Book a premium cottage in the Irish countryside and there's a particular sort of craziness that grabs hold of a person. You see yourself as the main character in a lyrical indie movie, wrapped in a thick knit cardigan, sadly peering over a stone wall at a cow that obviously finds your presence to be annoying.
Just back from a week in County Kerry, I can attest that although the brochure promised ten times more beautiful, the truth is around eighty percent wetter than stated. We stayed at a "restored sanctuary" near the Dingle Peninsula. Practically, this meant it had floors so warm I felt like a piece of toast and a view of the Atlantic that made my soul yearn with its own, grey-blue grandeur.
Learning about vacationing in Ireland starts with understanding that the weather is a character trait rather than a given. It is unstable, volatile, and given to dramatic outbursts. We resolved to tackle some of the Ring of Kerry one morning as the sun split the rocks. Five minutes into the journey, the sky opened with such passion that the windshield wipers were almost dancing a frantic, rhythmic dance of futility. We stopped at a scenic spot to view what I believe to be the Skellig Islands. I noticed a gorgeous, quite wet cloud.
Still, returning to a premium kitchen after a day spent battered by the elements is quite gratifying. There we were, "self-catering" in the loosest meaning of the word; most of the time I was trying to figure out how to turn on a designer induction hob while my partner tried to get a peat fire going. A turf fire has a particular aroma, earthy, ancient, and somewhat evocative of a Victorian chimney sweeper, that causes even a sleek, contemporary house to seem like a prehistoric burrow.
We, of course, handled the tourist attractions. You haven't really lived until you've stood at the edge of the Cliffs of Moher, grabbing your raincoat for dear life and wondering whether the wind is actually trying to carry you to America. It is amazing and terrifying. We also spent a day in Galway, where the buskers play with enough soul to make a stone weep, and the pubs are so cosy you find yourself thinking about switching to a "professional pint-drinker" career permanently.
However, the actual magic resided in the calm times at our makeshift house. Once the day-trippers have gone, the Irish countryside becomes very quiet. Sitting on the deck sipping a glass of whisky, seeing the light fade over the MacGillycuddy's Reeks, you understand the "luxury" is not really the Egyptian cotton or the rainfall shower. It is the silence.
Bringing all our technology to a distant field and then grumbling about the somewhat patchy 5G made me ponder the ridiculousness of our contemporary wish to "get away from it all." I spent twenty minutes trying to get the ideal picture of a mossy gate, only to find the sheep behind me staring at me with real pity.
Ireland runs under your skin. It is a region of myth and mystery where the people are "the gift of the gab", and the roads are so narrow that a skilled driver may want to become a religious convert. I felt that familiar pang of remorse as we filled our bags, which now weighed much more because of a few sweaters I didn't need. Of course, I'll miss the heated floors, but I'll miss that obstinate, lovely rain much more.
