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.