We are all a little bit Irish

We are all a little bit Irish, aren’t we?  And that’s a good thing.  That little bit of grit you have is from your Irish roots.  That little bit of humor, that’s Irish too.  The ability to get up and do a hard day’s work after having a pint or two the night before, that’s from the Irish blood in your veins.

If your name is Lynch, Flynn, Moore, Means, McCarthy, Kennedy, Murphy, or anything that begins with an O’ — just to name a few — you are likely Irish.

This country rears the sweetest, friendliest, hardworking people I’ve ever met, and they’ll quickly say, No one is a stranger.  And the land is a heavenly blessing to see!  No wonder we all want to be Irish. 

This is indeed an exceedingly beautiful island.  It is GREEN, but the farmer who owns the little Airbnb house where we are staying told us that just two weeks ago, the landscape was brown.  They had no rain for 8 weeks during the spring.  That was alarming.  But the rains finally came and made the land green again, the kind of green only seen in the spring.   Stacked stone fences put down many generations ago are covered with so many mosses, grasses, and wildflowers that they look like hedges, not stone rows. The sheep and the cows in pastures are fat and contented as they delight in chewing the tender green grass that seems to grow an inch or two each night.  Oh, glorious rain!  The farmers are rejoicing and dancing! No, although they are happy, this time of year means hard work; they are tending the herds and harvesting that fresh tender grass to make silage that the cattle will be thankful for this winter. 

We landed at the Dublin Airport early in the morning, happy to find cool, damp weather.  What a refreshing change from the heatwave that hit France just before we left.  We rented our car and began the 4-hour drive to our Airbnb in County Cork, near the southwestern coast of Ireland.   

We learned an important lesson that day.  Never embark on a 4-5 hour driving trip after an early morning flight requiring a 3:30 am wake-up.  

Excited to see the green countryside and tiny villages, we opted to take the scenic route. Not too far out of Dublin, we stopped roadside to buy just-picked strawberries and gooseberries from a young man selling them from a table. We were stoked! About two hours into the drive, it became a miserable trip.  Our lack of sleep the night before and early flight caught up with us. Only Stan was authorized to drive the rented car, but even if we chose to break the rules, we both were too tired to drive . . . especially when driving on very narrow winding roads in a standard shift car, shifting with the left hand, steering with the right, and keeping the car on the left lane of the road. Four hours became six hours.

Even the car’s safety system recognized a fatigued driver.  After pulling over for a brief rest, thankfully, God had not given up on us and brought us safely to our farmhouse home for the next week. 

Though we have visited Ireland in the past, this area is new to us.  This visit, we are driving the Wild Atlantic Way.  This popular highway outlines the coasts of three major peninsulas in southwest Ireland:  Dingle Peninsula, the Kerry, and the Beara.  Each is a bit unique, but each is particularly scenic.   

Clearly, Ireland fulfills its reputation for beauty.  Every house has a view, and why not?  In every direction, the pastoral scenery produces a picturesque setting with rolling hills, streams, and valleys on which herds of sheep meander freely about.  And what a quiet life this must be. Towns and villages are sometimes many miles apart. In those long stretches of hillsides, rocky bluffs, and pastures, sometimes a single farmhouse can be seen sitting alone, distant from any other house or person. The sight reminds me that family depends upon family.

It cannot be said too often: Ireland is green, green, exceptionally green and rocky.  In some places, immense granite stone rises up almost unexpectedly out of the land.  On the Ring of Kerry, we stopped to view the Kerry Cliffs, where an angry North Atlantic Ocean crashes along threatening, tall rocky cliffs.  The weather was misty that day, as it is almost every day, but the contrast of black mountainous stone dotted with green outcrops, against the jewel-toned indigo, sapphire, and white sea was breathtaking.  Even more breathtaking was the wind on these high cliffs. In some gusts, we felt ourselves being lifted; at times, it was a struggle to maintain footing. 

