Ireland, parts seven, eight and nine
March 31, 2007
Heaton's Guest House
An Daingean (Dingle)
SAMHAIN. The dog's name was Samhain! at the B&B in Kenmare. Granted, the innkeepers were only watching it for their son, who happens to be an Olympic skiier, but what's his fucking name? Michael Meyers?! Anyway, have left that place and am now in a new place. An Daingean, formerly Dingle - I guess they fully embrace their Celtic roots here - is a beautiful seaside town. Our room, which would be luxurious by any standards, is on the second floor overlooking the bay. However, we are now off to lunch. Short drive. Explain later.
"Da, I hafta have a poo!" That's what the boy standing in my way said in the pub. "Da" was busy watching football. And I couldn't tell whether he was more irritated by the kid informing the pub the status of his bowel movement schedule or having to turn away from football. I think it was the latter. Or is it the former? Now, where were we? Left Kenmare, stopped at the amazing O'Sheas Kenmare... launderette. Oh yes. Also know as the laundry mat. Yeah, they really all look the same. Line of dryers, line of washers ran by bleeding you dry of all your change. At Karen's suggestion, Erin & I went into town to wander. I think she was trying to give us all opportunity to get some time away. Which is just a little welcome for Erin & I. Not that we don't love her, but I challenge anyone to have unrelenting contact with their Mother-In-Law for two weeks without wanting just the briefest of breathers.
Oh yeah. Tried driving. One minute into it I nearly put us through a hedge. In my defense, I was adjusting my seat and we were only in the driveway. It's not like I ran a leprechaun down or hit David Beckham. Geez. The town's square of Kenmare is two right triangles, apex to apex. Don't ask me how that's a square. It just is. Busy little town. Come to think of it, you know what one of the oddest things has been while shopping? Doors. They're real. I mean, they're well... real. Not all glass with a push-bar and a pnuematic hinge at the top to push them closed. Going into a store is like walking into someone's home. Heavy, solid, free-swinging door. Actual door handle, with the old school barrel & tumbler keyhole! Just weird.
On the way back to the launderette, Erin pipes up with, "You know, Mother has her passport and credit card. If we left her she'd be able to get home." (Editor's note: As we sit here, Jared dictating and me typing, I say to Jared 'I can't believe I said that!' To which he replies, 'I have it right here. That's an actual quote!' In my defense, I'd never do that. But the thought at the time was nothing short of amusing to me - and to Jared. Like he said earlier... two weeks with your mother, you're going to want a bit of a breather. And I'm sure she felt the same about us.) We joking entertained it, but only if we left her luggage, too. Needless to say, we didn't maroon poor Karen with the greedy ham-fisted drying machines. After a few moments folding, we were off. Back down the same road we took yesterday. I know it sounds odd - that was the best way to the Ring of Kerry, and it's also the only main road North to An Daingean (Dingle).
We interrupt this journal entry to announce that Right Said Fred is doing detergent commercials in Europe. Details as they come in.
While we had already driven the North Road, it was nice... I notied things I didn't notice before: The gigantic blue lake with knife-like fingers of rocky shore, a couple of sheep heading south on the road, and a number of ruins. You know, you're all giggles and squeals the first time you see a ruin, nearly causing an accident, slamming on the brakes, swerving to get a better angle for the camera. By castle number ump-teen, you're lucky if someone in the car points and grunts. Winding our way through the Irish countryside and stopped off at the Kerry (that's County Kerry, not political hack Kerry) Woolen Mills and bought... wait for it... wool! Sweaters, scarves, yarn and hats. All were purchased and put in a bag by a smirking sales girl, who's finding something about us very amusing. Either it was us in general, or mine and Erin's witty banter or mock bickering. What ever it was, I'm sure it was the higlight of her day. We, along with a golden lab mauling what looked like a stuffed pig, were the only ones buying wool. Well, us buying, the dog, mauling.
