Election Section

Ah. Rugged mountains. Creamy porridge. Jagged peninsulas. Irish soda bread. Sparkling blue vistas. Guinness stout. Verdant glens. “Shorties” biscuits. Rolling hills. Potatoes, potatoes, potatoes.  

This past summer I visited Ireland for the first time. I toured Dublin, amid energy, museums, culture and crowds. I followed roads through picturesque towns, touring famous landmarks and historic sites. But it wasn’t until I walked in the southwest, on the Beara and Dingle Peninsulas, that I finally got that “ah” feeling. This was the Ireland I had come to see. 

Landscape and people define a country for me and the beauty in the southwest of Ireland speaks for itself. Each day’s walk became my newest favorite: a scenic deserted island rich in history and scenery; a 1,000-acre family owned park of glen, mountains, and lakes; a national park of almost overwhelming greenery, and a tower capped hill along sheep tracks and peat walls. The “ah” feeling never left me. 

The Beara Peninsula remains one of Ireland’s secret havens, its uncrowded roads and trails meandering through pristine countryside. From my base in the remote village of Eyeries, I explored Dursey Island and Gleninchaquin Park. 

Dursey Island’s 1,400 acres were once heavily populated; today the few remaining families on this Natural Heritage site are well outnumbered by sheep. Separated from the mainland by turbulent Dursey Sound, the island is accessible by a single wooden cable car, erected in 1970. On one of two benches, limited to six passengers or one person and one cow, the swaying ride carries you 25m above the sea with plenty of time to look for dolphins below.  

On a day of unbelievably warm weather and light breeze, I happily walked on spongy turf among yellow gorse, pink bell heather, and sea pink thinking about those here before me—Bronze Age people who erected the standing stones, farmers who left behind rows of lazy beds where potatoes were grown before the Great Famine, and soldiers during World War II spelling out EIRE in stones as a deterrent to German bombers. Stone ruins were all that remained: an old church, deserted homes, boundary walls and a Napoleonic-era signal tower at the top of a hill.  

After four miles, my picnic lunch tasted unbelievably good as I sat at the most southwesterly tip of Ireland looking out at the Cow, the Bull, and the Calf in waters whose color changed with depth, from blue to turquoise. Before me the endless sea, with guillemots and gannets circling above. Away from the distractions of everyday life, I felt powerful with limitless possibilities stretching ahead. 

In contrast to Dursey Island’s sparse vegetation and salty air, I next walked a verdant glen and woodland in Gleninchaquin Park. Paddy Corkery and his border collie, Dolly, led me along narrow paths, up tracks carved into rock faces and across bridges spanning mountain streams, all built by his family here where he grew up. A soft spoken, reflective man, his love of the land was evident each time we paused. Leaning on his well-worn walking stick, Paddy pointed out treasures easily overlooked: a small butterwort with midges trapped on its sticky secretions, a carnivorous sundew, a milkwort known for its lactating properties, and the distinctive scent of wild chamomile released by our boots. As we climbed the ridge, Dolly never stopped moving, herding sheep, walkers, and even a couple of kites swooping for butterflies.  

After a pot of tea and a picnic lunch, seated in the back garden of the Corkery family home, doubling as a tea house for visitors, we continued exploring the wonders of this park, climbing through meadows and bogs, where Paddy demonstrated the proper technique for cutting peat logs and stacking them to dry. Past mountain lakes, home to sea trout, brown trout and salmon, we finally reached the source of the waterfall tumbling out before our feet. 

Over a pint of Guinness at the Seaman’s Pub, overlooking the Kenmare River, I bade good-bye to Paddy and Dolly while reflecting on the wealth of my day. A lasting memory is Paddy and Dolly at a stone circle set against a dramatic mountain backdrop, cows grazing peacefully nearby. Paddy Corkery, a man of the land, discussing the past, and like Ireland itself, knowing the importance of preserving nature’s gifts. 

Eyeries provided an ideal location to absorb the beauty of the land and replenish the body. Inches House was a ten-minute walk from this “Tidy Town” village of brightly colored houses, just large enough for a few shops and pubs. From O’Neill’s large picture window with views of Ballycrovane Harbor and Coulough Bay, I watched the sun set and never wanted to leave. 

Unfortunately, time doesn’t stand still, not even on vacation. I left Eyeries and headed to Killarney National Park, not realizing that a hard night’s rain had raised the adventure level by several notches. 

At 24,000 acres, Killarney National Park is the last real sanctuary of primeval countryside in Ireland. To walk through this magnificent valley and forested mountains is to walk through land appearing unchanged for thousands of years, where man has left little evidence of his passing. Renowned` for its diverse terrain, a day in Killarney takes you through oak and yew woodlands, heather-clad peaks and moors, and verdant foliage. The color here is green—a luxuriance of green carpeting every surface with bracken, native grasses, and sphagnum moss thickly draped over boulders and trees. 

