The Top Floor Flat

On Saturday morning, I awoke to the sound of a torrential downpour loud enough to wake me before my alarm. This was especially unfortunate as our guide Kevin had specifically asked us all to pray for clear weather as Saturday was the day we were meant to drive along the south and south-west coastline of Ireland. Not to be daunted, however, we piled onto the bus and left Killarney headed towards the Dingle Peninsula.

The day before, Kevin had introduce a “game” for the duration of the trip called “Rate my Date,” which, somewhat unsurprisingly, involved the rest of the group rating any dates that should happen to be introduced while we were touring. The rules were simple: a date had to accompany you to the bus in the morning before we left to be rated by the group (he/she wouldn’t know what was going on, nor the score they received). Points were awarded based on overall looks but lost if the date was an animal (literally. Like a sheep or a cow.) or another member of the tour group. Suffice it to say, everyone was intrigued as to whether or not anyone would actually be brave enough to bring to, or be able to convince and local to visit, the bus in the morning. Despite some rather amorous local farmers the night before, our rainy morning brought with it no ratable dates but there was some speculation as to the (decidedly low) scores any of our new friends from the night before would have received.

This conversation carried us most of the way to Dingle and the Dingle Peninsula by which time the weather had not only cleared but had become gloriously sunny and the water sparkled in the light. We made a brief stop to Dingle to visit the statue of Fungie the Dolphin, erected in honor of the supposedly tame dolphin in the waters off of the peninsula, although no real dolphins were in sight. From there we drove all the way around the peninsula, making some choice photo stops along the gorgeous coastal drive.

Next, we stopped to take a quick walk to the edge of a rock face that we were told was the westernmost point of Europe (Iceland conveniently ignored because it’s technically on the North American tectonic plate, not the same one as the rest of Europe). The wind was tremendous and the water surrounded us on three sides – standing there on the end of the cliff truly felt like standing at the edge of the world.

From the Dingle Peninsula, we drove north towards the river Shannon. This river is the longest in the British Isles and the estuary on the west coast was so wide that we had to take a ferry across. The weather had become absolutely glorious and the 20 minute ferry ride definitely was not long enough as we all lazed in the sun enjoying the view from the deck towards either side of the river Shannon. It was a bit unfortunate that we all had to get back in the stuffy bus when the weather was so nice but we couldn’t waste any time once arriving on the other side of the river in County Clare in heading towards our next stop, the Cliffs of Moher.

The Cliffs were stunning but of particular interest to me was the fact, as shared by my dad, that the former owner of the property that included the Cliffs was named Fitzgerald (although unfortunately one that was very unlikely to be any relation to my family). The small castle at the top of the cliffs, we were told, was basically the secret lover’s hideaway of a local king and his many, many amorous conquests but I’ll admit that if an Irish king brought me to that location, I’d be willing to return the favour myself. The setting was indescribable and the sheer cliffs, over 600 feet high in some places, made for quite the impressive view.

We had a long chance to stretch our legs following the paths over the Cliffs of Moher and then it was only 15 minutes down the road to Doolin, our second night’s home. Doolin was described as a town with “four pubs and six street lights.” I thought I had roughly estimated the size of the town but when we arrived I realised that I was way off – six street lights didn’t refer to red, yellow, green stop lights, they referred to the actual lamp posts. Suffice it to say, Doolin certainly didn’t offer much by way of metropolitan entertainment.

What it did offer, however, was some incredible local ruins (before dinner I took a short hike up to the ruined church and cemetery, a slightly creepy location where numerous Spaniards had been hung to death by occupying British after the destruction of the Spanish Armada along the Irish coasts), delicious local seafood from the waters not 500 metres away, and traditional Irish music. Doolin is, in fact, considered the home of traditional Irish music and we were treated to a “session” or impromptu concert by whoever shows up with instruments, at one of the local pubs.

I spent the whole day in awe of the beauty around me – I’ve never thought of myself as a city person and every time I leave London, especially when I travel somewhere rural such as Wales, Scotland or now Ireland, it’s reconfirmed how much I enjoy being out in the country. I loved Doolin and standing on the edge of the Dingle Peninsula was certainly one of my top life moments. I could have stayed half the night chatting and listening to the music in Doolin but instead I turned in at a reasonable hour to rest up for my final full day in Ireland.