Thursday, May 30, 2013

Dingle, Ireland

Dia duit—Hello from the land of Saints and Scholars!

Ireland is every bit as green and beautiful as they say. We have only ten days on the island, but we’re determined to see as much of it as we can.

Traveling with Jason and me is Cyrus, who is now 15 and towers over both of us at 6’4”, and who hasn’t been out of the country since we returned from The (original) Big Field Trip three years ago. The day before our return to the homeland, the kids banded together in a rare display of solidarity and demanded we vow never again to force them to travel. In a moment of weakness and homesickness, Jason and I admitted that it had been an unforgivable, if creative, form of child abuse to compel three otherwise well-rounded children to fritter away two years of childhood gallivanting around the globe. Consequently we agreed to their mandate. Though we still get a wild hair a couple times a year to travel somewhere exotic, we’ve stuck to our promise and have thus far allowed the children to stay home with Grandma and Grandpa.

I swear that Cyrus’s decision to accompany us to Ireland has been totally voluntary. Their resolve, it seems, is growing weak. Last year Jason and I spent a couple weeks biking the countryside in France. We called home one evening to video conference with the kids and forced them to take in the view from the window of our bed and breakfast—cobblestone village, rolling hills, cherry trees in bloom, probably some fellow in a beret selling baguettes. By the end of the call, they were practically begging us to take them traveling again. Mission accomplished. But only for short stints, they insisted. No more of this two-year baloney. We agreed and have decided that each summer we will bring one of them on a new adventure. We want them each to experience traveling without the entire entourage, which is a different affair altogether. Since Cyrus is the oldest, and has the fewest years left at home, he had first dibs on Ireland and decided to cash in.

Also joining us is my beloved Pa, with whom I haven’t traveled since our family trips to Colorado in the wood-paneled station wagon back in the 70s. My recollection of these childhood vacations always includes Pa behind the wheel (Coors Light in hand to keep the edge off), the six of us kids piled in the backseat (just within slapping range), and Ma in the passenger seat nervously poring over the map. I’m wedged between three younger sisters—one on each side and another on my lap—all of whom are vomiting heartily into empty Pringles cans, while my older brothers try out their new Charlie horses and Indian rug burns on any exposed limbs, and Pa, upon realizing that we’re lost again, teaches us some of the more colorful uses of the English language.

This is Pa’s first time out of the Americas, and Ireland was his idea. He immediately regretted it, of course, when he learned that the land of leprechauns could very well be void of Coors Light or chicken wings. By then it was too late, however, as Jason was already hammering out our itinerary. We’ll not be asking him to help drive, or navigate for that matter, in the hopes that he will sit back and just enjoy the trip.

It was Jason’s foolish notion to rent a car for our whirlwind tour around the country, so I had no qualms about letting him take the first stab at driving on the wrong side of the road. After settling into the front left-hand seat, keys-in-hand, and noticing the marked lack of steering wheel or pedals, he jumped back out and slid in behind the wheel on the right-hand side. He spent a few moments attempting to locate the stick shift (which he eventually found to the left of the wheel), exhaled deeply, then turned the key in the ignition. He killed the engine a few times and then, with mustered confidence, pulled out onto the wrong, wrong side of the road into on-coming traffic causing minor cardiac arrests in the rest of us. We decided it would be best to head away from the city into the countryside in the hopes of getting a feel for driving backwards first without jeopardizing large populations of flame-heads. So, off we sputtered in our little Skoda toward the interior of the Emerald Isle.

We headed first to Kilkenny and on to the Rock of Cashel, where Pa was giddy exploring his very first castle, and Jason and I, inspired anew by medieval architecture, pondered how we might retrofit our adobe back in Santa Fe with a murder door in case enemies should make it through the courtyard. Next, we headed west toward the Atlantic coast. Along our route we tallied twenty-one castle towers, a half dozen times that Pa hollered I’m in Ireland! and five short-in-the-front-long-in-the-back mullets on ginger-haired toddlers (which we all agreed was a form of child abuse even more deplorable than global gallivanting, and also a great offense to the fish that shares its name with the vile hairdo). Just before nightfall, we arrived on the Dingle Peninsula, our tour’s southernmost point on the western shore. Here, the Gaelic culture and language are said to be the strongest and the beer follows suit.

We spent the days exploring iron-age and early Christian rock piles and green cliffs around the peninsula, and evenings wandering the town. Pub crawling seems to be what you do after dark when in Ireland, and who are we to break with tradition? Every evening we wandered from pub to pub sampling Irish delicacies and searching for the most lively conversation and music. Between melodies, while the flutes and bagpipes were wetting their whistles, Jason mined the locals for culinary advice, Cyrus sipped on minerals and responded to queries relating to his height (and his lovely jumper), and Pa offered recommendations to folks from the countryside who were in town for the holiday weekend regarding new jingles they might consider using to deride opponents from Dingle proper.

Dingle berries

Let’s go get

Beat those worthless

Balls of …

Our favorite pubs thus far have been those that wear multiple hats, such as hardware stores where you can get your hammer and nails, along with a frosty pint of Guinness. Or Dick Mac’s, the cobbler-pub in Dingle where the right side of the bar is lined with bottles of liquor and a dozen taps serving up fresh brewed ales, the left is stacked with rubber boots and recently repaired shoes awaiting pick-up, and in the center pub-goers of all ages crowd around musicians belting out Irish jigs interspersed occasionally with a gloomy Gaelic ballad.

I’m trying to convince Pa to grab a guitar and take the stage one of these evenings to show off some of his American-style rock and/or roll. I’ll let you know soon whether I’m successful. For now, it’s pub-o’clock.

Ta-ta,

Angela