Back to Dingle

It’s been a dreary, oppressive winter. That’s my Florida girl assessment. Dixie would say it’s been “grand and fresh” but what does he know! We had planned to go on the road more often but alas, the cozy warmth of our fireplace and the addictive nature of Netflix  have been as tyrannizing as the Normans.

However, our diaries (calendars) were marked again with the Scoil Cheiol an Earraigh, literally the School of Music in Spring. I don’t usually think of February as spring but what do I know! So we loosed our chains and hit the road.

My favorite thing about this festival is that so many of the lads from the Monks Pub go. It’s held on a long weekend in Ballyferriter on the Dingle peninsula in a Gaeltacht (Irish speaking) region of County Kerry. It’s a good long drive but we all get giddy with anticipation. Whether you call it winter or spring, it’s a welcome respite from the tiresome routines that take root during the “grand and fresh” season.

Great friends who came along

The lads stayed in B&Bs but we took the AvantBard back for his second rendezvous in the area. As you may recall (if you have been traveling with us on this blog and have an extraordinarily good memory for your age), we go back and forth from Dingle to Ballyferriter throughout the weekend, crawling from pub to pub sussing out music sessions to join in. 

Dingle Harbor

Our first night was our favorite. The pub was At Tigh an tSaoirsigh translated The House of tSaoirsigh (Try saying that. Nope, you got it wrong!) We found a nice nook we could comfortably fit in and room for other random musicians to join us. Fabulous evening followed by three other days and nights of more of it. Enjoy the music and impromptu set dancing.

When we weren’t making merry in the pubs, we were jaunting along in the Bard taking in the sites. As you may recall, last year we had driven along treacherous Slea Head Drive in the wind and lashing rain and I almost had a heart attack. This time we drove it from the opposite direction on a gorgeous day in the setting sun. 

I also wanted to revisit Cill Mhaoilcéadair (Try that one! Okay, it’s Kilmalkedar …say kill mahl kay der!) which had absolutely mesmerized me eight years ago. It’s a sixth century medieval site overlooking Smerwick Harbor near Ballyferriter. The small 12th century church ruin is stunning in its Hiberno-Romanesque architecture (thank you, Google), and the graveyard retains an impressive ogham stone and a medieval sundial among many weathered and very cool grave stones. 

Kilmalkedar, Dingle Peninsula

Ogham is an early Medieval linear alphabet. You can read this, right?

Not sure how this sundial is supposed to work

Kilmalkedar graveyard

We also explored a beautiful, secluded beach just a short walk from the center of Ballyferriter (who knew?) and checked out other beaches we passed as well, although the weather was always iffy and we did get wet at times. Can’t go to Kerry without walking on beaches though.

The weekend went by way too fast but we made a soft landing back into our routines. We had dinner guests who were on vacation from back home. Karen is the little sister of a good friend of mine from my school days. The last time I saw her she was about five years old. My, how she has changed! 

We took her and her husband, Dennis, to the Monks for music and had such a good time. There was another American couple there as well.

I always get a twinge of homesickness when I’m around my fellow Americans. Physicists theorize that there are multiple universes, the one we live in and others that surround us undetected. There could even be other You’s out there. You but not You. Remember that Star Trek episode when that guy Lazarus was eternally locked in combat with his other self… or the one when the crew of the Enterprise all became their parallel selves? I think Spock had a beard in the other universe! But I digress. 

I sometimes feel I live in two worlds simultaneously. Maybe there are some people who think I should be “home” where I belong. But what do they know! What does “home” even mean? I think ‘home” is where you love and feel loved, and most of us have several homes that travel around with us through life… like turtles!

When I think about the comparison between my former life in Florida and my life here in Ireland, there’s really not that much difference. Mostly a matter of life style. Mostly driving there but mostly walking here…Tank tops there but raincoats here… Biscuits and grits there but scones and black pudding here… Poolside there but fireside here… Coffee with friends there but coffee with friends here (Wait… that’s the same)… My family there but Dixie’s family here (Thank God for FaceTime and airplanes)… Watching Netflix alone with my cat there but playing music, singing and exploring the country with Dixie here. I think I made the right choice for me.

Last Friday night Dixie and I sang a few songs for a fundraiser for Doctors Without Borders. Then on Sunday the lads from the Monks chartered a tiny bus that took us to Garrykennedy on Lake Derg, about an hour away. We had a delicious dinner at historic Larkin’s Pub then joined in “an auld session” in the evening. When we got back late to Thurles, I was knackered and walked home. The lads went into the Monks to debrief… over more Guinness!  I thought that was nuts… but what do I know!

