Maine and Beyond - Join me for a pint?
- I built a barn (or, more accurately, I had a barn built). More info on this in the next episode of "Life in Maine"
- My business launched two new websites in addition to a myriad of other tasks that kept me in front of the computer way too long.
- I entertained hoards of family and friends who traveled from near and far to come to Maine for -
- My wedding. Denise has made an honest man out of me.
- We zipped over the Atlantic to spend 10 days in Ireland on a sorely needed vacation/honeymoon.
Taken out of context like this, it doesn't look like much to accomplish over the course of three months. But believe me, it is merely a summary - add a million or so tasks that were necessary to complete each of those events, and you'll begin to understand why I wasn't too eager to run my fingers over the keyboard to produce new episodes of "Life in Maine" on a regular basis. But it's good to be back, and I sort of somewhat promise not to take so long to update from now on.
While it is fresh in my mind, I thought it might be fun to pass along some insights and observations on Ireland, which, I was somewhat surprised to find, shares a number of similarities to Maine (there's your tie-in for all of you who were hoping to read something new about Maine!)
Day 1 - Arriving in Dublin
Of course, we weren't about to settle for a leisurely tour through the Irish countryside, even if it was our honeymoon. The plan was as follows: fly into Dublin, spend a day acquainting ourselves with the city, get on a train and head clear across the country to the Dingle Peninsula, spend the next six days walking around the perimeter of the peninsula, spending each night in a different inn, then board the train back to Dublin, spend one more day in the big city, and then head back to the states. We'd get our daily dose of exercise (to the tune of 11-14 miles per day of walking), but still enjoy the luxuries of good food and a comfortable place to sleep.
Whenever we told people we were going to Ireland, they almost always asked us if we had Irish ancestors, as if it was a prerequisite for setting foot in the county. The closest Denise and I get to being "Irish" is once a year on St. Patrick's Day. Fortunately, that didn't preclude the Irish government from letting us explore their country.
We arrived in Dublin at about 8 a.m., Dublin time, which meant it felt like 3 a.m. to us. Nonetheless, we had to behave like it was 8 a.m. Our first order of business was to find our way to the hotel. That meant taking a bus or taxi, and we chose the former reasoning that it would be cheaper. For six Euro a person (roughly $6 with the exchange rate), we ended up reasonably close to our hotel. Fortunately, the hotel allowed us to check in early, and we took advantage of the situation by taking a much needed nap. (No really - I know what you're thinking - but we did actually sleep)
There were two overriding impressions about Dublin that stick with me. One is that the traffic is unbelievable. Despite the large number of pedestrians, if you were walking, you still felt like an endangered species. Stepping off of a curb into the roadway was a very risky proposition - especially for Americans like us who inevitably looked the wrong way for approaching traffic, seeing as how the Irish drive in the opposite direction as we do in the states. It was apparent that we weren't the first ones to exhibit this mental handicap - each crosswalk included directives painted onto the payment telling us to "look left" or "look right."
The second impression was that Dublin was, somewhat unexpectedly, a very cosmopolitan city. Rather than catering to tourists and their "storybook" notions of what Ireland was supposed to be like, Dublin was very much focussed on the here and now.
I had heard that there was a pub on every corner in Ireland, and if Dublin were any indication, that was a bit of an understatement. There was a pub on every corner, and a half a dozen or so between every corner. We, of course, had to do research on just what makes an Irish pub an Irish pub. In Dublin, anyway, it seemed that the key ingredients were lots of dark wood and lots and lots of Guinness.
We managed to wander our way through the streets of Dublin without getting run over, saw our share of pubs, and had a wonderful dinner at a Nepalese restaurant. By 10:30 we were ready to call it a day. That's about the first time that I noticed that it was still completely light out. I had no idea Ireland was so much farther north than Maine, where the sun set this time of year by 8:30. It turned out that it finally got dark about 11:30, and was light again at 5 a.m.
