Graiguenamanagh

Two weeks ago we were raring to go again. Now that the sun is nudging its way into the wee hours of the morning we are more anxious than ever to explore new places and find some right adventures. (In Ireland, “right” means good or great. I first heard it when someone said, “Those are right lads” in describing a group of teenagers.)

We have mostly been set on wild camping and can easily endure a few nights in the wilderness although there is very little wilderness in Ireland. You’ve noticed it isn’t featured on any survival reality shows.

 

But we had heard rumors of a motorhome site called the Barrow Valley Activities Hub (or “The Hub” for short) that campers were raving about. An “activities hub” did not sound like what we were looking for in a camping experience, but it was just over an hour away, and we thought maybe we should see just what all the “hubbub” was about. We could then check it off our list of places never to return to.

It was with this sense of impending disappointment that I clumsily knocked my phone into the toilet as I was packing my things. Now I was really losing my enthusiasm for the trip. I was thinking, let’s just get this over with.

No site complete without a castle

 

The Hub is on the banks of the river Barrow just at the edge of the small town of Graiguenamanagh (graig-nah-manna in English and I don’t recommend you try to say it in Irish). We
found it is indeed a hub for nearby swimming, boating, kayaking, fishing, hiking, history indulging and dining. A right little spot!

Since it was Monday, it wasn’t crowded but we were told you have to book way in advance for a pitch on the weekend. I was delighted to have an electric hookup for the luxuries of the microwave and hair
dryer.

 

After we got settled we strolled the two minutes into town to have a look. We were no sooner on the main street than we heard the faint sound of a choir from somewhere indistinct. 13th century Duiske (meaning black water) Abbey, at the center of town, seems to hover over and cradle the surrounding shops like a giant protective beast from middle earth. We read that it was the largest Cistercian abbey in Ireland. The church is still intact and in use, while the other medieval remains radiate through the town like fossilized tentacles, mostly taking the shape of fragmented walls here and there.

Duiske Abbey from the back 

As we neared the angelic voices, they began to sound less like heavenly choristers and more like a boisterous band of inebriated crooners.

 

Wait….aren’t they singing Wild Mountain Thyme??? We entered Doyle’s pub in front of the church and were instantly assimilated into a circle of robust revelers with lifted pints. A friendly nod indicated we should join right in… which I did but Dixie was reluctant. When the last strains of “Will ye go lassie go” ended, we were told this was the “afters" of a funeral.

Inside Doyle's

I

Should have guessed. It’s not uncommon for friends and family to gather at the favorite “local” of the deceased and celebrate a life well lived (or not) with whiskey and song. We offered our sincere condolences, apologized for intruding and went on our way…. but not until we were told that there is a trad session held in the pub the last Monday of every month. Dang, we were just one week too early! 

The pub was a real charmer, with one side being a hardware/staples store and the other side a bar. This is the traditional layout of an Irish pub and there are few left in the country. We came back in the evening and, though the "afters" were ongoing, we enjoyed a couple of pints.

Inside Doyle's, store and pub

Back at the campsite we relaxed, had some late lunch and met the neighbors. Throughout our two days we met the nicest people ever. Right folks! Several were newbies like us and we shared stories and insights and personal aspirations.

 

I was especially touched by one woman who began by talking about buying the camper, but became more open as the conversation went on and the men walked away. She was fearful of becoming invisible to her children and grandchildren as she aged. It felt good to be a stranger’s confidant if but for a few moments. I knew there was much more to her story and I wished we could have spent more time together. I hope our paths will cross again.

I want to live in this house please.

There’s a section of the Columban Way hiking circuit along the edges of Graiguenamanagh right beside the river and we found ourselves walking along it throughout the day. The weather was spectacular and the scenery was stunning and private. 

There is a series of weirs and locks (I learned about weirs and locks) on the path between Graiguenamanagh and St Mullins, five miles away. We walked halfway there (where we were told there was a fabulous cafe by the river) but then turned back, because I knew I’d be “knackered” if I tried to walk the whole way and back.