 

Patrick O'Keeffe Festival

 I don’t think I’ve ever really mastered anything in my life. But I’ve dabbled in a lot. When I was a little girl, on my roller skates on our bumpy, sloping driveway (so unfortunate), I envisioned myself being a graceful Olympic figure skater going for the gold. Then in my busy early thirties when I needed a few hours a week to “take
care of me”, I slipped away to the local ice rink and took lessons once a week. Let’s just say I was not a natural, and there were no fancy medals with their sights on me.

I do, however, remember the exact moment when I reached a milestone. I was caught up in the music from the Walkman hanging from my belt when I realized I was actually dancing. I was no longer teetering to stay upright or dodging the traffic around me. I was somewhere else where time and space either didn’t exist or merged. Einstein would have been impressed! This was all I ever wanted from my efforts…  to dance in complete abandon… on ice. This continued to be my great meditative escape for several years.

At some point I had an epiphany. I realized that what was really feeding my spirit was no longer the skating but the music I was skating to. So I hung up my skates and took guitar lessons and later picked up a fiddle. I’ve never grown tired of either, but neither have I become a virtuoso. I’ve been content to use the guitar to accompany my singing, but I’ve always been driven to become a great fiddler. 

I began playing “old-time’ which is akin to bluegrass, but what I really longed to play was Irish traditional (trad) music. I don’t know why. Maybe there was something in my Irish DNA that beckoned. After retiring early, I went through a self-teaching Irish fiddle book with a couple of motivated musician friends but we didn’t get far. It’s not something you learn overnight. Formal lessons didn't help much either.

After mulling over it for a couple more years, I planned a trip to Thurles, Ireland for a week of lessons at a Fiddler’s Retreat I’d found online. You know the rest of the story. I now live in Thurles and the fiddle teacher is a dear friend. I am absorbed in the music, history and culture of this land of my ancestors.

However… progress on the fiddle has been slow. Most tunes can be learned in my head in just a few minutes and played slowly. But playing up to speed requires technique and tenacity. 

I believe I have just reached a milestone. Like dancing on ice, I just realized that on many tunes, I’m actually doing it. It’s a great affirming feeling that I only achieved through perseverance and support from a number of very patient fellow musicians. I’ll never be a soloist, but I know my practice is paying off and that brings me so much pleasure.

Last weekend, we took our RV, the AvantBard, to the Patrick O'Keeffe (a famous fiddler) Trad Festival. We “wild” camped four nights in a parking lot in the middle of  Castleisland (which is a town, not an island, but was named so because in 1226 a castle built there was surrounded by a formidable moat) in Kerry. There were sessions in every pub, day and night, with some of the best musicians in the country leading. Dixie was in his element on the guitar but I mainly sat and listened. 

Sample session schedule

The first evening was chilly and, after returning from the pub, we turned on the gas for heat and there it was… gone. What a time to discover the second gas canister we bought straight from the dealership was empty! The nearest source of a refill was 20 minutes away. It would have to wait til morning. I layered up but still shivered in the night. Maybe I’m just a glamper at heart.

All that was sorted the next day and by early afternoon we were back in the pubs, flitting from one to another like butterflies high on nectar. I enjoyed the Guinness and watched Dixie join in the sessions. I hardly played at all because the standard was so high and most of the tunes were unfamiliar. I slipped away on Saturday afternoon to a singing session where at least 50 seniors had gathered to share the old ballads. One after another they sang with no accompaniment, songs I’m sure many had learned from parents or grandparents. There was a sense of serenity in the room that sharply contrasted with the high energy of the trad. 

The next day as I was sitting at a bar, an obnoxious drunk (there’s always one, right?) tried luring me into conversation. I didn’t want to give up my seat because seating is precious at these sessions. So I leaned over to the gentleman on my other side and said, “If you don’t mind, I’m going to start talking to you so hopefully this guy over here will get the message and leave me alone.” 

He laughed and was accommodating. He said a few of his friends were looking for a place to meet for a few songs if I wanted to join them. He soon left but returned to let me know they were in the back room of the pub next door.

I gladly followed. There were just eight of us together sharing ballads. They were so welcoming and that became one of the highlights of my weekend. (Dixie said my strategy could have landed me tied up in the trunk of a car but who thinks of that at a trad festival?)

We’re back home now anticipating our trip to the US for Thanksgiving. I always say I’ll practice while I’m there but I never do. I’d rather meet with friends and play with the grands. But by mid December I’ll be ready to cross back over the pond, decorate my Irish home for Christmas and resume the dance. 

  

Sneem

To me, the Irish weather is like a mild chronic pain that I’ve learned to live with and mainly ignore. I jump for joy on the days the sun shines bright and wonder if it’s climate change and it’s here to stay. But after a day or two at most, the sun grows weary of my jubilation and bids us a mournful farewell. Then it’s business as painful usual.

