Dingle All The Way!

Doolin was amazing. The Burren – the geological area in which the town and Cliffs are situated – was gorgeous and green and lush, yet stark. I didn't see how the scenery could get more dramatic or the land more challenging, or the people more delightful. 

Then we went to Dingle. A town situated on Dingle Bay, with roads hemmed in by colorful row houses (2 up, 2 down), and a scenic loop jammed with hills which housed stone-walled fields, 200,000 sheep, an ancient fort, a church, and beehive house ruins, views of potato fields abandoned when the crop rotted in the ground in 1845, the Blasket Islands, and one of the tidiest little outhouses I've ever seen. Ah, Dingle.

But first – Farewell to my little Doolin:

Goodbye cliffside cows and the Burren walls of stone.

Ciao, little chowing Irish milkers.

Farewell Moher and the cute couple from Germany. We trailed each other around the Cliffs. They were delightful. He had a wonderful laugh that he threw out with abandon and was totally free. His English was excellent and his German beautiful. Even I could understand it. She was shy and wouldn't speak English, but she waved and smiled. Auf Wiedersehen!

Adieu to the Atlantic View Bed and Breakfast. There it is beyond the rocks, waiting for us. See it?

And then we left. Wound around through villages and past more cows. Past the man who answered when I asked if he liked living in Doolin: "Oh yes. Once I've taken me medicine."

Until we wound up here: In Kilimer, waiting for the ferry to cross the River Shannon. Perfect day. . . 

 . . . with a perfect lunch.

Oh yes. Please. Take another picture of me. Because THERE HAVEN'T BEEN ENOUGH.

(Yeesh. I think this guy has a crush on me.)

And, after an hour spent chewing on mandarins, listening to the crows compete with the Shannon-Ferry-lawn-mower-dude, and watching this guy snapping pictures, the Shannon Breeze arrived from across the river. 

We loaded in, handed over our 28 Euro ticket (!), and then trotted up to the poop deck to watch the land slide by. (I have no idea what a poop deck is. Do you?)

We made land, and then we were really off, winding through villages and towns, taking a wrong turn in Tralee, driving next to the Slieve Mish Mountains, and the town of Annascaul on Dingle Bay, and finally arriving in An Daingean–or Dingle, in English.

But not before we stopped here in Listowel to visit a Chemist (Pharmacy), from which we purchased an antihistamine. I'd like my eyes to remain their normal shape and size, thank you very much.

Look what else I found there:

This guy. Who clearly is from Listowel, given that his name is on the building behind him.

OMIGOSH! There he is AGAIN! In front of the church across from the Chemist. I think he's stalking me. I mean, I haven't seen him in any other pictures, have you?

Well. Maybe I'll get used to him. 

In any case, I could get used to Listowel. Because they have one of these:

Yep. A woman in red capris. Also, a really awesome shoe boutique called "Footprints." I could totally stay here. Clearly some women do. Look at that poor guy on the left who petrified waiting for his wife to come out.

Alas, we did not stay in Listowel. Instead we moved on and I got us lost outside of Tralee. See?

You should never listen to me.

But we made it anyway. And I kissed the ground in our lovely Greenmount House B&B just inside the town of Dingle.

You GUYS! This was a beeyoootiful Bed and Breakfast. Roomy. With an actual bathtub, AND a shower, AND a towel warmer in the bathroom. And check this out:

I KNOW! A balcony! And look at that view of the bay. And the gorgeous greenness. And that cool little tower on the very top of that hill way off in the distance (It's there, I promise. Squint.) We never hiked up to it. But we looked at it. A lot. From our balcony.

And then we thought, hey! Enough looking from the balcony! Let's get down there and look from the sidewalk!

Voilá. The streets of Dingle. The tiny, teeny, Lilliputian streets of An Daingean. So cool. And the whole town was down hill from us, and then uphill from us, and then down sideways from us–so we got plenty of exercise.

