We didn´t actually find any berries in Dingle, though Dan did order any berries on hand for breakfast at the B&B. The best experience in Dingle was having our future read the night before, by a mystic Irish lassie who specialized in generic horoscope writing. She told me that I have had a very hard life and that I was a very strong person, and Dan was very bubbly and had a warm ora and was a genuine lover. Dick Macks, if you ever get a chance to stop for a pint, was quintessential. The aging books with tan leather pealing off the shelfs opposite the aging whisky that no one can afford to drink, is genuine Ireland.
Before we set off the next morning bright and early, Dan asked the owner of the house what recommendations she had before leaving the peninsula and she said, “Ahh, you can´t miss the Slea Head, this drive is one for the ages.” And so we set off in the blue VW Golf around the Dingle Peninsula. Being still a bit hesitant to side-swipe oncoming traffic, I was sticking fairly close to the left side walls which hug the roads with ivy clinging for dear life. I quickly realized I was coming close to giving Dan another heart attack so I tried my best to forget about oncoming traffic and stick to the white dotted line in the middle of the road.
We first came upon this fairly small town with scattered houses along a blue strip of ocean. The place dated back to 5 BC when it was first constructed and through a series of invasions of sea faring vikings, it was finally established as a fort over looking the giant sea walls. We stayed just enough time to snap a few photos and then we were off again along the narrow roads to Slea Head.
Once we arrived I knew instantly why the locals referred to the town as a sleigh. The entire valley seemed to be carved out from the jagged cliffs and came to a series points along the ocean wall. It was absolutely stunning sitting on the cliff side looking over the emerald landscape, with a whipping breeze stirring up the bone chilling blue atlantic below. Dan was nervous immediately getting out of the car, due to my cliff-hanging parking job, which startled the edge of a ditch, almost close enough to be blown over by the gusting wind.
We made it around Slea Head safely, meeting a few locals that were boisterous as ever, and headed back to Killarney where we heard there would be a championship match between two rival teams of the traditional Gaelic football. We arrived safely without any cuts or bruises and parked our car outside the stadium. We had plenty of time to waste before the match, so we decided to catch a pint or two in town. We ended up meeting the star player´s family for the rival team at a pub and took a few quick pics with the family, which Dan bought a round of beers for.
The match was brilliant, one of the memories that I will take a way for years to come. We found our seats, if you´d call them that, in the center of the Kerry mob, sporting the green and gold jerseys, and flying the flags of the local team. These three lads behind us pretty much explained all the rules before the match and as the game ensued, they began rifling curses at the other team like calls from a playbook. We ended up not only walking away from the match with a few new Irish slogans to shout for the coming days, but we also gained a sense of the Irish joy which everyone, both Kerry or Tyron shared: a love for sport.
These people, though they may be poor, have a bond that shows the wealth at the bottom of their hearts. I saw players throwing each other around and tossing straight blows to each other´s head throughout the game, but what happened at the end of the match? They came up and hugged each other like brothers and stripped off their jersey and traded it with their rival. The genuine bond shared among the Irish is one that is unshakeable. These are true brothers, though they may toss around a lot of slag, they still know the common bond that binds them all, and this is something I have come to truly respect.
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