Day 2 - The Train to Tralee
Not knowing where a bus might dump us, we took a taxi to the train station. The taxi driver was very friendly and chatty. The train was a typical commuter train - kind of worn, but okay. A round trip ticket across the country cost us $55 each, so we couldn't complain.
The train ride gave us the first opportunity to view something other than the city. And, as expected, the rest of the country was very green. As we got further from Dublin, we started seeing fewer and fewer houses, and more and more sheep and cows. This was the Ireland we had imagined.
The train ride took about four hours. When we arrived in the station at Tralee, we were expecting a taxi to pick us up and take us to the first Bed & Breakfast we were staying at, as was arranged by the company who booked our tour. There were plenty of taxis there, but no indication that any of them were expecting us. After a while, Denise took the initiative to ask a driver who was parked directly in front of the station if he was waiting for us. Turns out he was. If Denise hadn't asked, we probably still be waiting there.
After about a 30 minute taxi ride, we were dropped off near our Bed and Breakfast in the small town of Camp. We knocked on the door and were somewhat discouraged to discover that the proprietor was surprised to see us. There had been a change of plans, she said - her place was full for the night. A few phone calls later, and a woman from down the street came by to pick us up to take us to her house. She, too, ran a bed and breakfast, but hadn't been too active about it lately. She agreed to help her friend and us out by putting us up for the night.
The room had a beautiful view of the ocean in the distance, and we took a short walk down to the shore to check out the water. As it turned out, the Atlantic on this side of the world was a bit warmer than it is in Maine.
Dinner was at the only restaurant within walking distance in town. Typical pub fare, nothing to write home about.
Day 3 - Camp to Anascaul
At last, we were finally set to begin what we had come here for. After an ample breakfast, we headed up the road and found the beginning of the "Dingle Way," a path network that winds it's way around the perimeter of the Dingle Peninsula. Today's walk would be about 11 miles.
Following a dirt path that was bordered on both sides by towering fuchsia plants, in full bloom, we quickly made our way up into sheep pasture country. At first, we were careful to avoid stepping in the sheep dung that was just about everywhere. But, after a while we realized it was pointless, so we focussed, instead, on avoiding stepping in the largest piles of sheep dung.
The walk, through gently rolling hills, was beautiful. Pastures, bordered by endless row after row of stone walls, formed a patchwork quilt across the countryside.
While walking along a path through one of the pastures, we came across a border collie who was tied, by way of a heavy chain, to a makeshift corrugated metal doghouse. This poor guy was absolutely delighted to see people and get some attention. It was extremely difficult to walk away from him, especially as he barked his disapproval.
The weather was cool and cloudy, which turned out to be perfect for walking. Towards the end of the walk, as we made our way down a narrow paved road towards the village of Anascaul, it began raining lightly. We had, of course, been forewarned to pack rain gear, so we were prepared for just about anything nature was going to throw at us.
Our feet and legs where more than happy to find their way to Anascaul. The town was quite small and quite picturesque - a "postcard" Irish village. And, despite it's diminutive size, it boasted four pubs - although one was closed for renovations.
We stayed at the Anchor Inn, which had comfortable, but not pretentious, rooms. The food (most meals were included in our package) turned out to be outstanding. I knew we were in for a treat when the owner asked me if "roast duck and crab claws" would be okay, or did I want something else.
Also staying at the inn were a collection of folks who were just finishing up a week of "artist in residence" training. As part of their "celebration," they were having Irish storytellers and musicians entertain them after dinner. We were invited to join them for the festivities. Two musicians, a husband and wife team, played traditional Irish music on their accordions, as well as sang. As is custom, they also invited members of the audience to sing a song if they know one. Only one person was brave enough to sing a solo - and that person wasn't me.
I did, however, get roped into attempting to learn how to do the Irish jig. As a group, we must have looked quite comical hopping up and down out of step and out of sync with the music. I must brag, however, that I eventually did "get it" and was thereafter referred to as "the American who can do the Irish jig."
Day 4 - Anascaul to Dingle
The day started out cloudy, but the rains from the day before were gone. Having been well fed and reasonably well rested, we were looking forward to our second day of walking.
