Ireland

Have you ever put a butter knife in your mouth (to lick off the avocado or nutella or whatever’s on there) only to realize too late that the knife was longer than expected and you might, in fact, kill yourself?

I’ve thought about this a lot lately.

is the answer to stop licking knives?  cuz i can’t commit to that.

In other news, after steam cleaning my emotional closet and crying so much I started to categorize each cathartic cry sesh (let’s see, there was the Thunderstorm: a 15-second flash flood; the Billy Elliott: a dramatic buildup punctured by one gravity-defying horizontal leap; the Punxsutawney Phil: you never actually see it come out but someone tells you it’s there; etc etc), it was time to get out of Portugal’s 100-degree heat, grab a bacon cheeseburger, and head up north.

A wee three-week spree, I booked 12 days in Ireland and 8 days in Scotland for some good ‘ole fashioned craic.  Some F-U-N with family & friends to counteract the serious business of spiritual development getting over my fear of stovetop stuffing.

Now, don’t get me wrong: solo travel is the tits.  You get to reinvent yourself without prejudgment or typecasting.  Go anywhere, do anything, change your mind, change your perspective, change direction without anyone questioning your intentions or second-guessing your decision to drink your own pee ‘cuz Dina insisted it would clear up your cold.  Wait, what?  Sorry, but who would DO that?  That’s disgusting.  You need to draw the line somewhere.  Gross.

But hypothetically……… if I forgot to lock the bathroom door and was sitting on a compost toilet with my pajama pants around my ankles, holding a steaming quarter-cup of my own pee, fully aware someone could barge in on me at any moment HOLDING A STEAMING QUARTER-CUP OF MY OWN PEE……… I would remember that forever.  Hypothetically.

Entering the world again after a transformational five-week hippie camp was WEIRD.  And a little overwhelming.  Everything a little too loud and too chaotic……… but then again, I don’t think most people would have headed straight to a Japanese karaoke birthday party from the airport.  Lugging everything they owned through downtown Dublin at 10pm on a Friday night.  Excusing themselves as they tried to squeeeeze through throngs of party people, drinking in the streets, without slapping someone in the face with a hiking boot.

no regrets.  love you guys!  #hallandoates #nsync

After WE sang our hearts out and EYE clogged Annie & EV’s shower drain with my leg hair, we headed to the Wicklow Mountains for a three-day glamping extravaganza.  I’ve never been glamping before!  What a treat!  There was a hot tub and everything!

Camp Glamp was my first luxury camping experience and my friends Annie and EV (and their friend Iseult) pulled out all the stops.  And by stops, I mean alcohol.  Starting with red wine and lemonade, we switched to ciders and saisons in the afternoon, then champagne for the hot tub, back to ciders and lagers, finishing up with a ‘lil rosé before bed.  Could I handle it?  No.  I took naps every three hours like clockwork.  I’d wake up for beer pong tournaments and hot tub shenanigans, then accidentally pass out on a lawn chair.  Rally for a huge feast of lamb chops, prawns, and EV’s blue cheese-stuffed shrooms before dancing off my dinner and collapsing back in the tent.

i could NOT hang.  sorry to my irish ancestors and everyone i’ve ever known.

dance attack (click here)

oh, look!  she’s awake!

nope, we lost her

When we weren’t drinking in the hot tub or practicing narcolepsy in the wild, we were hiking through Wicklow Mountains National Park to Lough Dan (pronounced ‘Lock Dan’) and Lough Tay (‘Lock Tay’ aka Guinness Lake) – both beautifulllll vistas with glacial lakes (and deserted trails due to the bank holiday).  Bonus feature: our campsite bordered a field with two horses 100% tolerant of human strangers wishing for intimate contact.

ireland- you pretty

lough tay- my birthright

all campsites should come with hot tubs.  and champagne if we’re being honest.

had a moment.  with a horse.

Glamping with gal pals in the gorgeous greenery turned out to be the perfect precursor to an Erin Go Bragh-less, Makeup-less & mostly Pant-less solo road trip across southern Ireland with little to no research or planning.

I booked a rental car in advance, so that was something (yay!)……… but I didn’t know about Ireland’s mandatory rental car insurance policy until I arrived (oh).  ‘So, you’re saying the cheapest, MANDATORY insurance package is an additional 300 USD and doesn’t cover the transmission, suspension, engine, brakes, tires or windshield?  What does it cover?  The cup holders?  My car doesn’t have cup holders?  Awesome.  Thanks.  Perfect.  I’ll take it.’

