Donna and I made our latest trip to our beloved Dingle, Ireland recently and it only deepened our love for this amazing piece of the world.
From our first interaction, with the easygoing Customs officer at the pleasant Shannon airport, to the conversations we struck up with virtually everyone we came in contact with – locals or fellow American tourists at pubs and restaurants, in shops, on hikes, to visiting old haunts and discovering new places, to just taking in the natural beauty of the Dingle Peninsula, which National Geographic has called the most beautiful place on Earth, we feel almost at home here as we do in Maryland.
This trip we stayed an unprecedented three weeks as an
experiment to see if we would become bored or restless for that amount of time.
We decidedly did not. It was a blessing to have so much time to just be here without
immediately eyeing the calendar to see how few days remaining we had. We were
able to tune out the vitriol plaguing our country and fully experience the easy,
relaxed, live-in-the-moment atmosphere of western Ireland.
Well, mostly.
We landed just as the blockade of the Strait of Hormuz was impacting
Ireland. Farmers, suffering from skyrocketing fuel and fertilizer prices, had
managed to block the main port of entry for fuel tanker ships, demanding the
government temporarily repeal petrol and diesel taxes. They also set up
blockades with giant tractors and trucks at entry ramps to main highways,
including the M18 we were to use to get from the airport to our first
destination, and from there to Dingle. Thanks to a heads-up from the car rental
agent at Shannon, we were able to circumvent the blockades and arrive at our
first destination, Dromoland Castle, with little fuss.
The next morning, as we began what would ordinarily be a 2-1/2
hour drive to Dingle, the blockades were more widespread and we had to re-route
maybe half a dozen times. The drive took considerably longer than usual, but
thanks to the magic of GPS, we never got lost on Ireland’s patchwork of tiny roads
and obscure, Irish language road signs. After a few days, the government
acquiesced and the protests stopped, putting an end to widespread fuel shortages
that had us on edge.
Here are descriptions of three adventures we had during our
sixth trip to our Paradise….
Dingle Lighthouse Walk
We parked on the Strand and walked to the Information Center to ask for directions to the five-mile hiking path to Dingle’s lighthouse. “Follow the walkway round the marina and at the gas station (she knew we were Americans), make a right into the cul-de-sac and you’re on your way,” said the pleasant lady behind the desk.
This was the first rain-free day we encountered. Despite the
high winds, the day turned out to be the start of a rustically magnificent walk.
The bulkhead gave way to a mud-and-dung-rich cow pasture, replete with
uncurious chewing bovines. We bid them hello, then continued on along various
tiny, sloppy paths, all with breathtaking views of Dingle Bay and the mountains
beyond. We climbed stone steps over ancient walls, squeezed through tiny wall
breaks, climbed over cattle gates, and tried to avoid the ubiquitous muck left after
at least a week of near-endless rain.
We continued on the path, along the edge of a cliff with a
rocky, seaweed-laden beach below. The beach, called Slaudeen, is where Dingle
people have learned to swim for generations. The stiff sea breeze was
invigorating. We reached the unimpressive lighthouse, which still lights at
night. It was used as a navigational beacon back in the day; it and the Eask Tower (pronounced “Eshk”)
on the other side of the bay provided seafarers a visual guide into Dingle
Harbor in generations past.
We found a place to sit, ate the sandwiches we had packed,
conversed with a couple of fellow hikers from California who were passing
through, and took in the glorious sights, sounds, and smells before heading
back to our car.
On a subsequent walk on the same path, we went beyond the
lighthouse toward Bin Ban beach, listed as a “hidden gem” on the internet. As we
approached, a walker ahead of us had turned around and told us the path to the
beach was closed because of a shipwreck. Intrigued, we plowed ahead and were
able to get a glimpse of a trawler pinned to the rocks at a 45-degree angle. A
large platform had been erected offshore to support the efforts to remove the
ship, which we later learned sailed from Dingle harbor on Dec. 14 in poor
weather. Its engines failed and it was washed into the rocks. Here’s a link to an
article and pictures.