Also, most of the sign-age was in the original Irish (I got in trouble in Waterford for calling it "Gaelic." It's Irish, Dear Readers. Don't make my mistake. They'll take you out and make you sing in a pub whilst dining on Irish bacon and really awesome apple-rhubarb cobbler. DON'T DO IT!)

Check out the O'Sullivan establishment's Irish sign:

Now say that three times, fast. 

Seriously. I never could find a pattern to this language. Except that "s" followed by a vowel seems to produce the sound "sh." As in "Sean" or "Siobhan."  (Which are pronounced "Shawn" and "Shavawn," respectively. Yeah. The "bh" is pronounced "v". I know.) I would imagine that in old Irish, my name would be spelled: Jbvanuchael. And it would be pronounced: Jbvanuchael.

Anyway.

We walked around, ate, slept, then woke up and drove all over the Dingle Loop. So. Cool. And Breezy. And gorgeous. Wanna see? Then I'll be done for a day or two, I promise. But not all the way. There's still an amazing Dingle artist, and Kilkenny to show you. THEN I'll be done.

Here you go. The Dingle Loop:

Yes. This was a two-lane road. Notice that we pulled off into the bushes to let this lorry by (see? the local language is rubbing off on me. A "truck" is a "lorry." At least it is in England. I'm assuming it is here. Or maybe in Ireland a "truck" is a "bvrickyeagkkinish.")

Wait! What is this? It looks like a ruin! See it there where the stone fence and tiny path curve down toward the Atlantic waters of Dingle bay? See?

Yep. It is. Told you.

I wonder what the people were like waaay back then.

Short.

Apparently.

But don't take my word for it. Take my video camera's word for it. You'd better hang on, though. I got this great idea that I'd walk around the fort and give you a Janiel's-eye view of the place. Fair warning: You might get sea-sick. Keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times. If you feel the need to be sick, press Control-S and a little gag-bag will pop out for you. 

You're welcome.

That is a crazy-pants cool place. I found out that those little holes on the sides of the main entrance–those tiny cubby holes–were guard quarters. QUARTERS! Were these people pygmies? Sheep? How could they be that small?

I pondered this while gazing out at the ocean from the fort. Looking for marauding vikings. And their dragons. And stuff.

How would marauding vikings, or other conquering peoples, travel? Inquiring minds want to know.

Well, in this. A currach. A little boat made out of a very long, dead, banana peel. Now you know.

These people were crazy.

Which also explains why they lived in these. Beehive huts. 

Oy.

I'm not doing a very good job explaining this. Or showing you how drop-dead gorgeous this place is. It needs music. And expert photography. Given that mine is too fast and too blurry, I shall steal borrow a clip from Youtube. Sit down. Make yourself a cuppa. Lean back. Listen and absorb. Welcome to the west coast of Ireland:

Do you see why I want to go back? I've had a break. It's time to go back.

But first . . . I need to find a little prehistoric port-a-potty. Did these people have port-a-potties?

Hark! I see one!

Over there!

It was a little green completely rusted-out box. The bolt on the door was frozen in place with iron oxide deposits. I had to slam my hand against it repeatedly to get it to budge. I tore my knuckle. I got a tetanus shot as soon as I returned to the States. I feared for my safety as I entered that place.

Yet I needn't have. Look at what the fastidious farmer who owned these fields provided for his tourists. For only 2 Euro:

Lovely linoleum. A bit of plushy carpet. Wooden details. A coat rack. Extra supplies. And off camera, a very clean and very small sink, with a mirror above it, and a small soap dispenser.

Most charming bathroom in Ireland.

And on the way out I found this:

Did I mention I love this place?

But I've kept you long enough. It's time to finish the day by finishing the loop. Next time we'll see a bit more of Dingle, meet a lovely artist named Carol Cronin, and then head out to Kilkenny–our last stay on the Emerald Isle.

So, the rest of our drive: Abandoned Potato Fields from the Famine of 1845, The Sleeping Giant, And then, The End for today.

Can you stay with me? I promise, I'll bring you to Ireland with me someday so you can see it live and in person. After I finish my book, then sell it, then become rich and famous. 

Deal?