The Wild Atlantic Way highway outlines all of the peninsulas.  It is spotted with quaint villages and towns, many nothing more than a collection of aged houses, a pub or two, and a small church, nothing more, not even a grocery, and their names in both English and Gaelic are endearing.  Imagine living in a town called Killarney, Kenmare, Portmagee, Killonecaha, Shannon, Tralee, Dingle, Ballydungan, and on and on.  The most often seen town names contain the letters, Kil. In Irish, Kil describes the town as being in a wooded area or as having a church.   A town with Baile or Bally in its name means “of”  a ford, a hill, a clan, or something else that distinguishes the place.  One thing is certain, a dinner of just-caught salmon or a bowl of chowder in a pub in one of these seaside towns delights the belly and warms the soul!  Amen!

We kissed the Blarney Stone yesterday.  Yes, indeed. We did.  We arrived early in the morning, just before opening time at the Blarney Castle.  The line to enter was already 100s of people long!!!  We took one look and thought, nope!  Instead of waiting hours to go inside, we drove into Cork, just 30 minutes away for a quick look. Cork was not on our agenda, but having a few hours there was a gift.  Set on both sides of the pretty River Lee, this old town is wonderful. . . and busy!   While it has an ultramodern opera house, the rest of the town is old and magical.  After a visit with Claire at the Tourist Information Office, who helped us optimize our time there, we crossed the river on the pedestrian foot bridge to the oldest part of town to see the massively columned Saint Mary’s Church that looks like a Hall of Justice.  At the Tower of Bells (which we rang, of course), we made our way on 132 steps to the top for a circular view of the city.   

The highlight in Cork for us was the Butter Museum.  Completely fascinating, especially to a girl with farm roots like me, the museum depicted the history and importance of butter in Ireland.  A nice collection of old-fashioned butter-making equipment was interestingly and informatively displayed.  And lucky us, we were in time for a twice-weekly old-time butter-making demonstration.  The lady used a glass container equipped with dashers attached to a rotary hand crank.  She put fresh cream at just the right temperature in the jar, leaving room for the churning.  As she cranked the handle, she explained that before the arrival of electricity, farm women made butter several times a day by hand, just as she was doing.  The typical family had little meat to eat.  They survived on a diet of milk, cheese, and butter with a relatively high protein content spread on potatoes, other root vegetables, and bread.  

Kerrygold is not just a brand, it is the primary butter of Ireland.  Produced by Ireland’s dairy co-operative of farmers and marketers, Kerrygold butter is sold almost worldwide and is the number two highest-selling butter in the US.  What makes it different?  It contains nothing but cream from strictly farm-raised, grass-fed cows, with a touch of salt.  It is described as being creamier, more flavorful, and more golden colored than others.  To taste it, we were given a slice of brown Irish soda bread with a smear.  We were convinced; Kerrygold is the gold standard. 

We returned to the Blarney Castle in the afternoon, bought our tickets, and walked right in.  Good move on our part, delaying our visit, there was no line at all.  Set on 100 acres with lush gardens and trees, this castle fortification was built 600 years ago by Gaelic lords.  The four to five-story tower has two main chambers; its outside walls taper from 18 feet thick at ground level to 15 feet thick near the top.  This tapering was intentional, for defense.  From the top of the tower, objects, like boulders, for example, were dropped from the top, hit the wall below, and bounced off, targeting approaching enemies. 

 Our main objective for the afternoon was to see the famous Blarney Stone.  The wait was long but not arduous.  We met two couples traveling together from Utah and a just-married couple from Knoxville in the queue and had nice chats.  Several legends tell the magic of the stone; it is said to have been used by Jacob as a pillow as he dreamed of the ladder extending up to heaven, but the one most often recalled is that kissing the Blarney Stone gives the gift of gab.  Kissing the stone is not an easy smooch.  After climbing 128 narrow carved stone steps in a close-fitting spiral stone staircase to the top of the castle, you lie on your back and reach back into the open air well to hold on to iron bars that help you lean back to reach the stone encased in the wall.  Then you inch your body toward the hole, arching backwards over the ledge more and more to find and kiss the stone upside down.  It is a little scary.  Check!  Done! How eloquently we shall speak now. 

Today is Sunday.  For the first time since arriving, there is little on our list but to do laundry, catch up on the blog, and enjoy a traditional Sunday Roast dinner. 

Bad wind at Kerry Cliffs