Woolen goods in hand, we careen along the coast, sun glinting off the bay of Dingle while wind surfers are out in the frigid Atlantic. It was actually pretty warm - almost a searing 60 degrees. If I'd brought my trunks I would have dove right in to escape the heat! In case you can't tell, I'm being sarcastic. Anyone who gets in the Atlantic at this time of year has to be some sort of lunatic. Straight on through the lunatics and we arrive at our fantastic guest house. The view is beyone my ability to relate without sounding like every other rolling green landscape I've described, with an immense, choppy, white-capped blue bay, with two hills guarding the entrance complete with a ruined tower. Now, anyone who knows me knows I have an ascerbic sense of humor. Well, Karen's room is downstairs which makes bringing her bags in quite easier. Our upstairs room is very nice. So she playfully mentioned that she wanted it. I playfully replied, "You can have it as long as you carry your own bags up yourself." Well, she took it to heart. Which I didn't mean, but damn. Get over it. To make matters worse, when she told Erin, Erin's reaction was pretty much, "You're overreacting. Get over it." As a result, when we walked down to the pub for lunch, the great overgrown child not only wasn't talking to us, but was walking far ahead. "Are we being shunned?" I asked Erin. "Yes." Needless to say, lunch was on the chilly side. Eventually this will all blow over, but I'm tired of tip-toeing around her knee, and now her suitcases.
Well, enough of that ugliness. Back to Right Said Fred. No, I'd rather not. I'll have the song stuck in my head for days. I have no wish to do that to you either. Good night.
(Editor's note: I however, am not so kind. "I'm to sexy for my love, to sexy for my love, loves going to leave....." *skipps off*)
April 1, 2007
Heaton's Guest House
An Daingean (Dingle)
Today's entry will be short. I've very tired and the two whooping pints I had with dinner have gone right to my heb. Quite a bit happened today, so with lub I'll get the change to write about it all tommorror. (Editor's note: written as printed in Jared's journal. Misspellings and all.)
I just really want to make sure I do the An Daingean Penisula or Slea Head their justice. For the record, it kicks the crap out of that Ring-of-Tourist-Trap-Kerry. I would like to take the opportunity to mention the few things that I forgot. Alcohol with breakfast is the bestest thing ever. At both the B&B in Kenmare and the guest house here, they serve funtastic porridge! Not oatmeal, don't ask how it's different - I haven't the foggiest fucking idea. What do I look like, the Quaker Oat guy? With honey and cream. But they also add whiskey and cream at the Shelbourne in Kemare and Drambouie here at Heaton's. Yum yum yum in the tum tum tum. Wow. That was lame. Alcohol, no good for writing. I have no idea how Hemmingway did it. There was more I was going to mention, but I forgot. More later, I promise. Good night.
April 2, 207
Heaton's Guest House
An Daingean (Dingle)
Banoffee. Banoffee pie to be exact. That's what I forgot last night. How I forgot, I don't know because that was the best dessert I've ever had. Couldn't tell you what's in it... uh, filling? Whipped cream? Some sort of crust? All sprinkled with some tasty crack? So it's early. 7 in the morning. I figured I'd wake up early otherwise everything'd be behind. Besides, today is a busy day, just like yesterday. Oh crap. I haven't even written about yesterday yet.
Like I said, the An Daingean Peninsula was much better than the Ring of Kerry, where there was only one really good ocean view. The rest was peat and brown tufted grass. An no ancient ruins. At least none like on Slea Head. I saw a 500 BC stone fort. And it wasn't like some other sites where all there is is a few oddly stacked rocks next to a hole with a plaque saying "blah, blah, blah." The fortress was on the end of a small peninsula with a long stone wall, 7-8 feet high and at least that thick. There was a single doorway flanked by two guard houses. Unfortunately the cliff had collapsed, taking one of the guard houses a couple hundred feet below to the bottom. Once through the doorway, there was a courtyard with the remains of a stone beehive hut with rounded outer walls and squared inner ones. Kind of like an igloo made out of stone. Oh, that's another crazy thing. Being in construction, I like to see how things are built. The entire building, well, what was left of it, and the wall were both built by stacking a bunch of flattened rocks together in layers. Here's the kicker... no mortar! And they stand! Simply amazing. The only way I get a wall to stand is with concrete and rebar. And even sometimes that's iffy.
