Diana’s Day Off, Part 2 – The Dingle Peninsula

Dingle Peninsula, Ireland

The last few weeks have been pretty frenetic. Our last real stop was probably in Riga, Latvia. Since then it’s been full days of biking followed by short stops in bigger cities – like Tallin, Helsinki, London, and then Dublin. Seriously. As I think about it, it’s been a little bit crazy:

Tallin – arrived about noon, took a city tour, and by 6 we were on the ferry to Helsinki.

Helsinki – arrived late at night, slept, took a tour, then biked out to an island for a sauna, and by that evening we were on a flight to London.

London – arrived really late at night, biked out the next morning, after a brief stop for a McDonald’s breakfast.

Dublin – Arrived late at night, slept in a prison-like room with bunk beds and a shared bath, completed errands, took a city tour, and were on the train to Killarney by 7 p.m. 

Killarney – Arrived late at night, biked out to our bed & breakfast, slept overnight, had breakfast, and by late-morning we were on the road once again. And, of course, the ride to Dingle wasn’t simple simon either. Even if fun and pretty, negotiating wind and rain is a bit draining. 

So we were – or, at least, I was – needing a more real rest day when we finally arrived last night. 

Which is, I guess, why we decided to spend the day – yes, you guessed it – RIDING the Dingle Peninsula. 

Now, it’s not as bad as you might think. Because we biked in a loop, and we’re staying two nights in the same location, we were able to leave all the gear at the hotel. And let me just tell you that riding bikes that weigh something more like 20 pounds instead of the normal 60 or so is pretty refreshing. Cheaper than e-bikes – but the same net effect: that sense that when you pedal you go farther than physics really allows . . .

So that was fun.

Except when the torrential rain started. 

Once again, we were lured in by Ireland’s little sun nymphs. They use mirrors and other leprechaun type trickery to convince you that it’s bright and nice – and that it will stay that way forever. Then they sit back and laugh when the rain hits . . .

We’re so fooled that we stop to check out old stone structures – that apparently date from the 1200s or so – we’re taking pictures of sheep, and just generally lollygagging – as if we don’t have a care in the world. 

And then I look up. 

A wave of rain is approaching over the sea. Before you can say raincoat we are drenched. And not one of those pleasant warm rains we experienced yesterday either. No – this one comes straight from Iceland – and it’s bone-chilling. 

The thing is, we’re not just down the street from our house. There are no friends who live around the corner. There’s no gas stations on the peninsula – because there are only like 159 people who live on the whole thing. Yes – there are thousands of sheep – and I suppose there is some warm wool to be had there – but we don’t have any sheers handy now, do we? 

In circumstances like this you know what happens to some people? They panic. Their mind starts looping in circles – like a glitchy computer:

“It’s raining.” 

“I should see if there’s a pub or something around.” 

“Oh, no, now I’ve opened my pack and all my extra clothes are wet.” 

And the phone doesn’t work anyway – because the screen is swimming in rainwater. 

“This is a dangerous situation. We’re going to freeze to death. We should go back. We should seek shelter.” 

“There is no shelter. What are we going to do? It’s freezing . . .”

Not that either of us started down a path like this . . . That would be crazy . . .

Finally, Diana sees a building and says we should go in. 

“I don’t think it’s a public place,” I say.

There’s a sign saying something about a gym, but it doesn’t look like a place you can just go hang out.

”The sign says ‘coffee’,” Diana says. Which is true, but it still doesn’t look like a place you can go . . .

Nonetheless, we walk in. There’s a guy in there pumping iron. We’re standing there dripping on everything – but he doesn’t seem to care. And there’s no one else around to kick us out. 

We end up spending ten minutes arguing about the meaning of the radar blobs moving across the screen on the weather app on Diana’s phone – and by that time the rain has eased off – it’s more of a civilized drizzle now . . .

The rest of the day? Amazing views.

Angry seas.

Rocky shoreline.

And a hopping Irish pub about half-way through. Oh, and, at the end – like the last ten miles – a steady, drenching rain, just to wash the bikes up a bit – and ensure that we truly appreciate the hot showers waiting for us at the hotel. 

Diana was a bit sad – because, while we were right next to the very inviting Atlantic Ocean – swimming was not allowed.

The far end of the peninsula – where we were – is, I think, the westernmost point in Europe. Diana had it in her mind that she could just do a quick lap to North America and back – but you know her: she didn’t want to break the rules . . .

Alright, one other quick thing I wanted to share. I’ve been learning some Irish vocabulary. 

Football. This is a game that combines principles of basketball, American football, and soccer. It’s the national sport of Ireland. 

Hurling. Some crazy game played with a stick, and it’s also a national sport of Ireland. 

Both football and hurling fall under the umbrella of the GAA – the Gaelic Athletic Association. Apparently there are GAA clubs in most respectably-sized towns. And my sense is that if you don’t play or follow football and/or hurling you are not truly Irish. 

But this isn’t quite right. Because in Dublin they are really into soccer and the word “football” in Dublin refers to the sport that us Americans call soccer. From what I can tell the rest of Ireland thinks of soccer as a sport for sissies . . .

Rugby is also big, but it seems to be kind of the ugly stepsister of Irish football and hurling. 

Got it? It’s about as clear as a good pint of Guinness . . .

That’s the news from this very green land of rain and sheep and pubs. 

Tomorrow – now that we’re so well-rested and refreshed, we start our journey north – toward the Cliffs of Moher (pronounced More) and Galway. 

Maybe hoping for a wee bit of sunshine . . .