In reality, if anything happened to my rental car, I was fked.  Soooooo, I had to reteach myself how to fully PAY ATTENTION while driving a motor vehicle.  Something I haven’t done in 15+ years.

Scary much?  Eh, shut your face.  You mean to tell me you’ve never said to yourself, ‘Oh!  I’m home!  That’s weird…… I don’t remember leaving the grocery store.’  (End scene.)

Besides hitting a few curbs, walking to the wrong driver’s side door, and wanting to drive on the wrong side of the road, the Irish roadways and roundabouts suited me.  I especially loved playing chicken on one-lane roads, with a car that’s only insured for natural disasters, while an old, shoddy Garmin kept telling me, ‘You are going the wrong way down the street.  You are going the wrong way down the street.  You are going the wrong way down the street.’

agree to disagree, MA’AM.  and i’d appreciate if you and your calm voice & outdated software could STFU.

(i don’t wanna lose this game of chicken and reverse for 30 minutes trying to find a driveway…)

Since I’d already thoroughly explored Dublin two summers ago (shout out to Annie, Tif, Mere & the Guinness Storehouse for showing me how to pour the perfect pint), my loose itinerary focused more on……… sheepdog demos.  And beehive huts.  And winding roads, rolling hills, billowy clouds and the sea.

I wanted more Dan Murphy’s and Ryan Fitzpatrick’s and Mick O’Dwyer’s and Gus O’Connor’s (the men or the bars, I’d take either), more Lord of the Rings and Star Wars and garden gnome backdrops and more opportunities to listen to Irish people talk about a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g.  The weather, the time, I don’t care keep talking.  (‘I tink ut’s ten far-tee five!’  ‘Dis-goose-tin!’  ‘Tanks a mil!’  ‘A good neighbor is bet-her den any alarm system.’)

are you asking me or telling me?

Here’s a quick hit list of what I ended up seeing in Ireland, per county:

• TIPPERARY
  • Rock of Cashel: home to various kings until the 12^th century, the medieval architecture and Celtic art relics (including the original Cross of St. Patrick) are in good hands = old, Irish men who give free tours of the facility.  I loved it (and Sean, my 85-year-old tour guide) so much, I became an official museum contributor that day; one of the polarized lenses popped outta my sunglasses and rolled into a slit in the wall.  Lost forever among the relics…… fifth pair this year, down for the count.
• CORK
  • Blarney Castle & Gardens: sure, you could do a backbend and kiss the infamous Blarney Stone (which is incredibly touristy and frankly, a little disgusting – of course I did it), but you could ALSO wander through the fairy garden (magical!), the poison garden (don’t eat anything!), and up and down the Wishing Steps (make a wish while walking backwards down a slippery set of stairs with your eyes closed!).
  • Cobh: the Titanic’s last port of call in 1912, I scrapped anything that required advance tickets or the heavy use of my legs (the Titanic Museum and Spike Island, Ireland’s Alcatraz), in favor of reading a book about James Joyce on the banks of the Celtic Sea (in Kennedy Park).
  • Kinsale: the colorful homes and storefronts are so cute you wanna vomit all over your legs.
  • Cork: I ate in the English Market, drank a Bailey’s coffee at Sin E (nightly live music) and Mutton Lane Inn (graffiti alley), and went into a clothing store called ‘Concern Worldwide’ as a joke.  Joke was on me – I bought my new favorite 5 Euro sweater for charity.  P.S. don’t miss the local, seasonal veg at Café Paradiso or the smoked salmon benny at SpitJack Rotisserie.
• KERRY
  • Ring of Kerry: part of the Wild Atlantic Way (Ireland’s scenic seaside highway), through the Killarney National Park and Gap of Dunloe’s narrow mountain pass, the Ring of Kerry is arguably one of the prettiest, camera-ready drives in the world.  Drive clockwise to avoid tour bus delays and try to pay attention while driving.  But it’s hard.  So, pull over.  Frequently.
  • Cahersiveen: you must stay at Joan & Michael’s B&B, non-negotiable.  Joan is a GEM of a woman who sells her granny baked goodies to a local bakery and will undoubtedly have an entire COUNTER of freshly made apple pies upon your arrival.  She took care of me so well that, when I left, I asked Joan, ‘is it weird if I hug you?’  It wasn’t.  It was lovely.
  • Kenmare: I drank a whiskey coffee with ‘gar-juss’ 12-year-old Powers whiskey at Ireland’s highest pub (Top of Coom) and went into a clothing store called ‘Fat Face’ as a joke.  Joke was on me – I walked out with half the store and my first mustard shawl.  And THENNNNN, my friend Annie resurfaced in Kenmare, meeting me for an ASSAULT COURSE and BOG RUN and MUD SURFING escapade at the Eclipse Activity Center.  (Mud surfing canceled due to lack of rain.)
    • What do you get when you plop two former college athletes into an obstacle course with ropes, mud pits, 10’ walls and a Grecian drill sergeant fond of heckling?  You get giggles.  Annie catching my body, as I swung over a pit, and dragging me across the safety line?  Giggles.  Annie kicking mud in my face every time she flung one of her legs over a log?  Giggles.  Annie trying to pullllllll me out of the muddy bog because somehow, I got stuck ALL THE WAY TO MY VAGINA AND COULDN’T MOVE MY BODY IT WAS LIKE CEMENT.
    • It felt like I was riding a horse, with my legs bent behind me.  My va-jean PERCHED atop the mud like it’d be stuck forever.  But gosh darn it, we hadn’t even crawled through the pipes or raced through the woods or hurdled through those dangly, electric shock rope thingies yet…… so, come ON gurl.  We need to moooooove.  This is a timed test and we’re already, wait, shit, just kidding, he turned off the timer ‘cuz we’re 3 hours behind the 4-minute time trial.  #graphicjam #tacotrap #mudflaps