The Dingle Way is marked by signposts positioned at strategic locations throughout the trail. At least that's what we observed during the first day of the walk. Perhaps spoiled by the reliability of the signposts on the first day, we put our faith in them as we continued our walk on the second day. When, about a half mile into the walk, we came to a crossroad at which there was no signpost, we continued going straight, reasoning that there would have been a signpost there if it was necessary to take the crossroad. After about another half mile with no signposts in sight, and the people who were following behind us nowhere in sight, we began to feel we had made a mistake. So we looked at the map (still a bit inconclusive) and headed back to the crossroad. This time, we took the crossroad and, sure enough, about a third of a mile down the road we encountered a signpost (not to mention the people who were previously behind us).
That relatively minor mishap proved to be prophetic. We would lose our way three more times that day. The last time we got lost, we found ourself in the midst of a cow pasture with no apparent way out. And although the scenery was beautiful and there were no cows in this particular pasture, let it be known that it was far from a comfortable situation. It rains a lot in Ireland. There are very few trees in Ireland to soak up the rain. There are plenty of hoof imprints in the pasture to serve as containers for the rainfall. There is plenty of cow and sheep dung in the pastures to turn the rainfall a deep shade of brown. Imagine trekking through this mucky sludge trying to find signs of where the trail might lead. It gets old pretty quick.
After about a half hour of fruitless searching, Denise made an executive decision - we would make our way to the road visible in the distance and follow it to Dingle, our ultimate destination that day. And so that's what we did. We probably added a couple of miles to our hike overall, but at least we had a bit of a notion of where we were headed. As a bonus, we came upon one of the few remaining Medieval stone bridges still intact in Ireland.
Dingle, we were told, was the biggest town we would encounter on our walk. And so it was. Having walked through the rural countryside for the past two days, it was a bit of a shock to wander into this seaside community and it's legion of tourists. It was, for all intensive purposes, Ireland's answer to Bar Harbor - lots of shops, lots of restaurants, and lots of people.
Having walked the extra miles from being lost, and with wet shoes and socks, we were eager to get to our inn and take a shower. Like everything else that day, that goal, too, was a bit elusive. It turned out to be a lot farther down the road than we expected. And when we went to check in, the man at the desk greeted us with, "Why don't you come outside and sit with me for a moment..."
It seems that despite the fact that we had made the trip arrangements months in advance, the man had managed to rent our room to someone else. This being one of the first sunny weekends that Ireland had experienced this summer, all the hotels and inns in the city were completely filled. We weren't amused.
After discussing possible plans to taxi us to the next town, then taxi us back in the morning to resume our walk, we, instead, insisted that he do a bit more work in hopes of finding us a room in town. He offered to let us use the shower in one of the rooms in the hotel and we gladly accepted. Before we were finished, he was knocking on the door excitedly, informing us that he had found a room.
The room, at the Captain's House Inn, had become available due to a cancellation As it turned out, it was far nicer than the place we would have been staying - very elegant, filled with fine antiques, and right in the center of town.
We took advantage of the plethora of shops in Dingle to do some shopping. Sweater shopping, to be precise. For a mere $30-$60, we purchased the types of wool Irish sweaters that typically go for $90-$125 back in the states.
We were on our own for dinner this night, so we took our chances on a restaurant just up the street from our hotel. Interestingly, we heard more American accents here than Irish accents - the ultimate indication that we were in a tourist town.
Afterwards, we sampled a few of the local pubs. As in all of the other pubs we had visited, we noticed that, by and large, the bartenders were all very young. So young, in fact, that we wondered if they were even of drinking age. Not quite the "crusty old Irish bartender" we had imagined prior to taking the trip.
Day 5 - Dingle to Dunquin
The day, of course, started out with breakfast. Everywhere we went, the breakfast menu included the choice of a "traditional Irish breakfast." The traditional breakfast, it turns out, consists of two eggs (typically fried), sausage, a grilled half of a tomato, grilled mushrooms, and, sometimes, something called "brown pudding" which I never had and therefore don't really know what it was. Suffice it to say it didn't look like pudding.