Great Blasket Island
On our last trip to Ireland, in 2024, with several of Donna’s siblings and their spouses, we took a scenic boat tour through Dingle Bay and Blasket Sound, then spent a few hours on the island.
There are not, I’m sure, more beautiful spots on this planet. The island’s own bucolic beauty, with sloping rocky pastures populated by grazing sheep and their suckling lambs, the haunting ruins of stone cottages and stone dividing walls, the seal-filled strand, and a variety of birds floating, wheeling, and diving, is unmatched.
Then there are
the exquisite views of Inishtooskert (the Sleeping Giant rock) and Skellig
Michael in the pounding sea and Dunquin Harbor, Mount Eagle, and ranges of
mountains in front of more distant ones, themselves in front of yet further
ones, on the Dingle peninsula. They looked like strips of paper cutouts in
varying hues of dull gunmetal gray.
Donna had booked an overnight stay for us in one of the cottages
built around 1912 by the Irish government to help alleviate poor living
conditions.
We arrived at the pier in Ventry on the Slea Head road for
the boat to take us across the way to Blasket, a one-hour trip. There was a
group of grandmother-aged women having a swim in the frigid black April water. Seeing
that a boat would be docking at the pier to take us and other tourists, they
vacated the water, smiling and chatting to one another as if they had finished
having tea in a café.
When our boat arrived, we descended the concrete pier stairs
the women had just ascended, loaded ourselves and our backpacks aboard, and off
we went.
The trip across was uneventful. An ecologist on board named
Jon shared information about sea life, birds, and interesting land formations.
We got a different perspective of Slea Head, which we have driven on many
occasions, and saw the hairpin turn with the “Cornerstone of the Peninsula” crucifix
that was erected in the 1950s as a memorial to fishermen who have lost their
lives at sea. Mostly, we ogled the breathtaking land- and sea-scapes.
On our approach to the island we saw ruins and
still-standing cottages of people who had made Blasket their home for many
generations. The island was settled at least as early as the 1500s and it was
primarily an isolated, Irish-speaking, self-sufficient community until its
evacuation in 1953.
Some of those homes had been occupied by men and women whose oral stories about life on the primitive island have been captured, translated, and read by millions – Peig Sayers, Tomas O’Crohan, Maurice O’Sullivan, and others. Tomas O’Crohan, in his book, The Islander, describes how the Blasket men would row the three miles of turbulent sea to Dunquin to sell their goods – fish, lobster, sheep, wool – sometimes walking the 10 miles of the Slea Head road to Dingle to sell animals and carouse. Dingle hasn’t changed much in the 100 years since O’Crohan’s time going there as a young man; Donna and I love walking along Goat Street and wondering which of the pubs he and the other Blasket Islanders may have frequented.
Upon landing, we and a few others hopped off the boat and
made the steep climb up to the “lower” original cottage ruins, then up some
more to the “upper” cluster of homes built later, to greet the Blasket’s caretakers,
Aisling (Ashley) and Conor, who had just begun their six-month assignment. In
addition to maintenance and repair work, they operate a small snack shop and provide
services to the overnight visitors.
Our cottage wasn’t ready for us yet, so we dropped our
backpacks with them and hiked around the island’s highest mountain, Croaghmore.
What is ordinarily a one-hour trek took us nearly two because of boot-sucking muddy
conditions.
But it was without question the most beautiful hike we have ever taken and are likely to take. The views, of the Sleeping Giant, Skellig Michael, the vibrant, shimmering sea (Donna saw a minke whale!), the mountains on the Irish coast, and fluffy sheep and lambs – are beyond description. If you ever have an opportunity to make that hike, do so at any cost.
On our return from the hike our cottage was ready for us. It had been the home of one Dairmaid (Jerry) O’Se and his family and abutted the home of famous island author Peig Sayers. The cottage had two rooms on the first floor, each with a coal stove, and two bedrooms upstairs.