Earlier this month it looked like one of those sunny portals was opening. Siobhan, the weather lady, pointed to a sunshine icon on her screen, so we took the hint and took to the road. 

Back in June, my niece and her family visited us from Georgia. We took a leisurely two days to drive the amazing Ring Of Kerry after having raved for weeks about it’s gorgeous vistas. Of course it rained the whole way and the kids sat in the back of our rented van playing their video games as we optimistic adults strained to catch a tiny glimpse of the sea or a mountain.

Anyway, one town we passed through was Sneem, just at the edge of the Ring. There is a campsite there called “Goosey Island” and now Dixie and I wanted to go back and see what that was about. Online we learned there were no reservations accepted and we should check in with Sean at Murphy’s Bar. Okay.

We planned to do just that but not until we had stopped in Kenmare along the way and revisited the Kenmare Stone Circle that we had explored with the family in June. 

At that time, it was crawling with tourists and felt very commercial. I wanted to “experience” it at a time when its magic wasn’t suppressed by iPhone photos and bustling crowds (yes, I did take photos this time but I wasn’t bustling).

As we had hoped, it was deserted other than the guy at the reception stall that took our two euro. After taking my obligatory photos I walked the circle, touching each and every stone and deliberately trying to be mindful… to not dwell too much on the ancient past which is tempting at a stone circle, but rather to appreciate my great fortune at being here and now as a link in the great chain of history. It could have been my ancestors (or yours) who hoisted those stones. Who knows???

Stone Circles are mostly from the bronze age which they say is roughly 2200-500 BC. No one is really sure but it’s believed they were used for ritual or ceremonies of some sort. The Kenmare Stone Circle is the biggest in southwest Ireland where there are about 100. It is also special in that it has a large central stone that is believed to be a burial monument. Wonder who’s under there! 

After all this dreaminess, Dixie finally succeeded in pulling me away so we could meet Sean and park up on Goosey Island. As we suspected, it wasn’t exactly an island but a large outcrop of land on the River Sneem. It was just on the edge of town, an easy walk for meals, drinks and of course lattes.

Goosey Island from the bridge in town

As I continue to blog, I realize that what I’m actually doing is making a record for myself of the towns and villages we visit. Just driving through, like we did in June, doesn’t really allow you to feel the distinction of each place and appreciate its uniqueness.

Sneem is another village right on a river, but with a pedestrian walk along its bridge that has a grated floor so you can look down at the rapids below and see mountains in the distance. You could stand there all day… if you didn’t mind getting wet because, contrary to what that bitch Siobhan led us to believe, it rained almost the whole time we were there. There were moments of misty reprieve and we explored the area, but it was mostly rain.

We loved the motorhome park. Because the season is about over, we had our choice of sites and chose to be right on the river with a view of the mountains. We didn’t realize right away that the river was tidal, morphing into an estuary before spilling into the sea, and the next morning we could walk out on the river bed and look for things… like rocks. There were plenty of rocks. I found a gorgeous little chunk of quartz with crystals embedded in it. 

Compare with first photo on this post. Same place, different tide.

Beside Goosey Island that really isn’t an island there’s a plot of land called The Way the Fairies Went. It’s a short walk with reproduction stone pyramids and “beehives”…a smart little architectural attraction but disappointing in its inauthenticity. It would be a good place to take kids.

We admired the historic church and many statues, had good food at O’Shea’s, good drinks at Murphy’s, a “hotdog” that wasn’t a hotdog from a roadside vendor, and shopped at Quills, a touristy place that sells Irish knitwear and gifts. I bought a wool hat that is very warm and won’t blow away in the wind (even if it does leave my hair flat).

Though it rained all the way home, we stopped and took lots of pix because it is Ireland after all… and every soggy place steals my heart!

Dick's Field

Florida was hot… very hot! We loved every minute of time spent with family, but when the day came for our flight back to Ireland, visions of cool breezes danced in our heads. We were also anxious to get back to our Irish friends and family.

 

We were sadly informed that one of our dear friends, Christy Shortt, age 92, had passed away just days earlier. He always said if he got Covid his days on earth would be over. He was an amazing musician and a true gentleman. He would always greet me on Wednesday nights at the Monks pub with a hearty handshake and a sincere “God bless”.

 

Christy always read and praised my blogs. He was a natural encourager. I hope he’s showing this post to Jesus and putting in a good word for me. Thank you, Christy, for everything.

We would be back in Ireland just in time to share grief with our community and offer condolences to Christy’s family. You might recall a post from my Suirly Goodness blog describing an Irish funeral. They are often multi-day affairs and involve much music and merriment as fitting sendoffs for the deceased. This one would be especially poignant.

Also, Dixie’s brother’s much anticipated retirement party was scheduled for the weekend. More music planned at the Monks celebrating the end of an era for Raz. Ireland was calling.