Lock keeper's house

In Graiguenamanagh we found three historic, attractive little pubs that we loved and a nice cafe on the waterfront. There were three river walks as well as a scenic, refreshing woodland path. Between the eating, drinking, socializing and exploring, it was a right two days. We said we’d come back.

And we did! The next Monday! Knowing there would be a trad session at Doyle’s, and armed with the fiddle and the guitar, we decided to spend another relaxing couple of days at the Hub. When we arrived we went straight to the pub to find out what time the music would begin.

“Oh sorry, the music session has been cancelled tonight. There’s a funeral.” Wuuut???!!! 

  

  

The Cuckoo Festival

Dixie and friends have been going to the Fleadh na gCuach (The Cuckoo Festival) the first weekend in May in Kinvara on the west coast for decades. Much like the Scoil Ceoil an Earraigh in Ballyferriter (see earlier post) it is a gathering of traditional Irish musicians who converge on the local pubs for sessions ‘round the clock. I have been going along for the past five years, but Covid and a family funeral stole a couple of those years.

The Merriman Hotel

Kinvara is a small, cheerful fishing village with a scenic harbor overlooked by 16th century Dunguaire Castle. In the past, the group of us have stayed in apartments near the harbor. This year, Dixie and I were the only ones from Thurles going for the entire weekend as the apartments are no longer available, the one hotel is closed to host refugees and accommodation just could not be got.

Fortunately, we were set to go in the Bard. We left late Friday morning so we could arrive early afternoon and have a good chance of finding a nice spot to park up for the weekend. There are no local rv parks so we were prepared for four nights of “wild camping”, i.e. being totally self sufficient.

Pubs in Kinvara

When we arrived, there were only a couple other rv’s in town. One was parked along the harbor road and another was alongside the small marina. The other spots along the marina were filled with cars, but we had our pick of places along the road. We chose a spot at an intersection with another road because it gave passing traffic a wider berth to get by. It was the perfect spot! It was going to be a little nerve wracking hearing the buzz of traffic whizzing past, especially in the night, but the setting was gorgeous.

Our first perfect spot

I immediately started taking pictures of the stunning view of the castle across the bay and imagining waking four mornings in a row, drinking my coffee with this out my window. Does life get any better? I felt happy and relaxed.

We walked down to the marina and of course I saw a sign that, in a roundabout way, said no overnight parking at the marina or harbor road or else. I was sure I remembered rv’s being parked there last year, but it still gave me a twinge of discomfort, like when you rest under a tree where birds are roosting….and just when I was feeling so settled.

By chance, we passed on the street someone Dixie recognized right away. She was the daughter of one of the pub owners. Dixie mentioned to Collette that I was a little nervous about where we had parked. She said she owned a field just on the edge of the village, a few hundred yards away and we were welcome to park there.

We decided that would be a good idea. She gave us directions and we unparked and drove off. We followed her directions, left right left right whatever and, when we reached the place, we saw there was a field on each side of the road. Did she say left or right? I was sure she said right. Dixie wasn’t so sure. Fortunately there was a lock on the gate to the left, so she must have said right, right? We opened the gate and Dixie backed in just far enough to clear the gate because the grass was high and we weren’t sure how firm the ground was underneath.

Our second perfect spot

It was the perfect spot! Again, I jumped out and immediately started taking pictures. The view was spectacular. The field was strewn solid with white dandelion puffs that gave the impression we had just missed a dandy of a hail storm. The back of the field sloped downward but the void was filled with a border of trees and a blue mountain surging upward like a frozen tsunami wave.

Now we had found our quiet haven and home for the next four days. I was exhaling and feeling very satisfied.

Then we noticed a car stopped in the road just in front of us. A gentleman stepped out and asked if we had been given permission to park there. We explained about Collette and he explained that Collette’s field was across the road and that the lock on her gate didn’t actually work.

