Pt3 - 20:

I woke up with a hangover measuring 10.4 on the Richter Scale. If I weren’t feeling so righteous for helping Paddy last night I’d have stayed in bed. Timewise I can’t afford the luxury of lying around for a day either, there’s still too much to see before Paris. I loaded up with a full English and levered myself into the bullet for the drive out to Dunmore Head, which at 52^o11’N and 10^o48’W is the westernmost point on the Irish mainland and the westernmost point of the Awfully Big Adventure.

The short loop on the R559 has to be one of the most beautiful little drives in the world and I felt the mushroom cloud lifting as I stepped out to inspect Dunbeg Fort and the ancient beehive huts in the shadow of Mount Eagle. These dry-stone Iron Age igloos are perched on the edge of the cliff overlooking the mouth of Dingle Bay and the vast sweep of the Atlantic Ocean. It must have been a bit breezy in poor weather, but the stones are so forensically laid there’s nary a sliver of light to be seen from the inside. Further on, the views from Slea and Dunmore Heads out to the Blasket Islands are nothing short of breathtaking, especially in the ethereal light cast on this warm, serene morning.

The R559 clings to the clifftops right around to Clogher Head, passing through the impossibly pretty little village of Dunquin on the way. From Clogher it cuts across to the Gallarus Oratory, which is the finest example of dry-stone building you’re ever likely to see. As much as I hate to give religion credit for anything, you have to concede it’s inspired some soaring art and iconic architecture. The beauty of Gallurus is not in its scale, which is humble to say the least, nor in its exotic embellishments, of which there are approximately none, but in the simplicity of line and fine craftsmanship. This is Iron Age poetry in stone.  

Back at Garvey’s Farm I dozed off the last vestiges of the hangover and got a few things organised for the next leg of the journey tomorrow. I promised myself a night off from the craic.

I lied.

*

By one pm I was on the loose in Killarney. I stayed out of town itself and drove up to the Aghadoe Lookout above nearby Fossa. The view took in Lough Leane and the dramatic mountains of Killarney National Park. Moody clouds snagged on the taller peaks, but it was dry and the air still on another sub-tropical day. According to Carmel, the lady who runs Tara B&B where I booked in earlier, there’s an interesting walk trail trough a place called Tomie’s Wood on the western shore of Leane. I’ve done a few lazy walks in Ireland, but nothing really serious since Camastianavaig on Skye and it sounded like the perfect penance for all the recent excesses.

Tomie’s trail ran for a while through private property, as they do here, and I bumped into a young farmer working on a fence outside his house. He got very excited when I told him I was from the southwest of Western Australia. Jim would have been in his early 30s, was well-versed in geography and most interested in our local native Jarrah forests and the characteristics of the wood itself. He’d seen jarrah, he said, in London in the form of very expensive chopping boards. Like every second Irish person (and Greek person, for that matter) he had relatives in Melbourne and hoped to visit one day. We chatted companionably for about half an hour before we bid each other good day.

The walk was longer and more challenging than I expected, but a good workout for this flabby arse. It followed the shoreline of Leane to Sullivan’s Cascade, a pretty waterfall in the heart of what Jim assured me was Europe’s oldest oak forest. Everything that didn’t move was covered in a dense carpet of damp green moss. In the dim, dappled light I caught a glimpse of my first wild deer, and I swear I heard leprechauns chuckling in a small cave formed by fallen rocks…though that may have been the blood beating in my temples. From Sullivan’s the track rose steeply behind the lake, through glades punctuated with colourful fungi and the bearded trunks of venerable trees. I was sweating pure Guinness when I finally stumbled into the carpark after five.

*

In a largely successful strategy designed to avoid the convoy of tour buses, I left Tara early and tackled the Ring of Kerry clockwise. For such an insanely popular tourist attraction, probably one of the most visited in Ireland, the road is dangerously narrow and in places downright lethal. More than once I wondered whether it wouldn’t be better to be sitting behind the buses than meeting them head on around blind corners on unmarked surfaces, but there you go.

The scenery was pretty damn scenic, from the northern coastline along the mouth of the Kenmare River, which is more like a bay, to the quaint villages of the Skellig Ring right on the very tip of Iveragh. I paused at O’Grady’s Bar in Kilorglin for a pint of the usual and the second half of the All Ireland Gaelic Football Final between Kerry and Mayo. Fortunately, Kerry won. The game appeared to be a no contest and the half so short I’d barely sipped my pint before it was over. The 65,601 spectators were as vocal as any AFL crowd and the barrackers in O’Grady’s totally fanatical. Situation abnormal.

I’ve decided I need to spend less time behind the wheel. I’m looking forward to Dublin, where I can leave the bullet to rest up a bit while I make the most of what I’ve been told is a very efficient public transport system.