During my visit, water ruled. Rain at night resulted in swollen creeks and saturated bogs; the sound of tumbling and gurgling water followed me everywhere. To walk a simple trail became a challenge, finding stones or tufts of grass for steps. When choices ran out, it was goodbye to dry boots and socks. Somehow this only added to the experience, besides bringing out coal black slugs and heavily laden dung beetles.  

Overlooking the lovely lakes of Killarney is Muckross House, an ivy-covered Victorian mansion providing a glimpse into the elegant “upstairs” and hard working “downstairs” life style. It also houses the Killarney National Park Visitor Center and the Kerry Folklife Center, where bookbinders, potters and weavers demonstrate their crafts. Outside at the Traditional Farm learn about the skills used before mechanization. 

Night found me in Kenmare, packed with charm and unfortunately, also with cars. A surprising array of color met my eye—homes and shops painted orange, yellow, blue, and red, and beautiful hanging baskets cascading with bright flowers—a very attractive town. That evening, while listening to the bittersweet melodies and words of traditional Irish music at the Bold Thady Quill Bar, I raised my glass in a toast—to rain, to water, to green!  

On to the Dingle Peninsula, where descriptions of scenic splendor never seem enough: shapely mountains bordering gentle glacial valleys and lakes, long golden beaches, curving bays and towering cliffs pounded by an intensely blue Atlantic Sea. This is a land dotted with treasures of ancient times from prehistoric ring forts and ogham stones, to old roads dating back to the 9th century, and early Christian monasteries. The countryside is sparsely populated allowing for wide vistas down fuchsia lined roads past dry stone walls and Ireland’s ubiquitous four: gorse, heather, bracken and sheep. 

The attractive port of Dingle, surrounded by mountains sheltering its harbor, is known for its many craft shops, its 50 pubs, and Fungi, its resident dolphin. Since it was summer, the streets were crowded with those who had come for music, dancing and eating. Before tapping my feet to banjo, bodran and button accordion, I explored what else Dingle had to offer. 

At the marina and quay the combination of pleasure craft and commercial fishing boats produced a cacophony of colors, textures and sounds. From there I followed a footpath around Dingle Harbor where shops were replaced by green fields dotted with sheep. Across the harbor a patchwork of rich green fields stood out against the deep blue of the water. Around Beenbane Strand I reached the cliffs overlooking Dingle Bay and wondered how many visitors would miss this spending their time within a few short blocks.  

For my tour of the Dingle Peninsula, I spent the day with Colm Rothery, Irish guide extraordinaire. A gentleman of great energy, Irish charm and incredible patience, he answered my hundreds of questions with knowledge and humor. 

Our ramble combined stops at several historic sites, a beach paddle and a spectacular coastal hike, as always, the best way to experience the countryside. At Shea Head, overlooking Dingle Bay, Colm pointed out the Blasket Islands and the Sleeping Giant. I watched the currents form “lazy beds” on the surface of the turquoise waters while we both felt the energy coming off the sea. 

At Dunquin we walked down a steep incline to the pier where boats ferry passengers to Blasket Island, and came upon several overturned carraughs. Traditionally, these craft, constructed of a lightweight wooden frame covered with tar coated linen, were used to transport goods and people, while towing an occasional cow, to and from the island. Our close inspection inside left us with souvenirs, smears of tar on clothing and skin. A fair price to pay for a gloriously warm day. 

The Dingle Peninsula is Gaeltacht, a region of Irish speaking culture, and the Blasket Center was built in 1993 as a tribute to the literature, language and culture of the Corca Dhuibhne. It was quite a surprise to come upon this modern, spacious structure perched overlooking Blasket Sound.  

A stop at Clogher Strand provided personal contact with the waters I’d been ogling from afar. White sands and crashing waves—chilly and refreshing. Our final historic visit was Gallarus Oratory. This miniature church shaped like an overturned boat is one of the earliest Christian buildings in Ireland. Over 1200 years old, built only of stone, Gallarus Oratory is completely waterproof, owing to the placement of stones at a slight outward angle. The interior was remarkably dry and also quite crowded; here we had run into the coach tours. It was time to, literally, take to the hills. 

Along track and sheep trails we climbed Ballydavid Head, a few miles but worlds away from tour buses and tourist shops. Our destination for a picnic lunch was the top, site of the ruins of yet another Napoleonic signal tower, and more tremendous views. To the north towering Mount Brandon; to the south the Three Sisters, mountainous fingers reaching out to sea; to the east the broad fertile valley; and to the west the Atlantic. 

Walking past several stacks of stones, Colm reversed roles. “Why are these here?” he quizzed. After guessing walls, boundaries, markers, I blurted out “peat.” Impressing a guide is always a good feeling even when in desperation. They were peat walls placed on the leeward side of the hill, to allow the wind to dry out the stacked peat logs. 

My back against a massive stone warmed by the sun, my eyes never tired of the scene before me: the greens of the fields, blues of the waters, grays of the stones. I reflected on this unspoiled countryside, the warmth of the people and on the respect I felt for their recognition of the worth of their heritage and their land. Ah. Just a few days in paradise—nothing more. 

?