The short road home

After two days in the car, no one was feeling particularly anxious to hit the road on Sunday. We realized too late we should have scheduled a "nothing" day for kids to play and adults to lounge and chat. But we had tickets to the Easter Eggspress departing Dublin on Monday, so staying an extra day, tempting as it was, was not an option.

And then there was the matter of Easter Sunday. No, we didn't have to deal with a Catholic vigil or sunrise service, but there was a pile of fresh hot cross buns and more than a few foil-covered eggs and bunnies to deal with. Any fears that the bunny might not find us were alieved when the kids got up early to play with the dog and found the table set by said festive rodent.

The outdoors had a few glimmers as well, and the kids soon discovered an embarassment of chocolate eggs and bunnies in the field around the cabins. All the booty went into one bag, equitably dividing the stomach ache among us all.

With the morning nearly gone and our bellies full of chocolate, we decided to take the direct route home, stopping once in Roscrea, a town we had bypassed on the way down. Two bags of snack, one for each car, were prepared, bags were packed and one more egg ingested for the road.

Coloring books, cheap felt pens and a mountain of food got us all the way to Roscrea, where we discovered, much to our delight, that there was a great castle with picnic grounds, sunshine and an OPW booth--we could actually use our card for the first time this trip! The guidebooks don't lie when they call this place a great halfway stopover. The castle has been restored very selectively and sensitively, allowing you to explore passageways and see evidence of even more. Think of sunny window seats, a huge fireplace and stairways to nowhere. There's even a hole-in-the-floor dungeon, called an oubliette to scare the kids.

From there, we discovered it was a quick hour home to Tulfarris (mostly motorway), and kidlets, full of sun, chocolate and lunch, slept most of that. Our food bag also had some lovely lamb chops from County Kerry, which served as our garlicky Easter lamb that grilled up while the troops played soccer outside our very own back door.

Dingle, dongle

Day two of our western adventure saw us waking in the newly-built eco-cabins at Gortbrack Organic Farm, overlooking Tralee. Two snug self-catering cabins, still with construction dust and awaiting the installation of their solar panels, welcomed our two families. We slipped out of our warm beds for a breakfast of steaming oatmeal with maple syrup and raisins and milk, while adults wrapped their hands around mugs against the morning cool.

Stoked with breakfast, the passel of children headed out to play in the sun with the farm dogs and friendly cat, while the larger folk packed up the cars and got the lowdown on the market two villages over. The west of Ireland has a reputation as a haven for organic producers, and we had high hopes of finding suitable provender. I settled down with my freshly purchased maps, only to discover that the little red type reading "Ogham stone" and "fort" had been replaced with words like "Clocha Oghaim" and "Dún Cinn Tire." Yup, we were heading into the Gaeltacht, an Irish-speaking pocket on the Emerald Isle, and the official map was in Irish. Pity our guidebook writers didn't see fit to give the names of things in Irish!

No matter. With clouds gathering, we headed down through Castlemaine to Milltown, where we were told the farmer's market opened at ten near the church. That wasn't an entirely acurate description, however: the market, a splendid assortment of homemade goodies (think hot cross buns, cookies, breads and muffins) and produce (fish to cheese to veggies), was in the old church. In addition to yummy stuff, we also got some help deciphering the Irish on the maps.

As we left the church, the weather turned rainy in earnest; we piled in the cars and headed west to the Dingle Peninsula, a place with the highest density of monuments on the Island. We were in search of beehive huts and ogham stones, churches and ruins. With a break in the clouds near Inch, we thought we could steal a few moments on the sandy beach, but by the time we got the kids out of the cars and into rain pants, the heavens had opened once again.

With my newly-trained navigator at my side, we managed to wend our way down a one-track lane to a circle of ogham stones atop a hill at Ballintaggart. Half our troops opted to stay in the car (something about the "BEWARE OF BULL" sign) and munch on market goodies; three of us traipsed up the hill (no bull) and enjoyed the view and the dozen or so stones arranged in a circle. Look closely, you can see the cross-hatching on the bottom stone.

We stopped again in the touristy and overcrowded village of Dingle to complement our rapidly shrinking supply of groceries and try to get a map in English. The supermarket provided some cheese, the tourist office a photocopy of the Chorca Dhuibhne drive circuit, so off we headed in search of beehive huts. We had heard that there were over 200 examples on the island, and the OS map did show an inordinate number of dots labeled "Clochain." What we didn't expect were the small toll booths set up by farmers: in the rest of Ireland, where tourists are rare, farmers provide footpaths as a matter of course (and to keep folks from leaving the gate open and letting the sheep out); here, farmers supplement their income by charging to use the footpath. €2.50 a head got us down the steep slope to the fort at Dunbeg, where we enjoyed the view of the cliffs and the Atlantic and dug into our picnic. Note to selves: pack a picnic knife, as the rescue knife carried by the teen amongst us was too sharp.

The sites really are packed in here: It took us longer to pile in the car than it did to drive to the next attraction: three beehive huts, only €8 to the farmer for a family.

By now the weather had turned fine again, the ocean and sky blue. The narrow road rewarded the patient with sheep and gasps at oncoming traffic for the uninitiated.

We passed sandy coves and rocky promontories, all crawling with people, and turned into an unassuming lane (my navigator quipped, "are you sure this isn't someone's driveway?") to find the ruins of Reasc. Peter describes a "beautifually decorated cross-inscribed pillar standing in an old walled monastic enclosure." He fails to mention the ruins of the beehive huts used by the monks and the fine draght horses frolicing in the adjacent field. We had the site to ourselves.