He said we would need to move before evening because he was moving some cows into his field (or hay or something). We apologized, the men stood chatting for a while then we went to move. But, as you may have suspected if you are the worrying type, the wheels only spun and we were stuck fast.

The farmer was very kind and offered to get some plywood to help us get unstuck. He returned a few minutes later and we tried but the wheels were in too deep to mount the plywood. He said he’d come back in the morning with his tractor and pull us out.

In the mean time I trudged the circumference of the pasture and enjoyed the tranquility of being just outside of town. I wasn’t sure if I was feeling lucky or unlucky. It was very unlucky to be stuck in a field but if the farmer hadn’t happened by and been so polite and understanding, it could have ruined our weekend.

When I opened my eyes the next morning Dixie was staring at me. “I have an idea,” said he. I don’t like it when people who are in trouble say that. Things can go from bad to worse. I voted to just wait for the farmer to pull us out.

But Dixie’s idea was practical and successful. He jacked up the front wheels, one at a time, and placed the plywood underneath. Then we rolled right out the gate and into the street. We discussed moving over to Collette’s field but it was a very short discussion. No!

Our third perfect spot

By now the harbor road and the marina parking was filling up. We saw the perfect spot at the marina and took it. And it turned out to be the really perfect spot. I loved watching the people walk past as the wind drove ripples of shadow across the water. I sat on the doorstep and sipped my lattes, mesmerized by the castle in the distance.  Did I mention that it was perfect?

By late afternoon the sessions were well underway in the pubs and we spent the next two days going in and out, sometimes participating and sometimes just having pints and listening.

Dixie is a phenomenal guitar player and he made eyes light up when he joined a session. Trad guitar is a specialized art and he has mastered it. I, on the other hand, am still a beginning trad fiddler. I think I started too late.

There are thousands of tunes out there and I only know a small fraction and then I’m not a strong player. So in a large session, I sit on the periphery of the circle and noodle around until I recognize a tune I can play.

 

In the main Saturday session, where I counted 14 fiddlers, I took a purse full of chocolate and consoled myself as I sat waiting for an easy jig. It’s all good craic as they say, and I left feeling inspired (and a little queasy).

By late Monday afternoon things were slowing down and we decided to head for a final session about five miles out of town at a pub/restaurant on New Quay. We parked out back for the night. Before the session, we walked around the rocky beach where I found a big eggplant-size stone speckled with fossils that my geologist friend, Linda, says are called Rugosa from coral. Always have to bring home a rock.

My Rogosa Fossil Rock

When we left Tuesday morning the weather was beautiful and we didn’t want to go straight home. We moved in the direction of home but through unexplored territory off the main roads. The map showed a round tower along the way so we wanted to check that out.

Turns out it was an amazing monastic site called Kilmacduach. We learned it was founded by St Colman Mac Duach early in the 7th century. They say it has one of the finest collections of monastic buildings in Ireland. Besides the round tower, there were several other building ruins including a cathedral and three smaller churches. Unfortunately, there were pad locks on the gates keeping us from walking inside each building.

I spied a man cutting grass and another one spraying and I fell into a conversation with the sprayer. I expressed frustration that the gates were all locked. He said I could get the key from the caretaker who lived across the street. What???

I was on it. I rang the doorbell and a tiny little woman covered head to toe with white flour answered. She seemed a little irritated and said, “I’m doing me baking.” She handed me the keys and told me which unlocked what and said to just leave them on her doorstep when I left.

I was elated. As I was practically skipping with joy toward the smaller church I heard a voice behind me yell, ”Wait up”. A young couple had just pulled in and Dixie, who was still at the Bard, had told them I had the keys.

