephen, with a holy water fountain at the inside front door. My room overlooks the street and has a window box which made me fall in love with it immediately. In fact, I think I'm in love with Dingle and the Dingle Peninsula. This may be the most beautiful place I have ever seen. More to follow.
PS Doolin
Buses. I forgot to mention the buses - the huge, top-heavy tourist buses. Like the trucks, these behemoths also bully and barrel their way down the secondary country roads here. I've also seen the occasional cyclist or exercise walker at imminent risk of becoming road kill. I felt, myself, as if I were facing execution, either by
truck, bus, or other car; or, if not that, by Avis upon the return of their battered vehicle. But that's all behind me now. Right?
In the aftermath of my harrowing day on the road, I didn't do justice to Newgrange. I've been drawn to Newgrange since first reading about it twenty-five years ago. Thirty miles north of Dublin, in County Meath, Newgrange is a large grassy mound constructed on a high hill overlooking the meandering and peaceful Boyne River, a 5,000 year-old sacred mound of carefully constructed stone whose neolithic spiritual function is speculated to have been as a passage tomb. Newgrange is older than its cousin in England, Stonehenge, and even older than the Pyramids in Egypt. The stone chamber inside the soft grassy mound is so perfectly designed that not a drop of water has entered the chamber in all these fifty centuries - and these are stones fitted together without mortar. I made a point to arrive as early as I could get there with the intention of missing the tour buses. I did even better than I thought. I was the only one there for the first shuttle to the site. In fact, the young Irish man operating the shuttles softly pleaded with me to wait an hour for the next bus when there would be more people. I almost folded and then remembered my ambitious plan for the rest of the day. I respectfully said it was okay with me that I be the single person on the tour. Several minutes later, a Dutch couple arrived, so then there were only three of us. As close to a private tour of Newgrange as one can get. Our guide took us into the chamber. As directed by her, I placed my cheek on the chamber floor and looked toward the opening through which the sun enters the chamber for seventeen minutes on winter solstice. The narrow stone corridor into the chamber is shaped in an "S." One can't imagine how the sun could enter the chamber, at any time of year. But here was a perfect opening, only able to be seen by the human eye from a particular spot on the chamber bottom.
It was after Newgrange that I got lost, but I've already covered all of that. On my twisted way to Doolin, I drove through the towns of Trim, Athlone, Ballinasloe, Lisdoonvarna, and then Kinvara, Burren, and Ballyvaughan on the southern side of Galway Bay.
Doolin surprised me: Remote, windswept, on the edge of the Atlantic, with a wild feel about it but with green rolling hills on which grazed horses and cattle. In County Clare, population 200. Pubs known for their traditional Irish music. I stayed at Frank Maloney's Doonmacfelim House and had a great breakfast. (Breakfast has become my main meal since I've been in Ireland.) I didn't meet Frank until the morning. "Are you Frank Maloney?" I said. "Is it good news or bad news?" he fired back with a grin.
truck, bus, or other car; or, if not that, by Avis upon the return of their battered vehicle. But that's all behind me now. Right?
In the aftermath of my harrowing day on the road, I didn't do justice to Newgrange. I've been drawn to Newgrange since first reading about it twenty-five years ago. Thirty miles north of Dublin, in County Meath, Newgrange is a large grassy mound constructed on a high hill overlooking the meandering and peaceful Boyne River, a 5,000 year-old sacred mound of carefully constructed stone whose neolithic spiritual function is speculated to have been as a passage tomb. Newgrange is older than its cousin in England, Stonehenge, and even older than the Pyramids in Egypt. The stone chamber inside the soft grassy mound is so perfectly designed that not a drop of water has entered the chamber in all these fifty centuries - and these are stones fitted together without mortar. I made a point to arrive as early as I could get there with the intention of missing the tour buses. I did even better than I thought. I was the only one there for the first shuttle to the site. In fact, the young Irish man operating the shuttles softly pleaded with me to wait an hour for the next bus when there would be more people. I almost folded and then remembered my ambitious plan for the rest of the day. I respectfully said it was okay with me that I be the single person on the tour. Several minutes later, a Dutch couple arrived, so then there were only three of us. As close to a private tour of Newgrange as one can get. Our guide took us into the chamber. As directed by her, I placed my cheek on the chamber floor and looked toward the opening through which the sun enters the chamber for seventeen minutes on winter solstice. The narrow stone corridor into the chamber is shaped in an "S." One can't imagine how the sun could enter the chamber, at any time of year. But here was a perfect opening, only able to be seen by the human eye from a particular spot on the chamber bottom.
