Postcard from Ireland - Glengarriff to Dublin

Just when you think you’ve seen all the rugged beauty of the wild west Atlantic coast, you round (yet) another bend and some other view is revealed. If you gave into the temptation to stop the car and take a picture every time you wanted to when driving through the Killarney National Park, your progress would resemble a stop-motion animation crossing of the hills and valleys.

There are those of course that have to drive the roads every day – like the chap with the van stopped by the side of the road hefting a sack of sheep feed onto his shoulders. The feeding troughs for the hillside sheep are within easy tipping distance of the road and the sheep seem terribly pleased to see the feeder – I don’t know what sheep feed tastes like, but it’s obviously an improvement on the normal fare of tuft and thistle.

In Killarney itself we stopped for coffee and cheesecake. In accordance with the rule that no meal or snack in Ireland shall consist of less than seven million calories, the huge slice of cheesecake comes with a scoop of ice cream. Nothing sets one up for a long journey quite like metabolising a lot of sugar.

The motorway in Ireland was a revelation – a smooth ribbon of tarmac and, compared to the crowded motorways at home, blissfully free of traffic. Possibly the locals are put off by the signs that adorn the junctions, explaining that motorways are not the place for scooters and learner drivers and, right at the bottom of the list of prohibitions, stating ‘no animals’. Trap racing may have its place in Ireland still, but that place is not the overtaking lane.

The road signs on the motorway continue in gaelic and English. Normally having signs in both languages is a sign of trying to resuscitate a dying language that is dwindling but here in Ireland people do actually speak gaelic and for those who don’t, it adds a delicious sense of being abroad. Visiting Ireland, English speaking and driving on the left, can be somewhat unsettling. There’s much that is familiar but you’re constantly reminded that the place is different to home, in a way less obvious than when you visit, say, France (which is bloody different from home, what with everyone being French).

Gaelic and English may be thriving languages in Ireland, but the most common language is Romanian. I’ve never been anywhere were there are so many foreign workers – including abroad. Obviously the thing that’s done is that

After the wild romance of the south, Dublin is a much more cynical place. It’s the capital city of course and, as cities go, it’s intimate but still manages to hang on to some charm with a historical centre, making much of the Georgian architecture. And, indeed, if you’re looking the craic, then Grafton street is the place to find it. Buskers busk and tourists move along slowly in a Brownian motion of gawking. Possibly the best addition to the street are the flower stalls. They turn street corners into tropical gardens, with the flowers raked up, like waterfalls of colour against the drab city centre.

Tourists too at Temple Bar, this time French school children, all sporting identical orange backpacks, clustered round a busking rock and roll band. Tres cool.