Dublin was pretty cool, but I had yet to see more than a handful of Ireland's 40 shades of green. And I wanted me some green. So we took off into the countryside and headed for the west coast. Doolin, to be specific, located in the Burren. The Cliffs of Moher, to be even more specific. And dip me in Butler's Irish Chocolate if that wasn't the craziest drive I've ever been on. At least once we got off of the main highway. I'm thinking the first order of business when the planning commission got together to plan those roads was to buy a keg of Guinness.
Well, I can't do it justice. We'll just let the driving in Ireland speak for itself. But first we have to rent a car.
Bruce and I spent three days walking two miles from our Dublin hotel to the Hertz rental car offices–dragging and schlepping our luggage behind us. Because Bruce said it wasn't very far. And he kept saying it wasn't very far. The whole way. Never listen to Bruce when he says something isn't very far. Two miles is very far when you're dragging and schlepping luggage behind you. Luggage that increases in weight exponentially with each passing block. But I'm not bitter.
Once we got to Hertz and they revived me, this is what we rented:
Number 9: The Clio. Never heard of a Clio. But THIS is a Clio. Tiny. Shifty. Cool.
Then we got directions to the M50 and confidently headed out of Dublin. It went like this:
'Twas quite something trying to figure out how to drive on the left, seated on the right, shifting with the left, on Dublin's crazy streets. Those things are randomly one-way and change names as often as you change your socks. We needed a map:
Yep. I'm awesome. Garmin should totally hire me.
The highway wasn't bad. It was nice and straight, and we were blowing past gorgeous countryside. And cows. And stuff.
And then we turned off of the civilized road, and moved out to the country; where roads wind on hairpins, sidewalks are a dotted line, and the speed limit is a bazillion kilometers an hour.
We passed fields fenced by stones gathered when the fields were originally cleared. During the Ice Age.
And then this guy took a picture of this girl taking a picture of the field. And it rocked. Get it? Bah hahahaha!
(Yeah. I so need to get off the winding road and into my REAL IRELAND! I am sure the lame jokes and bad Irish accent will stop if I do.)
Ahhhh. Here we are. Doolin. And the Atlantic View Bed and Breakfast – A place of fabulousness run by the ever running Eileen (pronounced EYE-leen, emphasis on the EYE) O'Brien, and staff. Which is her husband, Kevin. Here's Eileen. Never saw a harder working woman in all of Ireland, and that's no exaggeration. When I asked her if she ever got a chance to sit down and read a book she said, "Only in winter. If I read a book, nothing would get done." She was amazing:
We will politely ignore the fact that I look like a giant stuffed sausage from the Amazon next to this Celtic Woman.
Cozy? Absolutely. And nicely appointed, too: homey, tasteful decor, lovely knotty pine accents, and delicious food. The brown bread and Irish bacon were just . . . . mmmm.
What was the view of the Atlantic from the Atlantic View like? Here. I'll show you:
And then we did just exactly what I said we would in that clip: We went to Gus O'Connor's pub and got a bite to eat. And listened to some fabu local music. And got hit on by the mandolyn player. Well, I did. I only mention it because it's critically important that you understand that I got hit on by the mandolyn player. You don't need to know that he was much older than I am and his eyesight was in question. Only that he hit on me. Are we clear on that? Because I want to be clear.
Pub food. From Gus. Really, some of the best we ate.
Do you see that look in my eyes? It says, "Back off, boy-who-told-me-it-was-only-a-little-further-to-the-Hertz-rental. Reach one finger over here and I'm gnawing it off."
It was delicious.
And here's what we were listening to while we ate. Pay attention to the mandolyn player. He is clearly a man of genius that has nothing to do with Guinness:
My apologies to Mr. O'Connor. I kept referring to his establishment as O'Connell's. It's all those "O's" They confuse me. But it was a treat to listen to these guys jam. They were just making it up as they went along and having a grand time. Later on they were joined by a larger accordion, uilleann pipes, and a bigger mandolyn. Also the musicians that played them. The second mandolyn player did not hit on me. I think she was married.
And on all those lovely notes, I bid you good night–for that is what it is here. And I shall go to bed and dream of driving to Doolin, the Atlantic ocean crashing against rocks, Eileen's brown bread and the little towel warmer in our room, the view of the Cliffs of Moher and Inisheer, cows in stone fences, soul-warming pub food, and Kevin O'Brien upon hearing that neither of us drink saying, in complete shock: "You don't drink? Neither of you drink? Do ye cotton me? *beep* Mary and Joseph! What a thing!"
And it was, you know?
So. Good night. If we were in Doolin right now, this is where we would be hunkering down:
(Shhhh. Be vewy vewy quiet. We are sleeping.)
(Monday: "Music and Midges on Moher")
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