LOST: Not just an Island on TV

I’d say the first few seconds of driving on the left side of the road are terrorizing. But once the heart stops trying to jump from my chest, or the impulse to scream at every oncoming car subsides, suddenly its rather easy. Having the steering wheel on the right makes everything a whole lot simpler, even if I keep hitting the door when I try to reach for the gear box (which is now on the left), or flip on the windshield wipers instead of the blinker (which is now on the right). Imagine my shock when I went to signal left and suddenly the windshield wipers came on. After doing that nearly every time without fail, I think I have the hang of it. Until tomorrow, of course.

I picked up the car in Kerry somewhat early this morning, and nearly dropped dead when they told me the charge with insurance. Now I get a little shiver of spiteful delight at every bump and tree I brush, simply because if they’re going to charge me a college tuition at an ivy school just for full insurance coverage, you can be sure I’m going to get my moneys worth. Heck, at these prices, they’re lucky if I give it back to them with the engine still intact.

I got lost within the first five minutes, but it was hardly my fault. The gps and I had a bit of a dispute, it telling me to turn right and me, baffled, finding no right turn to be found. It turned into a rather heated argument, with gps-man persisting, “turn right,” and me snapping back, “There is no right!” “TURN RIGHT!” Gps-man beeps loudly and I threaten to throw him out the window and, if my aim is true, off a cliff. He blinks at me, threatening to lose satellite signal. We come to a grudging truce and although I never found that right, I somehow manage on my way.

I’ve attempted to conquer what is known as The Ring of Kerry, a small highway that skirts the edges of the Iverah Peninsula. The Ring of Kerry, which is somehow aptly named simply because I like the ring of it, ranges from rugged, rocky cliffs to jutting stone and smooth, rolling hills. On one side can be a lake, the other the sea (or actually, the Atlantic Ocean). There is something so beautifully savage about these hills. I suppose they’re called mountains, although they don’t have the cut rock faces of American mountains, nor the heavy tree line. Instead, they’re deep green hills with occasional dips in the land, as if some old god had run his fingers lightly over the tips of the mountains, leaving permanent marks in the earth.

I passed through Killorglin, which will be a delight to return to in August. Killorglin is known for its Puck Fair, a festival where local residents capture a wild goat (symbolizing the god Puck), and enthrone him in the center of the town. It sort of reminded me of the Afghanistan festival where a goat is also caught, although this one is killed and its dead body used in a game similar to mounted soccer. So…perhaps not so much the same but, they both have a goat!

I made it to Glenbeigh in a timely manner although after this point, all concerns of time fall away. I am continuously amazed by the friendliness of Irish people. They not only will talk with you at a given moment, but the extent they will go to guide you, give advice, or just share a few words amazes me. It brings all new meanings to the phrase, “the kindness of strangers.” In Glenbeigh, after seeing the Kerry Bog Village Museum (a cluster of thatched-roof cottages set in the style of early 1800s life), two Irish women pointed me towards a side road that led to a lake, noting my camera and telling where else I might get some great pictures (which is really the whole of Ireland, I’m finding).

So I took the tiny road, leaves and brush scratching on either side of my silver KIA (take that, insurance company!) and was well met by a sprawling lake, grazing cattle, bubbling rivers, swans, lambs, sheep, blooming violet flowers, and pretty much all else that can make for the perfect scene. Granted, photography was difficult, not only because its become the tell-tale tradition that a camera is a poor substitute for the real thing, but that there was no where to park. So I climbed atop the drivers seat, one leg on the door, flung an arm over the roof of the car, breathed in that delicious Irish air, and snapped away.

Lesson learned. When you see a small road, take it. In fact, this became a habit—snaking off onto little roads that always fulfilled their promise of beauty just around the bend. This also was a tactic that led me to a beach, where I promptly took off my shoes and walked along the black sand, occasionally being splashed by surprisingly warm water. I couldn’t tell you the name of the beach, or the beautiful hills that surrounded it, but it was a catch of a sight. Of course I also tried this “small road” tactic with a winding trail up the side of a mountain, which instantly became terrifying, with the plummeting cliffs on one side, and all. But certainly worth the risk, I think.

It was at Ballinskelligs that I had my first real snap in the travels. I had two maps with me (because gps-man and I were still on uneasy terms), but Ballinskelligs was nothing more than a dot on both, no connecting roads—a floating speck on the map. Gps-man and I went back into full-out battle as he told me to turn left, turn right, docey-do, turn the car round and round, but to no avail. After he would tell me to turn right into an embankment then, promptly, commended me on staying straight, it became clear he was mocking me. So I left all technology aside, even maps, and did it the old fashion way: I read road signs.

Now, in Ballinskelligs, signs are written in Irish. And no, that doesn’t mean English with an Irish lilt. It’s all out Irish (Gaelic), which is a language all onto its own. I ended up staring up at signs in a foreign language. Somehow, through sheer determination (or perhaps stupid stubbornness on my part), I made it to Ballinskelligs. Of course, how to find what I was looking for in Ballinskelligs was a more pressing issue. A little uncertain, more than a fair share confused, I simply followed the street until suddenly, out of the grassy knolls sprawled exactly what I was looking for—the ruins of St. Michaels. It was an old priory overlooking the water, crumbling and ancient tombstones decorating the grass, and overseeing a series of other ancient ruins.

History, sweet history. Its one of those moments where you have to touch those oh-so-old stones. The ones that were put there with care and prayer, and wonder how many men stood on those walls and prayed over the glassy water. It was worth the drive, even if to someone else it is just a bunch of old stones and a broken building.

After taking far too many pictures, I headed for Waterville, a idyllic beach town where I would spend the night. This is the first time I came upon a place without a set up hotel, but again the Kindness of Strangers (the Irish way, it seems) helped me to a wonderfully beautiful hotel called “The Smugglers.” And here I liked it just for the name.

The food was good, the Guinness (my first try in Ireland) even better. They say Guinness is different in Ireland and that is no joke. Smoother, thicker, and just down right better, I drank two glasses without even batting an eyelash. Anyone who knows me and my beer-drinking-habits would be amazed by this.

I ended up watching the USA vs England soccer (oh, excuse me, FOOTBALL) game with several English men. The US didn’t lose, but didn’t win, either, so on we go to the next stop of the World Cup. While it was a blast watching it with so many soccer fans (and oh, the singing! Who ever thought I would be in Ireland to hear a group of men singing an old drinking song over beer?), I had to admit I was slightly surprised and pleased with the American team. We held our own against England, which is no small feat. Dare I hope that we even have a chance?

Tomorrow I will finish the Ring of Kerry, at my own pace because more than one Irishman (and woman) have told me to take my time—relax—do it the Irish way. And I’m taking that advice…for today and tomorrow, at least.