From Dingle to Clare

I think the greatest sound in the world has to be the creak of the leather as you put your foot into the stirrup and swing your right let over the saddle. I adore that sound, and the shifting feel of the horse underneath as it shuffles its hooves. There's few better feelings that stretching in the saddle, staring out at the world from a different height on top a massive animal. Monty, my horse for the mountain ride in Dingle, was 17 hands to the withers--which roughly equates to HUGE. He was a gorgeous chestnut red--a healthy and spirited Irish Draft/Thoroughbred mix. "He's fast," the guide warned me, but I didn't know what fast was until he took off at a trot at the top of our mountain climb.

I've been riding on and off for years and always thought I was pretty good in the saddle, but I've never ridden anything like Monty. A powerful animal, he glided from a trot to a canter and with amazing ease broke into a full tilt gallop--something I wasn't prepared for. Sadly, its been far too long since I've been in the saddle and I wasn't prepared for such a ride. I squeezed with my thighs, did the English style post trot, tried to keep my center of balance, but five years out of the saddle deteriorates ones skill and I was all over the place. Only at the tail end of our trot did I get the up/down of posting again, and by that time it was too late.

"I don't think I can take you on the beach gallop," the guide informed me, much to my humiliation. So I only was able to take part in the mountain ride (which was amazing in every way), and had to return with the beginners as the more advanced moved on to gallop along the Dingle beach. I tried to tell myself that it was for the better, that my knees weren't what they use to be and I wasn't suited for another hour in the saddle, but to say I wasn't desperately disappointed would be an understatement. Rejected, grossly embarrassed, I returned to the stable where I paid and was quick to shuffle back to my car. Still, it was a beautiful ride and just being around horses again was a delight.

Trying to fight my depression, I did the next best thing--I went to a Celtic Museum. It lifted my spirits, as history always does, and I continued on to the Slea Head Drive-a highway along the Dingle coast riddled with historical sites. Dingle is a bit of a smaller alternative to the Ring of Kerry, but no less charming. It was another perfect day (I'm beginning to think the stories of rainy Ireland are nothing but a myth to keep the tourists away) as I made it from one site to another--seeing ring forts and beehive cells well over two thousand years old.

For more modern history (although modern may be a relative term), I stopped at the Famine Cottages--cottages that stood during the potato famine of 1845 to 1850. There I met a charming Connemara pony who was the quintessential image of a lost unicorn. Pure white with a soft pink nose, a ragged long mane and bushy bangs, this curious and inquisitive stallion posed with ears perked forward for every photo. When he thought I had nothing left to offer and would return to grazing, I had but to hum a tune or sing a song for him to raise his head and stare intently all over again. That little pony made my day--or at least repaired the effects of my damaged pride.

I went into the Famine Cottages, all pleased and warm from my pony experience, just to stop dead at the door. The cottages were old, though not ancient. That isn't to say, thought, that they didn't have that OLD feeling to them. The floor was dirt, the walls dark, and it was dank and oppressive inside the first room. My skin crawled and I dallied at the door, hesitant to enter. It felt...haunted, for lack of a better word. These were the actual cottages during the famine, and the original owners...well, there's no record of what happened to the original owners. Its safe to assume they died, however, mostly likely starved in that very room, as millions did in Ireland during that five year famine. The walls were decorated with information about the famine, some so horrific that I crept out of the room, wide-eyed and disturbed.

They never taught us THAT in high school history.

I was glad to be back in the sunlight and on my way, where I took my time touring the coast, even stopping at a little house for tea as I sat outside, watching heavy mist overtake the hilly coast. I thought my ride to Doolin in Clare County would be two hours at the most. Not quite. While gps-man called for three hours, it took over four, mostly due to getting lost in every darn town/city we came through. Four hours in the car in Ireland is hardly a chore, however, as there is no tedium of an open highway. The roads widen and narrow, often the home of magnificent scenery and sharply twisting roads. Four hours went quickly, even if I wanted to kill gps-man along the way.

I made it to Doolin--what I thought would be a tiny, sleepy town on the coast just outside the Cliffs of Moher. Doolin is small, alright, but sleepy would never be an apt word for this hopping little place. The home of traditional Irish music, and boasting the title of the Traditional Irish Music Capital of the World, the moment I stepped out of the hotel where I signed in I could hear the live music filtering out from the pub. Despite being exhausted, I had to hear just a bit--which turned into just a lot as the locals welcomed me in true Irish fashion.

The music raged, the floor filled with people doing the honest-to-goddess Irish jig, and I laughed and clapped, utterly delighted. I've come to love this little town, enough so that tonight will be my third night here. "Be careful," warned a local. "I came here for a holiday four years ago, from a city about three hours away, just to check it out. I haven't left since."

I can certainly see the danger and possibility in that.

PHOTOS: Found in the end of the Ring of Kerry album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=442428&id=794430163&l=6841b6633d