Donoghues White Villa Farm Caravan & Camping Park, Killarney, Munster

Today was all about the Dingle Peninsula; it’s been a long day but I should not complain, it should  be The Chauffeur who is pleading exhaustion. But he is not; he is busy cooking dinner, lamenting the lack of brocolli and not satisfied with a can of green beans to be served in lieu.

We set off soon after 9 am, heading partly along the route we took yesterday, turning off before that to Beaufort, and headed through to Milltown on the R563, then to Castlemaine, which we learned was the birth place of the “Wild Colonial Boy”. 

This term brings to mind the lovely ballad made famous by the Irish Rovers, if you happen to have been brought up by parents whose first “78” records included such classics. It is in fact a traditional anonymous Irish-Australia balad of which there are many versions. The original was about Jack Donahue, (think of the ownership of this campground and the first ocupants of the Ross Castle, and keep an open mind to the spelling) an Irish rebel who became a convict, then a bushranger and was eventually shot by police; shades of Ned Kelly. The Irish version is about Jack Duggan, young emigrant from Castlemaine, County Kerry. For us, the name of Castlemaine brought to mind the old gold town in Victoria, which was probably named for the town here.

At Castlemaine we turned west, now on the circuit road that follows the shoreline of the Dingle Peninsula, firstly the R561, soon joining the N86. We stopped at Inch, at the base of the sand dune peninsula that reaches out into Dingle Bay forming Castlemaine Harbour. This is an incredibly sheltered area, where we saw several barge-like vessels, too far in the distance to identify further. Here at Inch, on the wesern side of that sandy bar, the Atlantic rolls in offering opportunity for wave seeking swimmers and riders. There were a surprising number of swimmers there, evidence of the surfing school, and even some uninhibited folk who were stripping their wet gear off, the one I could not help but ignore, a man at least as old as me. 

Here too was an interpretative panel that informed us that it was here that J M Synge’s “The Playboy of the Western World” was filmed in 1962, a fact that meant nothing at all to me. However I was interested to learn that the location was used for the 1970 production of “Ryan’s Daughter” which I remember very well; the wild beauty of the Peninsula won the film the Oscar for best cinematography.

We continued along our route, along to Anascaul, where we joined the N86, and continued on toward Dingle, the namesake of this whole tourist route. 

Dingle has a resident populaion of about 2,000, which when you add in those others who live in the surprisingly densely populated surrounds, must surely draw in a fair percentage of the welfare benfit, or what else do they live on? The town sits in a well protected harbour, and is full of B&Bs, hotels, restaurants, bars and other outlets that cater for the thousands of tourists who stream through. As we passed through this vibrant settlement, we looked forward to checking it out on our return; our forward journey would bring us back here in a figure eight trip.

So on we went, around the harbour passing through Ventry, passing between the vibrant colourful hedges of flowering red fuschias and orange montbretias and then on along the coast road, now high above the cliffs. Now on the Slea Loop, there are dozens of prehistoric sites along this stretch high above the perilous shore; Iron Age stone forts and evidence of past habitation. Our guide book suggested that the best of these to explore was that at Dun Beag, so there we stopped on one of the many pull off view spots. 

Alas we learned that this particularly celebrated site, dating back to 800 BC, probably home to a local lord or noble who ruled the local area, a well defined but highly exposed redoubt, had undergone serious damage during recent storms. The fort’s stone wall has collapsed in stages down into the sea in 1914, 1918, 1940 and just recently, and these days with all the health and dafety issues, we the tourists are not allowed access. We marvelled that something that could withstand the ravages of nature for over two and a half thousand years should start falling to bits now. Probably global warning; it gets blamed for most things these days.

This was a disappointment, however  we headed for another attraction accessed from the same car park. The landowners along this route have obviously decided that fleecing, or milking, the tourist is a more lucrative agricultural practice, and at nearly every Stone Age site the added attraction of petting farm animals is added, drawing the city folk or families with children. Access is generally a fair 3 euro per head, but then you can buy a punnet of nuts suitable for offering to the sheep or goats or donkeys who all eagerly await the eye-popping tourist. And of course these animals are happy to see you; an endless provider of goodies.  