Updated and
modernized since the O’Se’s had occupied it, there was a gas cooking stove and
a sink with running cold water, and a toilet. There was no electricity nor hot
water. The smaller of the lower rooms had a well-worn wraparound sofa.
At around 4:00 pm Conor started the stoves for us and showed us how to keep them going. It was already cold and getting colder, the wind whipping around and through the cottage’s many gaps and holes. We decided to not sleep upstairs, even with the inviting beds, because it was unheated. So we ate the peanut butter sandwiches we had packed that morning, wrapped ourselves in provided horse blankets, and hunkered down on the sofa.
We made heavy use of the flask
of Jameson’s and two special shot glasses we had bought in town and gazed
contentedly into the fire that we fed every hour or two with more lumps of
coal. At around 2:30 we looked outside and the sky was nearly white with stars.
There were more stars visible than we saw at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.
The next morning we had granola bars and instant coffee,
took an easy walk through a different part of the island, said our good-byes to
Aisling and Conor, and hopped on the morning boat back to Ventry. It was an experience
we will cherish forever.
Mizen Head
We made the drive from our rental house in Dingle to our
hotel in Schull, a quaint seaside town, in four hours or so. Along the way we
stopped in Bantry. We unintentionally missed the vibrant main downtown area and
parked on a back street among a few shops and vacant storefronts. Finding an
open pub, with three men at the bar nursing beers in the semi-darkness, we
asked if there was a good place for food nearby. The barmaid recommended
Teasey’s Bistro, two blocks over. The little bake-shop, run by two nice
friendly women, had seven tables and filled shortly after we arrived. As we
ordered a slice of cake for dessert after a good lunch, the proprietress
informed us that she would like to seat a lady with us, as there were no empty
tables. We agreed and Noreen, an elderly woman with the gift of the Blarney,
joined us and we struck up a lively conversation while she waited for her
lunch. Only in Ireland....
The next morning we made the 30-minute drive to Mizen Head,
regarded as the southernmost point of mainland Ireland, along the rural roads
not much wider than a bicycle path.
The wind was vicious, nothing like the scaraveen we had
experienced in Dingle and Blasket. It reminded us of videos we have seen from
the top of Mount Washington in New Hampshire. The ocean was writhing like a
giant, powerful wounded animal, throwing itself upon the granite rocks and
cliffs in a mad unending thrashing. We thought of the terror it must have
induced in even the bravest sailors in bygone days. Those who ventured too
close to the rocks perished as their ships were smashed to bits.
We entered the visitor center. As intense as the wind was,
the man at the ticket desk told us the day before it was twice as strong and
they nearly had to close the facility, noting that two daredevils had foolishly
gone out.
We braved the elements and crossed the walking bridge made
famous by social media. The views from the bridge, like so many other natural wonders,
can’t be adequately captured in photographs, or in words, for that matter. Being
there you feel the awesome power of nature, see the effects of its vast colliding
energy, and marvel at its beauty. It’s terrifying and beautiful, all at the
same time.
Across the bridge are more walkways to give you viewpoints
above and below the bridge, and the old signal station that has been converted
to a museum. A hearty docent imparted facts and information about the station
and its sister 175-foot-tall lighthouse, Fastnet, built on a
granite rock nine miles out to sea and completed in 1904. It replaced earlier
lighthouses that either emitted insufficient light or were destroyed by the weather,
and significantly reduced the number of shipwrecks and fatalities.
We returned to our temporary home, high above the town of
Dingle but just a 20-minute walk to the marina, pubs, restaurants and shops we enjoy.
Unlike the crashing chaos of Mizen Head, here there is no sound but birdsong
and the occasional baa-ing of sheep. We sit on the patio and gaze out onto the
exquisite pastoral views, already looking forward to our next trip to the
Emerald Isle. God willing, it won’t be too far in the future.
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