Although it was nice to be in a place with a lot of activity and a lot of shops, it was refreshing to leave Dingle and get back to the solitude provided by the walk. Fortunately, during this stretch of the journey, the signposts were well-placed and accurate - we didn't lose our way at all. In retrospect, I'd also say that this was my favorite portion of the walk. The terrain was a bit more varied, going from rolling hills, to a beautiful beach, and back up through pastures overlooking dramatic cliffs dropping off into the ocean.
Near the last part of the walk, the stark, stunning Blasket Islands came into view. Rising sharply out of the Atlantic, these islands had been inhabited by man for thousands of years, up until 1953 when the human population dwindled to 20 and the Irish government took it upon themselves to relocate the few remaining individuals to the mainland. Also visible were the sheer cliffs of Slea Head jutting out in a peninsula in Dunquin. The beach at Slea Head proved to be a popular recreational attraction and was filled with swimmers and surfers on this warm, sunny day.
Today's walk was 12 miles, and the farmhouse B&B that we were staying in in Dunquin suddenly appeared far sooner than we had expected. This was just as well, though, since after three days of walking blisters were starting to appear in various places on my feet. The B&B was the site of the western-most farm in Europe and our room offered a spectacular view of Slea Head and the sea.
In the days prior, the tradition had been to take a shower and then head out to a pub for a well-deserved pint. Denise was firmly focussed on continuing this tradition when, to her horror, the proprietor of the inn informed her that there was no pub in town! The closest pub, we were told, was in the next town about 2 1/2 miles down the road.
I would have been quite content to just take the short walk over to Slea Head, try a bit of swimming, and relax until dinner time. Denise, however, wanted nothing to do with swimming and was insistent on finding the pub. Being married, we had to compromise of course. So, we took the walk over to Slea Head and Denise grudgingly sat on a rock wall while I tested the waters. I then grudgingly agreed to walk to the next town to Denise to find the pub. In what I will forever refer to as the "death march," we made our way down the rather traffic-infested road, sun pounding down, feet aching, in search of "the pub." After about a half hour, we came to a collection of buildings. No pub. Another 15 minutes, more buildings. No pub. We decided to walk a little farther around the next bend or two. No pub. Finally, we gave up and headed back.
I will probably never let Denise forget those extra five miles of walking on top of the 12 we had already put in. Ironically, when we sat down for dinner, the proprietor asked if anyone would like a beer. As it turns out, we needn't have walked anywhere.
Also staying at the B&B were a group of eight Brits that were also doing the Dingle Way walk. It turned out that they were the group that "bumped" us from the B&B we were supposed to stay in the first day. This was the fourth year that they had gotten together to do a "big walk." Unlike us, they made all the plans themselves rather than using an agency. This also meant that they carried all of their luggage with them, whereas we had most of our luggage transported from inn to inn each day. I suppose they were saving money doing it the way they were, but I preferred spending a little more and not having to walk with a big backpack on my back.
The tour package we had was quite reasonable, we felt. And I got a little glimpse why it was so reasonable, when I overheard the proprietor of the B&B giving the Brits their bill the next morning. For dinner, accommodations, and a full breakfast, the Brits ended up paying $24 per person!
Day 6 - Dunquin to Ballydavid
Our two-day string of good weather gave out on this day. When we awoke, it was so foggy, we couldn't even see the Slea Head from our window. It was drizzling off and on, so it was difficult to figure out when to wear a raincoat and when not to.
About a half hour into today's walk, we decided to take a stop at the Blasket Island museum, which was devoted to providing the history of the islands and the people who inhabited them. Having known nothing about them, it was a worthwhile detour.
The walk this day was largely uneventful. Although the trail took us by some seemingly spectacular oceanfront cliffs, the fog prevented us from seeing much of anything.