 

I waited and asked where they were from. Florida! Their Irish vacation had begun the day before. We browsed around the church together and by the time we were ready to leave for the next building, others had arrived. I was in a slight predicament, not wanting to lock anybody out but not wanting to lock them in either. I waited for them but then a tour bus arrived and by the time I had opened all the locks on
all the buildings, the site was crawling with tourists from all over.

I found myself scurrying about, locking and unlocking gates and feeling a little like Bilbo Baggins hosting "an unexpected party". I didn’t think turning the keys over to anyone else was a solution. It would just be passing the predicament to someone else. So I made sure everything was unlocked and everyone was having fun and I returned the keys to the baker with a note of explanation. Then we left the party.

We were home long before dark, we unpacked and started planning our next road adventure. Thanks again for coming along. You’re always welcome.   

Norman Country

I’ve been watching a four part PBS series on the “telly” about the Normans. I’ve learned a lot, the most important thing being that I don’t know much about this stuff. You might remember the “Norman Conquest” of England if you weren’t always dozing in your high school history class. If I learned anything then, I’ve forgotten it. And these days I can’t even remember the details of the “Breakfast Conquest” from this morning. 

It was interesting to discover that the word “Norman” means “North Men” and the Normans, who were of course from Normandy in France, were actually Vikings who settled there earlier. Under William the Conqueror they invaded England in 1066.

The Normans moved on to invade Ireland a hundred years later in 1169. Back then, Ireland was really divided with multiple “kings” vying for control of their little kingdoms. The Normans brought trade, order and development to the country, not to mention the amazing castles, but also a 750 year reign of oppression.

It has just recently come to light that the Anglo-Normans also freely shared their DNA with the indigenous population. The evidence is pretty clear that today’s Irish are not actually descended from the Celts who arrived much earlier. (This is a touchy subject so I’d better not dwell on it). 

Yellow fields of rapeseed everywhere

One of the first and most famous Anglo-Norman conquerors was William de Clare, aka Strongbow. You’ve probably seen him in the movies. He fought many battles but his first defeat in Ireland came….wait for it…. IN THURLES…. literally in my backyard and the field beyond. The year was 1174 (according to the Annals of the Four Masters, whoever they were). 1700 Englishmen were slain. That means there’s at least 1700 pieces of medieval artifacts buried under my flowers, right? Every time I plant something I cross my fingers. I prefer jewelry but I’d settle for a bone!

All this is to say that when we decided to take "the Bard" on another excursion, I was intrigued by the campsite called "The Norman View" in Wexford in the area of "The Norman Way". That's where the initial invasion took place. Siobhan, the weather lady, gave a thumbs up so off we set.

Along the way we saw signs for the ruins of Tintern Abbey. I wanted it to be the Tintern Abbey that William Wordsworth wrote about (high school English class) but instead discovered it was actually what we would call a church plant from the original abbey in Wales. It was founded by a guy named William Marshal who incidentally was married to Strongbow's daughter, Isabel.

Tintern Abbey

History records that William met with rough seas on crossing from England to Ireland and promised God that if spared, he would start a monastery. And he did just that with Tintern Abbey. I guess he figured that God is not to be messed with. 

It’s a traditional Cistercian abbey ruin much like Jerpoint, Hore and Kilcooley Abbeys which I’m familiar with. The grounds were lovely and scenic with walks beside the Bannow River and through the woods, and we hung around there for the afternoon.

Then we went to find The Norman View. I have to say the campsite itself was nothing special. It was clean and friendly and was right on the sea but a barrier separated us from the water. We were told it was a ten minute walk to a beach and a little longer to a pub. Normally that wouldn’t have been a problem, but the weather was its usual misty, windy, nasty self and it was cold (curse you, Siobhan!) 

Did I mention I forgot my coat??? I have a checklist of things to take camping and never thought it necessary to include my coat on the list because that should be so obvious, but an hour from home I realized I didn’t have it on.  At least I had SOMETHING on. It’s just a matter of time.