But wait, there's more! Just one km down the road was the beehive huts, dating back to 2000 BC. These had roofs! No mortar, nothing holding them together but gravity and clever stacking! These were up a steep hill overlooking the vast expanse of the Atlantic. Along with long, running slats of erroded, tumbled down cliffs extending as far as the eye could see. We could even see Dunbeg Stone Fort where we just were. Not to be confused with Drombeg Stone Circle (See previous post). I do have to say those ancient Celts know how to pick some fantastic views.
We continued on our tour stopping every now and then to take pictures of the coast or seagulls. We even saw a philosophical sheep! He was sitting at the top of a hill facing the ocean. He truly looked like the world was on his wooly shoulders as he sat and contemplated whatever it is a sheep of his stature contemplates.
The wind had whipped up and you could see the chop and white-caps of the bay. In the bay, the odd rock and sharp outcropping rose out of the ocean while you looked across it to Blasket Island. All along the edge of the cliffs were broken and erroded shards of previous eon's cliff faces, knocked loose by the constant pounding of the sea. In spots, the water line went from the deepest sapphire blue to the sharpest turquoise and emerald. Small, sandy beaches began to break through the cliffs as we made our way back to An -Daingean, blue watered and surrounded by cliffs tufted with long, thick clumps of grass. We would have stopped, but it was cold and we'd already visited Ventry Beach earlier in the day. I forgot to mention it. The sand was tiger-striped from the tide going out, and Erin was all little girl when she saw someone riding their horse on the beach. Well, I'm getting kicked out. Erin has to get ready. And heaven forbid I see her naked. More, but not now, later.
Heaton's Guest House
An Daingean (Dingle)
SAMHAIN. The dog's name was Samhain! at the B&B in Kenmare. Granted, the innkeepers were only watching it for their son, who happens to be an Olympic skiier, but what's his fucking name? Michael Meyers?! Anyway, have left that place and am now in a new place. An Daingean, formerly Dingle - I guess they fully embrace their Celtic roots here - is a beautiful seaside town. Our room, which would be luxurious by any standards, is on the second floor overlooking the bay. However, we are now off to lunch. Short drive. Explain later.
"Da, I hafta have a poo!" That's what the boy standing in my way said in the pub. "Da" was busy watching football. And I couldn't tell whether he was more irritated by the kid informing the pub the status of his bowel movement schedule or having to turn away from football. I think it was the latter. Or is it the former? Now, where were we? Left Kenmare, stopped at the amazing O'Sheas Kenmare... launderette. Oh yes. Also know as the laundry mat. Yeah, they really all look the same. Line of dryers, line of washers ran by bleeding you dry of all your change. At Karen's suggestion, Erin & I went into town to wander. I think she was trying to give us all opportunity to get some time away. Which is just a little welcome for Erin & I. Not that we don't love her, but I challenge anyone to have unrelenting contact with their Mother-In-Law for two weeks without wanting just the briefest of breathers.
Oh yeah. Tried driving. One minute into it I nearly put us through a hedge. In my defense, I was adjusting my seat and we were only in the driveway. It's not like I ran a leprechaun down or hit David Beckham. Geez. The town's square of Kenmare is two right triangles, apex to apex. Don't ask me how that's a square. It just is. Busy little town. Come to think of it, you know what one of the oddest things has been while shopping? Doors. They're real. I mean, they're well... real. Not all glass with a push-bar and a pnuematic hinge at the top to push them closed. Going into a store is like walking into someone's home. Heavy, solid, free-swinging door. Actual door handle, with the old school barrel & tumbler keyhole! Just weird.
