Sunday, August 10, 2008
Life, Travel, In this Issue...

Enchanting Ireland

A traveller's first visit to the Irish countryside

By Blane Bachelor

It’s my first time in Ireland, and despite the expansive view of lush green pastures, grazing sheep and crumbling farmhouses, I can’t take my eyes off the road in front of us. Or, more specifically, the stone wall on my left, just inches from the rental car.

My boyfriend, Chris, has bravely assumed driving duties here, where, as in the rest of the United Kingdom, these misguided souls drive on the left side of the road. He’s doing a fine job behind the wheel on these harrowingly narrow highways. I, however, can’t say the same for myself as a passenger. Around every turn, I brace myself for the screech of metal scraping on stone, and as much as I try to keep my mouth shut, an unnecessary “Watch out!” explodes from it periodically.

As we discover over the next week, Ireland is an enchanting destination, bursting with history, mystery and some of the nicest people on the planet. But to fully experience the country is an act of surrender—to arguing with strangers over a few pints, to the fact that your ear might never get fully attuned to the thick Irish brogue, to constant mist and drizzle. And, of course, to the fact that when you rent a car to do your exploring, you’d better be prepared for highways that are actually narrow country roads, complete with blind curves, farmers on rickety bicycles and stray sheep. 

With roughly 24 hours in Dublin before we head west, Chris and I try to make the most of the time we have in the country’s lively capital. The unseasonably warm sun helps lift the fog of jet lag that grips us upon our arrival at the impossibly chic Dylan hotel. After extracting ourselves from a short nap in a bed as comfortable as it is stylish, we’re off to St. Stephen’s Green, in the heart of the city. The oldest of Dublin’s 18th-century squares, “The Green” served an odd variety of purposes: housing a leper colony, a grazing area for animals and also the site of a few public executions.

Today, however, that grim history stands in marked contrast to a cheerful scene: executives in crisp suits sitting barefoot in the grass; children feeding the ducks; spiky-haired teenagers strolling hand in hand. All of Dublin seems to be on vacation with us.

A recommendation from Patrick, the eternally cheerful bellman at the Dylan, sends us the following day to Kilmainham Gaol (jail), which provides not only a stark history lesson in Dublin but in Irish nationalism, too. Built in 1796, the jail housed some of the most important leaders of the Irish rebellion, 14 of whom were also executed on the prison grounds. The guided tour winds through the jail’s chilling labyrinth: down claustrophobic halls into the cell where prisoners were held before their deaths, and—if you ask nicely, like we do—to the dungeon. Later, blinking in the bright sunlight, Chris and I are still haunted by the foreboding jail, but we have a much deeper appreciation of Ireland’s heritage.

Soon, we’re speeding along the N4 Highway to Galway, about 130 miles west. Several friends have told us that the country’s rugged Western coast is the “real Ireland,” and cruising past eternally green pastures dotted with sheep, we start to understand why. Chris protests my repeated requests to pull over so I can snap close-up photos of the woolly creatures, which scamper off, bleating, when a human approaches.

Galway is a delightful seaside town peppered with seafood restaurants and pubs, and it’s on our first night here that I order my first-ever Guinness. Chris and I settle into a cozy table at Garvey’s, a rowdy pub, and a few minutes later we’ve made friends with a college student from New Zealand, a twentysomething Aussie and an older local couple. The band starts up, and a few beers later we’re trying—in vain—to sing along with the Irish folk songs bursting throughout the pub. If this isn’t the real Ireland—and it sure feels like it—we’re too tipsy to care.

After two days in Galway, we head north past rolling pastures and crumbling churches to Ashford Castle, a magnificent 13th-century edifice located in County Mayo. Massive iron gates greet us; behind them, the sprawling castle stands in all its turreted, towered glory. A hotel since 1939, it commands 350 acres of heavily forested grounds on the glassy waters of Lough (Lake) Corrib. Inside the 83-room fortress, medieval armor, family crests and gilt-framed portraits of former residents (the castle was once a country residence for the Guinness family), the fairy-tale theme continues. Indeed, it’s impossible not to be transported back a few centuries while staying here.

Later that evening, after several beers in the castle’s jovial Dungeon bar, Chris and I get into a heated debate with another guest about—among other things—how he handled his young daughter’s declaration that she could see ghosts. We go to bed incredulous about his confrontational manner, but upon learning later that arguing is an unofficial national pastime in Ireland, I try to see it as a token of respect.

On the following days, we pass through after driving south through Limerick, Cashel and Enniscorthy, Chris and I have logged about 450 miles around the country. A highlight is our evening at the enchanting Dunbrody House Hotel & Restaurant on the southeastern coast. It’s owned by celebrity chef Kevin Dundon, who is to Ireland’s culinary scene what Rachael Ray is to America’s (minus the grating irritation). Dundon and his wife, Catherine, are a constant presence at the hotel, which features Dundon’s award-winning restaurant, the Harvest Room. We feel so at home here we cringe when we have to leave the next day for Dublin and our return flight home.

Sitting on the plane bound for Atlanta, Chris and I are already talking about what we want to do on our next trip here. And we’ve surrendered to yet another aspect of this island country, one far more powerful than its narrow roads: its irresistible pull. SP