Where the Normans landed

So instead of driving into town after sunset (couldn’t drink and drive), we tried watching the telly in the Bard but we couldn’t get a signal. So I just lay there imagining the invading Norman army sneaking up on us with swords and spears and stealing my silver necklace which would appear over a thousand years later embedded in the hard clay supporting my geraniums.

After breakfast in the Bard, we debated whether to drive left or right for the next day and night. Right it was, so we headed to Kilmore Quay to see if it was as beautiful as Google described. And it was! A small, quiet fishing village full of boats, monuments to ship wreck victims and incredible rock formations on the beach. We had a sandwich at a little cafe then on to exploring. 

Kilmore Quay

I didn’t even know that I was cold (I was layered in all the clothes I brought plus a light jacket I had fortuitously thrown in at the last minute). There is a large jetty protruding from the beach called Forlorn Point. They say the rocks there are 600 million years old. 

Forlorn Point

Dixie basked in the wind and whiffs of the sea while I meticulously sifted through the megaannum. Of course, I stuffed my pockets with souvenirs and now have a BOX of rocks at home that I have no idea what to do with except stare at.

When I felt certain I had inspected every square nook and cranny of Forlorn Point we drove to the nearby campsite to check in. It had been recommended by folks we met at The Norman View and they assured us there was plenty of space. And there was, only they were closing for the week and turned us away, but not without directions to seek out St Margaret’s at nearby Lady’s Island. We called to inquire but got no answer. Google said they were closed. 

St Margaret's Beach

By faith, we drove there anyway and found they were quite open and had lots of room. Unfortunately the electric power was limited, so we were told not to use any power blowing heating implements. That included my hair dryer. I was frustrated to have to endure another day of frizz-out humidity hair. I’d like to think I’m a true outdoor girl at heart. I adore time spent with nature. But I’m also my mother's girly girl and, in her honor, I try to keep the barn painted and the wheat sorted. 

St Margaret’s was a quiet, secluded site with a large bath/kitchen area. We were impressed. I walked over to check out the facilities with my steamy, creamy, signature latte I’d bought on the way. In the bath house I spied a strange contraption on the wall and, too curious, lifted the arm on it. It sprang to life like a startled jack rabbit. OMG… It was a hair dryer! My latte went flying through the air and crashed to the floor with a splatter over walls, toilets and shower stalls. But I was so delighted I didn’t care. I had to sneak paper towels from the Bard and clean up my mess before I was discovered.

The next morning was partly sunny and we took the opportunity to walk along nearby St Margaret’s beach before turning for home. In Ireland, there are beaches to be found all along the coasts and you’re never far away from a coast, at least by American standards. I doubt I’ll ever swim in the frigid waters (like some ladies we saw) but I sure like a beach.

Kilmogue Portal Tomb

On the way home we found a gem of a megalith, Kilmogue Portal Tomb. Portal tombs, sometimes called dolmens, are built with two large upright stones forming the entrance (or portal) to a single chamber behind. It was originally all covered in a pile of loose rocks (a cairn) with just the capstone visible. Believed to be about 6000 years old, Cill Mhóg (church of Móg), has never been excavated. I wonder what ancient goodies are hiding beneath the surface among the giant stones. And who the heck was Móg???

K

After frolicking on the tomb (I have no shame), we made our way back west for a short stop at the Kilkieran and Ahenny high crosses. High crosses were erected in early monasteries mostly in the 8th and 9th centuries probably as boundary markers or monuments of political power. Who knows what they were thinking back then? They probably weren’t grave markers, but cemeteries have grown up around them and they blend in with other Celtic crosses.

High crosses are… well, high. And they have really detailed and sometimes ornate carvings. The ones we saw were very worn and it was hard to make out the designs, but they were very cool nonetheless.

 We again stopped in New Ross in front of the Dunbrody Famine Ship (see earlier post) but instead of eating in the Bard, this time we went into a nice restaurant overlooking the ship and indulged in supersized, sumptuous, traditional Irish dinners. Again, the irony was not lost on us.