On the way back to the launderette, Erin pipes up with, "You know, Mother has her passport and credit card. If we left her she'd be able to get home." (Editor's note: As we sit here, Jared dictating and me typing, I say to Jared 'I can't believe I said that!' To which he replies, 'I have it right here. That's an actual quote!' In my defense, I'd never do that. But the thought at the time was nothing short of amusing to me - and to Jared. Like he said earlier... two weeks with your mother, you're going to want a bit of a breather. And I'm sure she felt the same about us.) We joking entertained it, but only if we left her luggage, too. Needless to say, we didn't maroon poor Karen with the greedy ham-fisted drying machines. After a few moments folding, we were off. Back down the same road we took yesterday. I know it sounds odd - that was the best way to the Ring of Kerry, and it's also the only main road North to An Daingean (Dingle).
We interrupt this journal entry to announce that Right Said Fred is doing detergent commercials in Europe. Details as they come in.
While we had already driven the North Road, it was nice... I notied things I didn't notice before: The gigantic blue lake with knife-like fingers of rocky shore, a couple of sheep heading south on the road, and a number of ruins. You know, you're all giggles and squeals the first time you see a ruin, nearly causing an accident, slamming on the brakes, swerving to get a better angle for the camera. By castle number ump-teen, you're lucky if someone in the car points and grunts. Winding our way through the Irish countryside and stopped off at the Kerry (that's County Kerry, not political hack Kerry) Woolen Mills and bought... wait for it... wool! Sweaters, scarves, yarn and hats. All were purchased and put in a bag by a smirking sales girl, who's finding something about us very amusing. Either it was us in general, or mine and Erin's witty banter or mock bickering. What ever it was, I'm sure it was the higlight of her day. We, along with a golden lab mauling what looked like a stuffed pig, were the only ones buying wool. Well, us buying, the dog, mauling.
Woolen goods in hand, we careen along the coast, sun glinting off the bay of Dingle while wind surfers are out in the frigid Atlantic. It was actually pretty warm - almost a searing 60 degrees. If I'd brought my trunks I would have dove right in to escape the heat! In case you can't tell, I'm being sarcastic. Anyone who gets in the Atlantic at this time of year has to be some sort of lunatic. Straight on through the lunatics and we arrive at our fantastic guest house. The view is beyone my ability to relate without sounding like every other rolling green landscape I've described, with an immense, choppy, white-capped blue bay, with two hills guarding the entrance complete with a ruined tower. Now, anyone who knows me knows I have an ascerbic sense of humor. Well, Karen's room is downstairs which makes bringing her bags in quite easier. Our upstairs room is very nice. So she playfully mentioned that she wanted it. I playfully replied, "You can have it as long as you carry your own bags up yourself." Well, she took it to heart. Which I didn't mean, but damn. Get over it. To make matters worse, when she told Erin, Erin's reaction was pretty much, "You're overreacting. Get over it." As a result, when we walked down to the pub for lunch, the great overgrown child not only wasn't talking to us, but was walking far ahead. "Are we being shunned?" I asked Erin. "Yes." Needless to say, lunch was on the chilly side. Eventually this will all blow over, but I'm tired of tip-toeing around her knee, and now her suitcases.
Well, enough of that ugliness. Back to Right Said Fred. No, I'd rather not. I'll have the song stuck in my head for days. I have no wish to do that to you either. Good night.
(Editor's note: I however, am not so kind. "I'm to sexy for my love, to sexy for my love, loves going to leave....." *skipps off*)
April 1, 2007
Heaton's Guest House
An Daingean (Dingle)
Today's entry will be short. I've very tired and the two whooping pints I had with dinner have gone right to my heb. Quite a bit happened today, so with lub I'll get the change to write about it all tommorror. (Editor's note: written as printed in Jared's journal. Misspellings and all.)