mvp goes to annie.  most improved goes to my va-jean.

After reliving our collegiate glory days bribing our drill sergeant with these amazing dried figs I bought in Cork’s English Market, Annie and I exited the assault course and headed to the Dingle Peninsula for a 3-day getaway.  We hiked Mount Brandon in the rain.  We took a romantic walk down Inch Beach as our car almost washed away in the tide.  And we danced with strangers at LIVELY Irish pubs with lively back patios and live music (complete with tin whistles).

it all started with dingle g&t’s

what is happening

no seriously, what is happening?

no one knows but we’re going for it

After manhandling the locals and screaming ‘ALICE, ALICE, WHO THE F*CK IS ALICE’ for three days straight, it was time to shove off and head to County Clare for a Princess Bride montage.  Sans Westley/Mystery Man in Black costumes, shrieking eels, the four fastest ships and built-up immunities to iocane powder……. I guess it wasn’t exactly a montage, but we did walk the Cliffs of Moher (aka the Cliffs of Insanity) and we totally could have rescued Buttercup if the wind wasn’t so strong.

wuv.  true wuv.

taylor: ‘wind, i would like you to ruin all my pictures.’

wind: ‘as you wish.’

Last stop on the world tour Emerald Isle potato & scone tour was Galway to visit one of Annie’s friends (Clare- my new favorite nutball) and eat some ribeye & rabbit rillettes.  The night took a turn after round 1 g&t’s at Tigh Neachtain, rounds 2 & 3 tempranillos at Ard Bia, and round 4 fresh funky mojitos at Bite Club…….. we ended up at Sonny Molloy’s Front Door (no relation) to ask as many cute Irish boys as possible IF they had land and if that land had road frontage.  It was a great night.

look ma!  i ate vegetables!  #galway

Well, I’ll be.  We’re 15 minutes in and I didn’t even get to Scotland yet!

We can’t start now.  It’s a whole other thing.

We’ll need to tuck that in our back pocket for next time.  In the MEANtime, I’d like to hear a few more stories from EV’s dad, Aidan O’Toole…… because the few that I heard at that family backyard BBQ, outside Dublin, only served to wet my appetite.

I fell in love with the whole O’Toole clan immediately, but the Irish Catholic hellfire jokes and the complete genealogy of my Irish roots and those 4 months Aidan spent in Wildwood, NJ, back in ’69 did NOT hurt.  Oh, you ‘have a story about a turd?’  Please tell me more.

Another round of Bailey’s over ice, please.  Nobody’s going anywhere.

And now, picture slideshow:

cork’s mutton lane inn = adorbs

sean, my rock of cashel heartthrob tour guide

drinking buddies at dick mack’s in dingle

(dingle pro tip: don’t miss dick mack’s back patio, the o’sullivan courthouse violinist, dingle pub’s nightly live music or pantri cafe’s brekkie bun)

don’t go chasin’ waterfalls.  chase your car after it washes away in the tide.

is this the only face i make for selfies?  #ringofkerry

the infamous blarney stone tourist backbend

guinness lake with fraaaaands

miss you already

dance outro (click here)

keep the baileys on ice.  i’ll be back.