It was after Newgrange that I got lost, but I've already covered all of that. On my twisted way to Doolin, I drove through the towns of Trim, Athlone, Ballinasloe, Lisdoonvarna, and then Kinvara, Burren, and Ballyvaughan on the southern side of Galway Bay.
Doolin surprised me: Remote, windswept, on the edge of the Atlantic, with a wild feel about it but with green rolling hills on which grazed horses and cattle. In County Clare, population 200. Pubs known for their traditional Irish music. I stayed at Frank Maloney's Doonmacfelim House and had a great breakfast. (Breakfast has become my main meal since I've been in Ireland.) I didn't meet Frank until the morning. "Are you Frank Maloney?" I said. "Is it good news or bad news?" he fired back with a grin.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Doolin
The sun's about to go down. I just arrived in the pastoral village of Doolin, which is on the West Coast and just north of the Cliffs of Moher, where I go tomorrow. Bits of a stone castle stand in the backyard of my B&B. Cows are munching on the edge of the narrow road that's Doolin's main street.
How do you cry on a blog? My day went like this: Up at 6:00 am, catch a bus to the airport, rent a miniature car, find miniature car in the car park, dare to get into the driver's seat which is on the right side, drive on the left side of the M3 freeway to Newgrange, maybe a half hour north of Dublin. (Newgrange might just make the whole Ireland trip worth it. I'm ready to come home.) After Newgrange, get lost looking for the Hill of Tara. Find Tara after stopping to ask for directions; stopping is excruciatingly difficult when country roads have sometimes not even inches of shoulder. As I start up the Hill of Tara, it starts to rain, not the soft kind. After the Hill of Tara, I head east for my next destination, Doolin, and enter into a spiral of lostness. If you add up the hours, I am lost for a large part of the entire day. Once, I even knock on the door of a house alongside the road. Huge trucks, lots of huge trucks, with extra-wide tires terrorize me and miss the miniature car by a hair, over and over, not on the highway, but on the roads with no shoulders. [Interruption: Just now it started to rain, so loud it announced itself, so fierce it's falling in sheets. Maybe it will stop before I have to walk back across the road to my B&B. Maybe not.] The car, minus a hubcap, and I hobble into Doolin. Now I'm going to eat one of the chocolate bars I bought in Geneva.
Special note to Colleen: getting lost meant I got to see the barren Burren.
How do you cry on a blog? My day went like this: Up at 6:00 am, catch a bus to the airport, rent a miniature car, find miniature car in the car park, dare to get into the driver's seat which is on the right side, drive on the left side of the M3 freeway to Newgrange, maybe a half hour north of Dublin. (Newgrange might just make the whole Ireland trip worth it. I'm ready to come home.) After Newgrange, get lost looking for the Hill of Tara. Find Tara after stopping to ask for directions; stopping is excruciatingly difficult when country roads have sometimes not even inches of shoulder. As I start up the Hill of Tara, it starts to rain, not the soft kind. After the Hill of Tara, I head east for my next destination, Doolin, and enter into a spiral of lostness. If you add up the hours, I am lost for a large part of the entire day. Once, I even knock on the door of a house alongside the road. Huge trucks, lots of huge trucks, with extra-wide tires terrorize me and miss the miniature car by a hair, over and over, not on the highway, but on the roads with no shoulders. [Interruption: Just now it started to rain, so loud it announced itself, so fierce it's falling in sheets. Maybe it will stop before I have to walk back across the road to my B&B. Maybe not.] The car, minus a hubcap, and I hobble into Doolin. Now I'm going to eat one of the chocolate bars I bought in Geneva.
Special note to Colleen: getting lost meant I got to see the barren Burren.
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