Category Archives: Honeymoon

Day Twelve, Part Two: Dingle on Our Own

We did not get a ton of pictures. Here's one of my favorite pictures ever of my beautiful wife.

We did not get a ton of pictures of the beehives. Here’s one of my favorite pictures ever of my beautiful wife instead.

We knew that there were bee hive huts along the Slea Head Drive and that we should be on the look out for them as we drove. The first sign we saw looked very impressive, like it was an archaeological dig site. It was, of course, on an insane bend in the road, so we drove on thinking we would double back once we found any space whatsoever to turn around in. However, as we continued our drive we came across another sign… basically hand-written, in the yard of a quaint home (totally out of place here on the windy side of the peninsula, hard against the water), likewise offering  an up close view of bee hive huts. We pulled in. Continue reading

Day Twelve, Part One: Dingle on Our Own

We failed to take any pictures of the town of DIngle. Here is a classic, beautiful Irish redhead instead. See? Ireland is full of 'em.

We failed to take any pictures of the town of Dingle. Here is a classic, beautiful Irish redhead instead. See? Ireland is full of ’em.

As I said yesterday, we left Kinsale in fairly short order and with a twinge of regret. Nevertheless – onward! Our destination is the very popular Dingle peninsula, home to all manner of touristy delights. We arrive in the town of Dingle, where we shall stay for two nights, and check in to the most commercial B&B we’ll see all trip: Heaton’s. This isn’t a bad thing, just noticeable. The dining room is spacious and contains a dozen or so tables, and the place can probably accommodate 50 people or so. Still it is laid out like an overgrown B&B and thus shall I think of it. Lunch that day is at a fairly commercial restaurant with laminated menus and quickly-produced food. Dingle sees a lot of tourist traffic and has the infrastructure to prove it – the quaint seaside town is only found after peeling back a layer of multi-lane roads, parking meters (!!) and, well, laminated menus.

I kid about the food, but it wasn’t actually fast food; it was pretty good and we ate there again the next day. For one thing, they had cold Bulmer’s, a hard cider that my blushing bride had by then developed a fondness for. It is not to be confused with Strongbow, which a tour guide in Dublin would later tell us was “unadulterated piss.” I’m not sure which one leans where, but I got the feeling that even the ciders had fallen into line along the Catholic-Protestant border. Thank God for the Good Friday Agreement.

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Day Eleven, Part Two: Regrets, I’ve Had a Few

Lunch by the walking path. We were passed by Germans.

Lunch by the walking path. We were passed by Germans.

I am not a religious person. (Hi, mom. Now you know.) I think people who are certain that there’s “nothing else” out there are arrogant in the extreme; nevertheless, I’ve never been persuaded by … well, anything, really. At least, no-body that has attempted to present an argument. Sometimes, though, an argument presents itself.

We arrived at Drombeg Circle with food. I don’t really remember how this happened; it wasn’t good food, it was sammiches and a bag of chips or something. Fruit, too, I think. We follow the sketchy signs (again, the Irish really could not give a shit) to the car park, then sit on a patch of grass (there are no seats of any kind) and nibble. Continue reading

Day Eleven, Part One: Regrets, I’ve Had a Few

The normal route.

The normal route.

Don’t let the title fool you, it was a good day; we just wish we had stretched it out. You’ll see. We made a slow start thanks to a misplaced itinerary and a recalcitrant internet cafe that deigned not to open. Ever. Unshaken, we finagled access via neighborly iPad, re-oriented ourselves to our plans, and wound our way out of town. Now, the drive to our next destination, Kenmare, required us to resolve a small decision tree. The accepted route, via google maps and the advice of the tourist center, would involve a slight bit of back-tracking to get to the major highway system, after which it would be a pleasant, speedy trip. Speedy but, you know… dull. Irish highways are a lot like American highways – put in the middle of nothing because that’s the cheap, flat land, and devoid of much to look at. If, on the other hand,  we were to  go south, we would enjoy the seaside view as we drive along. The road is “N” caliber, which is the same as the other highway we were being directed to.  Besides, Courtmacsherry is that way and will make an excellent cutesy photo-op. No no, much better to take the scenic route.

 

Doesn't look all that different, does it?

Doesn’t look all that different, does it?

 

sce·nic
/ˈsinɪk, ˈsɛnɪk/

adjective Also, sce·ni·cal.

1. having pleasing or beautiful scenery.
2. a scenic tour: to arrange scenics in advance.
See also: a means of attempting suicide in Ireland. Continue reading