On to the one that all the guidebooks give four stars: the Gallarus Oratory, "the most perfectly-preserved of the boat-shaped oratories in County Kerry." We had seen this in our OPW book, and were looking forward to pulling out our OPW card. Alas, the fellow informed me, the OPW only show up in June, and they also have the key to the neighboring castle. But for the price of admission, you can cross this field. It's difficult to explain to our Swiss guests that that’s just how things work here. And in the end, it doesn't matter, as the oratory is nothing short of spectacular. A break in the crowds meant we could take a group picture, camera perched on an uneven stone wall.

Now, if you're looking for what the book calls "Church, cross, ogham stone, alphabet stone, sundial and St Brenden's house" and you see a signpost that looks like this, what do you do?

That's right, you follow the teeny broken brown sign with a church bit on it. At the end of the lane you find yet another sparsely populated site (did all those tourists stay in Dingle town?) stuffed full of interesting stones and such.

With the day slipping away, we decide to head over the hills (the "Connors Pass" sign has been changed by the local lads--the 'p' deleted) back to Tralee to get some supper before putting kidlets to bed. Lonely Planet notes that the south side of the road has been improved, which is a nice way of saying that the north side hasn’t. We aren’t prepared for the breathtaking views and have to pull over several times to take them in.

We grab pizza and dog biscuits in Tralee and head back up into the hills to the farm to prepare for the Easter bunny--we're sure (s)he'll find us there.

A long way to Tipperary

We all know the song, but we really didn't know how far it was, so we planned a weekend with old friends trekking through County Tipperary to County Kerry. Our plan was to meander down, maybe see a few castle-y things along the way, take up residence in a farm near Tralee, spend a day touring the Dingle Peninsula, and then meander back up to Tulfarris on Easter (after hunting eggs, of course).

With eight of us, we formed a two-car convoy with a rotating constellation of passengers and navigators. We had intended to swap drivers as well, but after a hair-raising half hour of one adventuresome friend behind the wheel (Alfred only had to grab the steering wheel twice), we opted not to.

Our first stop was the town of Nenagh, which the map noted had a lovely tower that "looks like the prototype for the rook in chess." We could kind of make out the crenelation through the scaffolding and construction gate.

Luckily, the shop we ducked into for coloring books for the young crew and sandwiches for all was trying out their new ice cream machine, and somebody had to take care of all their trial runs. Luckily, we happened to have four such somebodies in tow. The kids now refer to Nenagh as the town with free ice cream. So much for historical edification.

Next stop was the village of Adare: we should have been warned by the notation in the guidebook that "Tourists are drawn to Adare by the busload." It's quaint, with a row of quaint thatched cottages, and what looks to be a lovely feudal castle--from across the river and through the gate, which doesn't open until after June. The city garden was open, and there were a few stray coins in the creek, which our ice-cream powered, wellie-wearing crew were thrilled to wade in. Strike two for edification, Adare is now the town of the pennies in the creek.

Undaunted, we took a detour up towards the Shannon Estuary, and stopped for the Askeaton Castle and Franciscan Friary. The castle was, of course, closed for repairs, though that did offer us a lesson at how easily defended such a structure it is: one flimsy construction gate and a diverted river were sufficient to keep us out.

But Peter told us there was more to Askeaton: there was, he notes, an "excellently preserved cloister." And indeed it was, a full cloister and the romantic ruins of a 12th century friary. Here was what we sought. We poked around for nearly an hour, sharing the place with a teenager and his girlfriend who had found a sunny, sheltered perch in the tracery behind the altar.

Full of sun, ice cream and monuments, and with the sun waning, we sped to our goal of Tralee (except for the part where we crept through the cows on the road), where we supped in the restaurant of the Grand Hotel. Sadly, we could not imbibe, as it was Good Friday, and the waiter assured us, the only day of the year when they could not serve alcohol. This gave us an excuse to have dessert, so we indulged in one of the finest contributions Ireland has made to the world, Sticky Toffee Pudding. This warm gooey mess is as tasty as it sounds, and I'm very glad we took the waiter's recommendation to pair it with vanilla ice cream.

We arrived at our farm accommodation as darkness was falling, and enjoyed a bit of stargazing before turning in for the night.

In stiches and other trivialities

I have already related my delight when I saw a note for a knitting group at the library. So imagine my continued delight when I discovered that these women (nope, no gents) were a bunch of fun women from all walks of life, beginners to accomplished fingers. And so, a gratuitous picture of something one of the more experienced knitters whipped up last week.

I've got a pair of socks on the needles for my traveling that resumes in two weeks, and a new pullover on circular needles for the young lad, using a red Donegal tweed I picked up in Glendalough.

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Here's our friend Paul coming over for supper. Clearly, he'll be leaving after darkness falls and is looking for a way to work off the delicious lamb tagine that's simmering on the stove.

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And then there are the cats and the rubbish.

There were a good dozen stray cats in the village when we arrived. Our neighbor is a kindly lady, who makes sure they are fed, and who works with the volunteer organizer who takes them in for spaying by a kindly vet a few towns over. The cats are all shades of calico, clearly from the same family stock.

But ever since Tulfarris went into receivership, we've had the mounting rubbish heap. With more folks taking advantage of the low rents out here, the garbage seems to pile up faster than ever, and the cats rip open the bags in search of tasty morsels. And as more cats from adjoining villages have caught wind of it (yes, it does smell on sunny days), the population increases. We've added some tabbies. But no new wheelie bins.