I just really want to make sure I do the An Daingean Penisula or Slea Head their justice. For the record, it kicks the crap out of that Ring-of-Tourist-Trap-Kerry. I would like to take the opportunity to mention the few things that I forgot. Alcohol with breakfast is the bestest thing ever. At both the B&B in Kenmare and the guest house here, they serve funtastic porridge! Not oatmeal, don't ask how it's different - I haven't the foggiest fucking idea. What do I look like, the Quaker Oat guy? With honey and cream. But they also add whiskey and cream at the Shelbourne in Kemare and Drambouie here at Heaton's. Yum yum yum in the tum tum tum. Wow. That was lame. Alcohol, no good for writing. I have no idea how Hemmingway did it. There was more I was going to mention, but I forgot. More later, I promise. Good night.
April 2, 207
Heaton's Guest House
An Daingean (Dingle)
Banoffee. Banoffee pie to be exact. That's what I forgot last night. How I forgot, I don't know because that was the best dessert I've ever had. Couldn't tell you what's in it... uh, filling? Whipped cream? Some sort of crust? All sprinkled with some tasty crack? So it's early. 7 in the morning. I figured I'd wake up early otherwise everything'd be behind. Besides, today is a busy day, just like yesterday. Oh crap. I haven't even written about yesterday yet.
Like I said, the An Daingean Peninsula was much better than the Ring of Kerry, where there was only one really good ocean view. The rest was peat and brown tufted grass. An no ancient ruins. At least none like on Slea Head. I saw a 500 BC stone fort. And it wasn't like some other sites where all there is is a few oddly stacked rocks next to a hole with a plaque saying "blah, blah, blah." The fortress was on the end of a small peninsula with a long stone wall, 7-8 feet high and at least that thick. There was a single doorway flanked by two guard houses. Unfortunately the cliff had collapsed, taking one of the guard houses a couple hundred feet below to the bottom. Once through the doorway, there was a courtyard with the remains of a stone beehive hut with rounded outer walls and squared inner ones. Kind of like an igloo made out of stone. Oh, that's another crazy thing. Being in construction, I like to see how things are built. The entire building, well, what was left of it, and the wall were both built by stacking a bunch of flattened rocks together in layers. Here's the kicker... no mortar! And they stand! Simply amazing. The only way I get a wall to stand is with concrete and rebar. And even sometimes that's iffy.
But wait, there's more! Just one km down the road was the beehive huts, dating back to 2000 BC. These had roofs! No mortar, nothing holding them together but gravity and clever stacking! These were up a steep hill overlooking the vast expanse of the Atlantic. Along with long, running slats of erroded, tumbled down cliffs extending as far as the eye could see. We could even see Dunbeg Stone Fort where we just were. Not to be confused with Drombeg Stone Circle (See previous post). I do have to say those ancient Celts know how to pick some fantastic views.
We continued on our tour stopping every now and then to take pictures of the coast or seagulls. We even saw a philosophical sheep! He was sitting at the top of a hill facing the ocean. He truly looked like the world was on his wooly shoulders as he sat and contemplated whatever it is a sheep of his stature contemplates.
The wind had whipped up and you could see the chop and white-caps of the bay. In the bay, the odd rock and sharp outcropping rose out of the ocean while you looked across it to Blasket Island. All along the edge of the cliffs were broken and erroded shards of previous eon's cliff faces, knocked loose by the constant pounding of the sea. In spots, the water line went from the deepest sapphire blue to the sharpest turquoise and emerald. Small, sandy beaches began to break through the cliffs as we made our way back to An -Daingean, blue watered and surrounded by cliffs tufted with long, thick clumps of grass. We would have stopped, but it was cold and we'd already visited Ventry Beach earlier in the day. I forgot to mention it. The sand was tiger-striped from the tide going out, and Erin was all little girl when she saw someone riding their horse on the beach. Well, I'm getting kicked out. Erin has to get ready. And heaven forbid I see her naked. More, but not now, later.