And although the walk was largely uneventful, that still left room for a little adventure. While walking down a road bounded on each side by stone walls and hedgerows, we were surprised to see something we couldn't quite identify up ahead. As we got closer, a car pulled onto the road and the "something" charged it and then backed off. The "something" was a young bull that had somehow managed to get out of it's pasture.
The roads in Ireland are quite narrow, barely allowing room for one car to pass, much less two. As such, there was hardly room for both a car and a bull. It wasn't so much that the bull was angry with the car, it was just that it didn't understand that the car was trying to pass it rather than run it down. It desperately wanted to get back into the pasture with the other bulls, but from the road there was no way to do so.
So there we were, a bull in front of us, a car in front of the bull, and the trail continuing past the bull. There was no farmer in sight, so the bull wasn't going anywhere fast. At one point, as we got closer to the bull and the car continued to try to pass it, I made my way to the top of the rock wall in case I had to dive over it to escape a charging bull. In the end, the car managed to pass the bull, and we managed to steer clear of it as well and continue on our way.
The accommodations in Ballydavid were first class, as was the food. And although the nearest pub was about a 40 minute walk away, the restaurant served beer, so Denise was content.
Day 7 - Ballydavid to Cloghaun
Well, this wasn't actually Ballydavid to Cloghaun, since we were given a taxi ride from Ballydavid to the foot of the hike up Brandon Mountain. This wasn't really cheating - it's something that just about everyone walking the trail does to reduce the walk over the mountain and to the next village from a 17 mile adventure to a 14 mile adventure.
The weather was again questionable, and the locals were warning us against attempting the hike over the mountain because of lack of visibility. However, things had cleared up reasonably well by the time we reached the base of the mountain, so we decided to give it a shot.
Once again, we were trekking through sheep pastures, carefully avoiding dung piles. As we got higher up in elevation, fog and clouds moved in and we began to see why they would recommend not making the hike in such conditions - it wasn't that the trail was difficult or dangerous, it was that the next marker was difficult to see.
But we did manage. I was glad to finally be encountering some "real" elevation, although it was minor compared to other place I've been. After coming over the mountain, we found our self hiking through fields where they cut peat for use as fuel. Quite interesting.
As we headed towards Cloghaun and started to see a few more buildings and residences, we were chased after by a couple of girls wanting to know if we wanted to "see the gallery." We thought they were just playing "artist" and wanted to show us some of their work. But it turned out that the mother of one of the girls was the artist and this was her gallery. I rather liked her work and ended up buying a painting.
The last couple of miles in a 14 mile walk seem to take forever. Eventually, we did come to Cloghaun and our inn. And, thankfully, the small town had a number of pubs.
Day 8 - Cloghaun to Castlegregory
This was it, our last day of walking. That notion was somewhat bittersweet - we had pretty much both agreed that six days of walking was about enough, but the fact that our vacation would soon come to an end was a disappointing thought.
The weather on this day was glorious - sunny and comfortably warm. What made it even more glorious was the fact that most of our walking today was on beaches. One of the beaches, said to be the longest in Ireland, took us more than two hours to walk from end-to-end.
On this day, we once again continued our tradition of getting lost, but not as bad as on some of the other days.
And, once again, we carried on the tradition of showing up at our appointed B&B and being told that our plans had been changed. After about 45 minutes of being shuffled about and trying to locate our new accommodations, we finally were able to settle in.
Having so far missed the opportunity to try Irish Stew while in Ireland, I jumped at the chance when I saw it was the special at the Pub we were eating at. Let me tell you that I won't be jumping at that chance again. Irish Stew, at least this interpretation, turned out to be a rather bland combination of potatoes, carrots, and gristle-laden mutton. The most disappointing meal of the trip.
Day 9 - Back to Dublin
The walking was over. A train ride back to Dublin, a few hours walking around, shopping, and checking out the city's parks, and then to bed. In all, including the extra miles attributed to getting lost and searching for non-existent pubs, we figured we walked about 80 miles during our Dingle Way journey. It proved to be an ideal honeymoon. Now, on to the next adventure!
Copyright © 2002 by Greg Closter (closter@acadia.net)