This weekend we’re going back to Kinvara on the west coast for the Fleadh na gCuach, the Cuckoo Festival. We go every year but this will be the first time in the AvantBard. Hope we find a place to park up and stay warm and dry. I’ll let you know. Thanks for reading, nerd friends!

   

Scoil Cheoil an Earraigh

In February there is held in Ballyferriter, Ireland, near Dingle, the Scoil Cheoil an Earraigh, the Springtime School of Music. It’s a small annual festival of traditional Irish music that includes a week of classes and concerts hosted by some impressive names.

 

Inch Beach Motorhome Park

Every year a group of lads from the Monk’s pub in Thurles carpools the four hours or so just for the weekend. They’ve been doing this for years, and five years ago I became one of the lads. They rent the same two-three apartments behind John Benny’s pub right in the center of Dingle, overlooking the harbor. 

They drive the 20 minutes or so from Dingle to Ballyferriter on Friday night then again on Saturday afternoon for music sessions in the pubs. Then Saturday night they go to O’Flaherty’s in Dingle and join a session there. The tradition was interrupted by Covid, and last year Dixie and I spent February in America. But this
year we were finally able to resume the ritual. And this year, we went in the motorhome.

Siobhán, the tv weather lady, stood by her previous forecast that the weather in southwest Ireland was going to be “cat”. Her competence has been affirmed! We arrived Thursday evening to a cold, bitter mist blizzard. We drove straight to Ballyferriter rather than stopping in Dingle.

With every trip, I am becoming more fond of the moho. In fact, I’m developing a level of comfort with its idiosyncrasies and enigmatic behaviors. When the fridge starting chirping like a bird, Dixie, in his Irishness, said “no worries, ’twill be grand”. And he was right, apparently it was nothing. He had a motorhome long ago and just doesn’t get rattled by vehicle rattles. When the water tap stopped working, I was sure it was broken beyond repair. Turns out, our water tank had gone empty. Pretty easy fix.

We (okay, I)  have decided to name it. That’s what people do. They animate objects in their lives that evoke emotions so they can develop relationships with them and interact with them on an emotional level, positive and negative. Am I right? My classical guitar was called “The Baby”. I loved that guitar. When I sold the baby I felt shame and self-loathing. Who would sell their baby?

 Ballyferriter

  But I digress.

The model of our motorhome is Avantgarde. It’s written in big letters across the side. So I’m naming it the AvantBard. May it be a source of music and merriment and bring smiles to many faces for years to come. From now on I’ll just refer to it as the Bard. And I’m proclaiming it a boy Bard so it is a he. Now back to my story.

I had actually never paid much attention to the road between Dingle and Ballyferriter even though I had driven it more than once as a designated driver. It was always dark or I was lost in conversation. Now, driving in the afternoon with Dixie, I noticed that we were on Slea Head Drive.

When we bought the Bard, I read a lot of advice from the Facebook Motorhome Group. One thing I noted was the warning to NEVER take a motorhome on Slea Head Drive. I was puzzled because I couldn’t remember anything particularly treacherous about the drive and didn’t notice anything now. Maybe someone had just had a mishap there or something. I’ll circle back to this story later but you know something’s coming, right?

For now, I’ll say we arrived without incident and found that we could park overnight at the Ceann Sibéal Hotel. Like many other large hotels in Ireland, it has been closed to the public and is now open as temporary housing for Ukrainian refugees. Little Ireland (about the size of Indiana) has taken in around 75,000 Ukrainians this past year. There is understandable controversy about how and where to put them, but mostly agreement that turning them away is not an option. 

So the large car park was all but empty. There would have been a beautiful view as it overlooks Smerwick Harbor. But alas, the mist and fog were growing ever thicker and messier, like my porridge when it cools too long in the bowl.

We freshened up then moseyed over to the pubs to get a feel for the crowds and see what was going on. In the first one, some teens from the “schoil” were having their own little session. We had a coffee and listened to their accordions, whistles and singing. 