*

There wasn’t a lot to see between Killarney and Blarney. Kinsale was a disappointingly soulless collection of pop-up condos and Cork was a traffic jam. I arrived in Blarney and went straight to pucker up. Except I didn’t, because I couldn’t find the famous stone. I asked an old fella on the street. “Troo d’ village to d’ left. Ye can’t miss it.” I missed it. I drove through the village and about 2 kilometres out the other side, where I came to some roadworks. I couldn’t decide if they were fixing the road or digging new potholes and throwing a bit of loose gravel down. I followed the detour signs along frighteningly narrow lanes; too often I found trucks careening towards me in the middle of a track barely wide enough for two bicycles. There’s never a dull moment on Irish roads. To cut a 25-kilometre-out-of-the-way story short I ended up back in the centre of Blarney where I saw the sign I’d missed on the first pass. The bloody castle was hidden behind the trees just a hundred meters off the road.

I composed myself, paid my quid and made straight for the stone. It’s at the top of a tower and attended by a man whose job it is to ease the punters down backwards through the gap in the battlement until they can smooch the stone in question, and to prevent them plummeting to a grisly death. I was struck by how eroded the stone was, like an ancient step turned on its side. I tried not to think of how many lips had smacked the very spot I placed mine now…the things you do just to be able to say you’ve done them.

And I have to say I didn’t notice any immediate improvement in the gab. In fact, it deteriorated steadily during that evening at the Muskerry Arms, although I did learn to pronounce Taoiseach (Prime Minister) correctly. Obviously, it’s Teeshirk.

Slainte!

*

Mindful of the march of time I plotted a course from Blarney that shaved off the southeast corner of Ireland and took me virtually straight to Dublin via Cashel and Kilkenny.

I drove.

I stopped at the Rock of Cashel and a nice looking rock it is too. It has something to do with St Pat and used to be the seat of the local kings. I admired the finely restored medieval architecture, and the Celtic artwork and high cross were some of the best I’ve seen, though I confess to largely avoiding cathedrals, churches and art galleries after OD-ing on them on the continent and in the UK. I’ve lobbed on a handful of small regional museums, but most of the Celtic stonework so far has been in the form of roadside shrines.

I drove.

I paused for food and a stretch in Kilkenny. It’s a beautiful city of manicured parks and clean streets and worthy of more than a passing glance.

I drove.

By six o’clock I’d had enough. On spec, I pulled into the driveway of a farmhouse B&B near a flyspeck called Hacketstown in County Carlow.  It turned out to be one of those little gems.

A green paddock containing a dozen decorative cows stood between the road and the new two storey house, and very fine cows they were. The house, palatial by rural Irish standards, was surrounded by a sort of gravel moat. An elderly couple recently retired and just returned from England were looking after the place for the day while the owners were away at a Ploughing Competition in Co Offaly – the excitement never stops in these parts. The lady led me upstairs to a snug room with twin beds and a sparkling en suite and quoted me 15 Irish quid (A$ bugger all). I thought she’d got it wrong and half expected the owners to tell me later it was actually twice that but they didn’t, fifteen quid it was.

I dropped my gear and drove the sixteen ks to Baltinglass through a warm autumn evening. Plump sheep grazed contentedly in the green fields. The Wicklow Mountains brooded in the distance under a layer of light cloud vividly coloured in the long twilight. I had chicken madras alone in the local bar and drove back to the farm about 8:30.

As I got to the foot of the stairs Siobhan came out of the kitchen and introduced herself. We small talked a bit before her husband joined us. Larry had a face that would look good under a small pair of horns, mischief writ large all over it. He talked me into another Guinness on top of the two I’d already had at the bar and we retired to the loungeroom. I was tired from the day’s drive but they were so pleasant I didn’t have the heart to make my excuses. I listened politely while they explained the finer points of the ploughing competition. Contestants plough a small plot and judges consider the symmetry and height of the furrows. There are sheep dog trials, machinery displays and all the other stuff you’d expect at a field day back home.

Eventually, Larry asked if I’d tried porcheen, or poteen. I’d heard of this of course, Irish moonshine, but it’s not the sort of stuff you generally stumble across in your travels. I’d had just enough Guinness to think a taste would be a good idea. “It comes from the hills in the west,” he said conspiratorially. “It’s illegal.” You don’t say? Nudge nudge, wink, wink.

“So there’s a distribution network?” I asked.

He nodded sagely, “You have to know someone.” He knew someone.

He produced a green bottle, unscrewed the lid and held it under my nose. It had the bouquet of aviation spirit. He poured about 40ml into a small glass. It’s difficult to describe the all round experience of poteen, but if I was I wine judge I’d probably say it had notes of solvent on the palate with a reflex hammer to the base of the skull and a lingering aftertaste of Vegemite.

I slept very well.

*

What impressed me most about the road to Glendalough were the long tree tunnels I passed through. Technically I suppose they’re avenues, but whatever they’re called they were simply delightful, casting dancing shades on the bullet as we drifted beneath, the autumnal hues of the foliage a pleasure to the eye. Along the Vales of Avoca and Clara, past the Meeting of the Waters to the ancient monastic site itself in the Glen of Two Lakes, the lyrical landscape echoed the names. I had enough time to take a 70 minute walk around the ruins and along the shores of the Upper Lake. Deeper in the steep sided glen I could see the showers and swirling mist of falling white streams and could feel the moisture lightly on my face. Refreshed, I hopped back in the bullet and set the compass for Dublin.

Next week: In Dublin's fair city...