But so was Hurricane Idalia! She blew into Florida just in time to foil all our plans. The Tampa airport closed and our flight was delayed three days. By the time we got back to Thurles, all was quiet. We could only hang our heads and apologize for our absence.

It took longer to get over jet lag this time. I felt so tired and even wondered if maybe I had developed long covid. I had flown to America one week after a positive test in July and had been on the go constantly for five weeks. Now I was really feeling knackered.

So we decided it was time to take the AvantBard for another spin. Neither of us cared where we went, we just wanted to take off again. I needed an excuse to get active for a couple of days, renew my energy and chase away the blues.

There’s a field in County Waterford, less than a two hour drive, simply and fittingly called Dick’s Field. It’s an RV park that has few amenities. A few pitches have electric hookups and there’s waste disposal, but otherwise… it’s just Dick’s Field. You can’t reserve a space, it’s first come first served.

I heard about it from my motorhome Facebook group. We decided to “give it a lash”. It looked to be near the village of Ardmore where we’d been a couple of years ago, and I remembered the cliff walk and the beach. I think I even blogged about it. But all the fields looked alike so finding and staying in Dick’s Field would be a new experience, although staying in a field didn’t sound particularly appealing.

It was easy to find and, being a Monday, there was plenty of space. Dick himself greeted us at the gate and told us to just park anywhere we liked. It was actually a beautiful field, deep emerald Irish green and right on the water. We found a spot overlooking the surf and in a corner of the field, so no one would box us in.

Getting settled always involves two rituals: driving the Bard’s front wheels up on chocks to get properly leveled and then having a cuppa tea. When all was done, we made a plan. We would stroll on the beach toward the village, (me looking for treasures and Dixie basking in the salty mist), buy a few groceries, check out the coffee shops, have dinner back in the Bard, then go back to the village for a drink. Good plan.

I was never much of a drinker. I’m still not. They tease me in the Monks when I start the Wednesday music sessions with a glass (not a pint) of Guinness and take my last sip just before leaving three or four hours later. What can I say?

My parents stopped drinking when I was a teenager. I remember as a child they would host dinner parties and our kitchen table would become a well stocked bar. But then my mother’s best friend, Sara, went on a binge and never recovered. Long about that time my Uncle Hobo, Daddy’s brother, died of liver disease. They were both in their thirties and hopeless alcoholics. I saw my parents deeply grieve. After that, our kitchen table just held place mats and tea lights.

Irishmen love their pints. Dixie prefers “large bottles” as opposed to the tap. I don’t know why. And “large bottles” are apparently rare so he was happy the pub we chose in Ardmore had them in stock. I had a Baileys which seems more like a liquid dessert than a beverage.

When we left the pub around 11:00 (early), we stepped out under a magical canopy of starlight. I can’t remember when the Milky Way shone so clearly. I felt wrapped in a veil of glitter. Walking back along the beach I almost stumbled several times because I couldn’t stop looking up. I sat outside a while and tried to identify constellations but it was like trying to find Waldo… just too much going on.  

The next morning we walked the opposite direction on the beach until it ended in uneven rocky outcrops. A very narrow path divided the rocks from the adjacent field and led onto another beach. 

We could see a series of little sandy/grassy patches among the boulders that seemed like separate rooms designed specifically for picnics sheltered from the wind. We said we’d come back another day and bring sandwiches.

After a delicious lunch in the village we strolled up the hill to the cliff walk. The views were magnificent and there were historic stops along the way including two holy wells, cathedral ruins complete with three ogham stones, a round tower and of course, a delightful cemetery (I'm probably the only person who delights in cemeteries).

That night I texted my kids and sent a photo I’d taken of the Big Dipper (or The Plough as it’s called here) with my iphone. It was bright enough to show up. Thomas asked if I’d seen the new comet. Wuuuttt… a new comet??? How could I have missed the news. In August an amateur astronomer in Japan had discovered a blurry intruder that would not return for 400 years.

I decided not to wait that long. The conditions were so perfect I knew I could find it. Google told me exactly where to look and when… an hour before sunrise. Ugh! I set the alarm for 5 AM and crawled out of bed, threw on clothes over my pajamas and donned my heavy coat. Then I laid back in my camping chair wishing I’d brought gloves. I stared into space with and without my binoculars until the sun rose two hours later. No comet! Apparently I had missed it by a few days. I had to settle for the Great Nebula in Orion and a stunning waning crescent moon nudging towards Venus. I didn’t complain… much.

Our camping excursions remain brief

because we have weekly commitments on Wednesdays and the weekend. But we found our stay in Dick’s Field to be nothing short of... heavenly. We'll be back for more stargazing and that picnic.