We had not been there ten minutes when an attractive woman about our age with long gray/blond hair sheepishly approached us. “Are you Dixie?” She remembered him from over 40 years ago when he used to play his music in Dublin. I was gobsmacked once more!  She was joined by her sister who also remembered him and his brother Paul as well. The Irish have astounding memories.

   

We soon walked back to the Bard and heated some soup and made sandwiches. Then it was back to the pubs with fiddle and guitar in hand to try to catch some action. 

The first two pubs we tried were very noisy and crowded. But in the third, Tigh an tSaorsaigh, there was a handful of musicians playing a few tunes and taking turns singing. They welcomed us to join them. Another friend of ours from out of town came in later with his accordion and completed our band. We stayed there sharing songs til after midnight then slept well.

There are three lovely pubs on the main street of Ballyferriter. Their names are all beautifully written in cló Gaelach (old Irish script). All signs are in Irish (but mostly Roman script) here because this is a Gaeltacht (Irish speaking) area. It isn’t unusual to hear Irish spoken on the street or in the shops. 

The next morning we wanted to drive back to Dingle to buy some groceries and have a nice restaurant lunch. Instead of retracing our path, we decided to continue straight because on the map the road forms a loop that we thought might be scenic and land us back in Dingle. It was still overcast and hazy but not too bad.

As we rode along, I could tell we were climbing but couldn’t really see anything. The fog seemed to thicken with the elevation and squeeze the road narrower and narrower. It soon became one winding, curving single lane going both ways. 

Before we knew it, giant jutting boulders were taking swipes at our left while the invisible sea raged below the cliffs on our right. We met a few cars blowing toward us but miraculously managed to dodge each one. I thought we should have slowed to a snail’s pace, but Dixie didn’t seem to have a care in the world. 

We were on Slea Head Drive for sure and it was really fun in a scary kind of way. We were glad the Bard was just a small lad compared to some. He maneuvered well and brought us safely back down to town. We’ll have to take him back on a clear day because I have a feeling the views would be stunning.

We met the lads back in Ballyferriter late that afternoon and found a perfect niche again in Tigh an tSarsaigh. We played and sang for hours with other musicians and singers joining in. Heaven!

Saturday morning was still cold and rainy. We slept late then took our time getting ready for the day. Since there was no electric hookup I had to use the heat vent by the floor to train my bangs down. A girl does what a girl has to do, right?

Tigh Bhric 

The three main pubs were awfully crowded by the time we made our way into them. So we all decided to drive back toward Dingle and stop by Tigh Bhric and West Kerry Brewery on the way. I’m glad we did. It was practically empty so we had it all to ourselves. It’s a gorgeous old stone pub and I loved the craft beer!

OFlaherty's

That night in Dingle, we went to O’Flahertys and joined in another amazing session. There’s a lad there who plays Irish trad music on a cello. I remembered him from last time. Fergus, the owner, remembered the song I sang last time I was there. I sang it again.

Dingle Harbor

 

We spent Saturday night in the car park on the harbor… the one that says no overnight parking! The lads left the next morning but we weren’t quite ready to roll home. We made our way about 30 minutes down the road to Inch Beach where we knew there was a moho park with electric hookups. Like Cobh Aire in Cork, we were the only ones there. It felt great to rev up the heat and use a hair dryer... and the microwave. 

Inch Beach

We walked on the beach where I stuffed two fist-size rocks in my pocket. It seems every beach has a different geological history and has a distinctive menagerie of stones. It was really windy so I found a sheltered spot in the dunes where I stretched out, relaxed and watched the various fiddle, accordion and banjo formations in the clouds. Dixie opted for a brisk walk.

We ate our fill at a quirky Italian restaurant at a nearby hotel. The next day we drove home and into the glorious sunshine that Siobhán had kindly forecast for the east.