| The Land of Time Enough: Driving the Emerald
Isle
By Diana Hunt
The bathtub was filled with a tangled mass of gelatinous green slime
floating in the hot water. This was to be my seaweed wrap. A New York City
spa it was not.
I had run away from home, needing private time, a break from my routine.
I needed quiet, rural countryside and a last minute mini-adventure. Autumn
in the southwest peninsulas of Ireland sounded like just the ticket. The
warm Gulf Stream creates an unusual subtropical climate—such an oxymoron
in Ireland I had to see it.
The guidebook I bought at the airport raved about the seaweed wrap one
could get at the oceanside spa in the village of Ballybunion, at the mouth
of the Shannon where it merged with the Atlantic Ocean. My imagination
runneth over. Since I had planned to drive to the southwest peninsulas,
Ballybunion became my immediate destination upon landing at Shannon Airport.
For €12 (about $15 at current exchange rates), the attendant gave
me a towel and ushered me into a small room with an old bathtub and a hook
for clothes. A lone bathtub in a cold 1920’s brick bath house wasn’t quite
what I had in mind. But there I was, so I figured I might as well go through
with it. Once the bathtub was full, the seaweed floated on the top, releasing
a thin jelly so that the entire tub of water became a hot, silky gel. "Very
good for the skin," the guidebook said. It felt slimy and smooth and I
soaked in the hottest water I could handle. I don’t know if it did my skin
any good, but I definitely felt more wide awake and alert after the bath,
ready to continue the drive.
After crawling through Tralee’s rush hour, it was nearing dinner time
and I started looking for a place to overnight. If I had qualms about finding
places to stay without reservations, I needn’t have worried. The national
pastime seemed to be letting out a room in one’s house. Every street and
country lane were lined with B&B signs.
I was looking for inexpensive, and overnight choices ranged from castles
to country mansions, from farmhouses to hostels. €25 to €30 ($30-38)
usually got me a clean room with its own bath, a giant breakfast and good
Irish conversation. Don’t be afraid to negotiate for the room rate, especially
off season. The high-spending Americans are missed and I often was able
to lower the going rate.
The next day, I followed the spectacular coast road along Tralee Bay
and Brandon Bay on the Dingle Peninsula, then cut cross country, over the
Slieve Mish Mountains to the town of Dingle. The countryside wildly changed
from impossibly green, tiny pastures dotted with sheep encircled by stone
fences, to tangled gorse and bramble and rocks covering the hills to long
stretches of empty sand beaches.
Dingle, the westernmost town in Europe, was a delightful port town with
a colorful harbor. Fishing is still a mainstay on these peninsulas, although
most fleets were definitely low-tech. I made my way around the Dingle Peninsula
to the angle where Dingle and Iveragh peninsulas meet. This was the start
of the famous Ring of Kerry, a circular drive around the edges of the peninsula.
The Ring of Kerry is the most heavily touristed area but also one of the
most beautiful in a beautiful country.
The terrain was harsher and more dramatic than Dingle, the cliffs steeper,
the mountains higher. The country’s greatest succession of mountain ranges,
called Macgillycuddy Reeks, and the tallest mountain, Carrantwohill, were
part of the Iveragh. The Kerry Way, a signed route popular with hikers,
mountain bikers and horseback riders, followed lonely but lovely paths
through the Reeks. Huge boulders were scattered on the slopes like so many
stationary sheep.
It was Sunday morning when I left the farmhouse B&B on the south
coast of Iveragh. It was one of those special days that still lives in
my mind. No other cars were on the road and the radio station was playing
great classical music. The low, early morning sun glinted off the water
and highlighted the dew on the flowers, on every blade of grass, on every
shrub. The coastline of the next peninsula across the Kenmare River alternately
appeared and disappeared from the mist, like the famed Irish fairies.
I entered the Beara Peninsula, which seemed to me a mix of both Dingle
and the Ring of Kerry. There were patches of green, hidden coves, long
strands of sand and a wild, rocky mountain interior. The Beara Way is another
popular hiking route for walkers.
Pete McCarthy, in his book McCarthy’s Bar, called the area a
"verdant Celtic jungle." Of the wilder interior, he went on to write "Sheep
are attached to unlikely precipices as if by Velcro."
There was a feeling of wanting to scoop up everything in my arms when
the sun shone. Even the ruined stone facades gleamed in an array of colors.
It was all so fleeting—perhaps this was where the Irish fairies figured
in Irish mythology. The beautiful bouts of sunny weather were intangible,
sometimes as fleeting as the people, who seemed to appear and disappear
with alarming speed.
I learned not to be in a hurry and, even though many back lanes were
not signed, eventually I always found my way to my destination. This indeed
is the Land of Time Enough – there is always time enough to do what you
want to do. No one here is in a hurry. And I had my privacy and adventure
fix.
 
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