Actually the animals who came to greet us at the fences were all rather sweet and not too bitter about the fact we came empty handed. Here we were more interested to check out the Famine Houses, examples of the hovels that those effected by the potato famine of the 1840s and the stories and history relating to this. Actually the interior set up of these buildings was poor, particularly the chattels set up to demonstrate those they may have used. For example, there was a treadle sewing machine with an explanation that this is how many would have made their own clothes beyond the more simple weaving of fabrics. Alas the machine was a rusted example pulled out of a tip somewhere. I was feeling the whole affair was a total waste of our time until we entered a room at the rear of the building where we were overwhelmed with the stories and history about the Famine: political, social, historical, all riveting and ghastly but too much crammed in a small space with too many fellow tourists to enable full appreciation. Back down at the little hut where the entry fee was being collected I asked about the book on offer and ended up purchasing it to be read at leisure. Perhaps it is overpriced as The Chauffeur suggested, but can serve as an early birthday gift.

So on we went, by now the traffic heavier, cars behind and in front. While there are no warnings on maps or road signs to suggest any particular direction the road should be travelled, our guide book and our hosts suggested it should be in a clockwise direction, contary to the Ring of Kerry, and it seemed that on the whole, tourists were heeding this subtle advice.

We pulled over at Slea Head, to enjoy the views out to the Blasket Islands and to admire the rather ornate shrine on the corner, yet another reminder that we are travelling in a very devout Catholic country. South of Dunquin, we stopped again to admire further coastal terrain, the cliffs and beaches that form the eastern edge to the Blasket Sound, a passage that claimed at least one of those ships belonging to the Spanish Armada which fell foul of the weather all those centuries ago.

Here too we learned that the headland, Sybil Head, projecting out in front of us was location for much of the 2016 production of Star Wars VIII. Other geographical features of note were the Three Sisters easily identifiable.

We came on down to Dunquin, then to Ballyferriter, before heading back across toward Dingle instead of carrying on further north to a further loop which probably would have served little more purpose. Back at Dingle we looked for a space in the car parks, then drove around the narrow streets for a space, but there was absolutely nowhere to be found, so we drove away still not having explored this lovely little seaside town. I suspect the hoteliers and restauranteurs would not have missed us; there were plenty of people to fill their tables, get their till ringing and anyway, we make for poor spenders.

We now headed north east up over Conor Pass, up through the mountains that run along the backbone of this peninsula. This glaciated topography has the tallest mountains in Ireland outside the MacGillcuddy’s Reeks, crossed yesterday. Here is Mount Brandon at 950 metres ASL and the pass where we pulled over to enjoy the views both north and south, sitting at 500 metres ASL. The weather had been a mixture of sunshine and short sharp showers all day and we were banking on escaping another front as we stepped out of the car to enjoy the vistas. We were lucky, although the rain started again once we resumed our trip.

Back to the south was a lovely view toward Dingle and across Dingle Bay toward the Iveragh Peninsula, that of the Ring of Kerry. To the north, we had an uninterupted view out into the Atlantic, and immediately below evidence of the geological beginnings of the land, stark steep slopes and strings of corrie lakes known as “paternoster lakes”.

On we went down a road that bans buses and trucks over a certain weight which would exclude our New Zealand motorhome. Rocky overhangs would threaten the unwary driver of such vehicles, but with care the road is easy and of good surface. We thought the exclusions are probably to limit the traffic which is already quite busy, especially at this time of the year. From here we proceeded along the northern coast of the peninsula eventually arriving at the country town of Tralee, given few cudos by the writers of our guide book. 

We found a busy vibrant township, many occupied with readying everything for the annual Rose of Tralee extravaganza this coming weekend. I was amused to subsequently read in the day’s newspaper of the “mother” who is entering the contest this year; she has a wee tot and a partner who will be “so excited to see her in the competition”. Married women are not allowed to enter; it seems rather ridiculous that an unmarried mother with a lover, albeit the father of her child, is welcome, especially in this very Catholic country, but not a legally wed woman. How we can twist the rules to suit ourselves, but I have been no better through my life; we are only human.

We took the simple route home, straight down the N72 to Killarney, caught up in the late afternoon traffic and soon home before another bout of rain.