There are five peninsulas to “be done” from Killarney or the
environs, and today we did the second, the most iconic, the Ring of Kerry, that
which is marked on the map to be done in an anti-clockwise direction, a fact
that half the tourists who embark upon this exercise deem to ignore; happily
the tour coaches do not.
We dallied over breakfast, not at all happy with the misty
rain and occasional more pronounced shower outside the van. Finally near 10 am
we decided we had too few days to waste one sitting about inside waiting for
the sunshine to arrive, so we set off north through Killarney, toward Killorglin,
part of the road now travelled twice over the past two days. While Killorglin
was but a waypoint on our journey, this little rural town suggested there was
so much more although we referred to our guide book rather than stopping and
checking it out for ourselves.
Here the annual Puck Fair is celebrated, the origins going
back to pagan times, but nowadays celebrated thus: for three mad days in August,
last week to be more exact, crowds of up to thirty thousand descend upon the
town. Granted its charter in 1613 by James I, the fair begins with the capture
of a wild goat from the nearby hills, whereupon it is caged before being
crowned king of the town. For the people a raucous wine festival commences
together with a traditional horse fair, all of this giving rise to an accumulation
of outrageous carryings on. The pagan roots apparently come from a time when a
herd of mountain goats rushed down to in the village warning of that Cromwell’s
army was on its way. Now if you bear in mind that both devout Catholicism and
the rule of James I arrived long before Cromwell, there is little logic in this
explanation, however it would seem that the people have a good time and in the
end, what does it matter if there is neither logic nor truth to explain three
days of mad fun?
We drove on through the little township, which normally supports
a population of less than 12,000, and headed south west along the coast of the
Iveragh Peninsula, the focus for the day. Our route was unimpressive but here the
road quite reasonable, although the views north across to the Dingle Peninsula
were veiled by the rain mist. We stopped in Glenbeigh, a very tidy and well-presented
settlement, for coffee and the pastries we had purchased at the Lidl as we left
Killarney. We could see evidence of the sand spit that reaches out north across
the bay, a little to the west of that which stretches south from Inch, this
offering an extra barrier of protection to the Castlemaine Harbour.
The road continued on through unimpressive rural scenes
until we climbed away from that northern coast near Kells, there the village of
that name sitting prettily on the steep slopes of Benteen Mountain. The road
rose up and then descended to Cahirsiveen, a town with various spellings and
certainly not this in our Tomtom. It’s a pleasant town to pass through with a
very long tidy main street with about four different names depending how far
along you have progressed. I had read about the O’Connell Memorial Church, a
rather special memorial in a country where all religious institutions
acknowledge biblical or quasi biblical figures rather than those with human
natures. But here between 1888 and 1902, this massive lumbering structure was erected
to honour a hero, mainly funded by expatriates in the US and Australia. This
particular hero, Daniel O’Connor , a lawyer by trade, filled the roles of MP,
Dublin’s first Catholic mayor and spent some time in gaol for sedition, all the
stuff of Irish history of which this is just a snippet of his carryings on;
these were brave men of the time against a behemoth of unfair colonialism. 
There is also a quite lovely sculpture at the entrance of
the town celebrating Brendon The Navigator and his monks arriving in the Emerald
Isles. It is an interesting fact that while our guide book warns against
mentioning the wee fairy creatures that spring to mind when those living on the
other side of the world think of the Irish, those little men Who Must Not Be Named,
the world of the Irish is full of fiction and fable and woe betide anyone who
should disrespect this “historical” past. (I fear I may upset my Irish readers
in writing this, but it is as I see it)
Just a little past Cahirsiveen, we turned off the Ring of
Kerry on to the Ring of Skellig, a lesser travelled eighteen kilometre route
beyond and to the west of the Ring of Kerry. Here one ventures into the true
Irish speaking areas centres around Ballinskelligs, but given that we did not
pause for long in any of the beautiful spots along this extended route, I
cannot vouch whether it I so.
We took the car ferry across to Knightstown on the north
western end of Valentia Island, a short trip costing us €8. This little
settlement is so very attractive on approach, one cannot help but spend a few
minutes here at the very least. We lingered on the quay, where there were
dozens of school age children being entertained with water based activities,
probably part of a holiday camp, and then later were mesmerised by a group of
middle aged buxom ladies in modest swimsuits venture into the cold water,
perhaps fulfilling a daily ritual. 
From here we drove directly across the length of the island,
on the R565 , through the tiny village of Chapeltown, on to Clynacarton,
directly across a bridge from charming Portmagee on the mainland. We lunched on
the island in the car park of The Skellig
Experience, a turf roofed tourist attraction which offers information,
visual and audio about the Skellig Islands twelve kilometres off to the west of
the peninsula, and of course the inevitable café. We were satisfied with our
views across to the mainland, albeit a little watery, because the rain had hung
about all morning, albeit more drizzle than real rain.
Our host at the camp here had suggested that if we were to
do The Ring of Kerry, we should catch
the ferry to Valentia Island and then drive up to the highest point of the
island to enjoy the splendid views. Perhaps in better weather this would have
been good advice, but in such conditions, any view was good, so our exploration
of Valentia Island was minimal.
I did notice there was much about Skellig Michael, one of
these offshore islands, this brought to my attention by my good friend Brenda
before we left Whangarei. She had travelled in this area in better health and
had so wanted to explore this, one of Ireland’s very special destinations,
however the weather had been against any such voyage. Apart from the very cute
puffins who call the island home, there are the remains of a 1500 year old Christian
monastery, where beehive shaped structures of flat rubble stones make up cells,
oratories, churches and other weird and wonderful structures which can be
reached by a series of over six hundred steps, none of which have been enhanced
with modern safety rails or the like. A visit to Skellig Michael is not for the
faint hearted, and for me I could only imagine the rough ride out in this
weather, which alone was enough to put me off. I shall tell Brenda how close I
got, and how like her it will have to be left on the bucket list for others to
conquer.
The road rose up over saddles offering beautiful views down
into the bays one way and the other, although always tempered with the moisture
of the day, and never offering perfect clarity. Now we were travelling east-north-east
as we travelled up the southern side of the Iveragh peninsula, and the northern
shore of the Kenmore River, really an inlet from the ocean. 
We pulled in to Sneem, where there are numerous sculptures
to interest the tourist, or at least those who are not caught up in the many
knitwear shops. Arran jerseys abound here and I have to say I was impressed
with the prices; in New Zealand I reckon they would sell for twice as much,
however this comes from a consumer who rarely pokes her nose into outlets catering
for those with excess spending power.
Here in Sneem we fell into conversation with a chap who was
simply chilling with his seven year old goat, with his cap nonchalantly upturned
on the pavement at his feet. I guess he hoped that anyone who wanted a photo of
him and his hairy mate might see fit to drop a donation. The old guy was a
delight to chat with although I suspect most of the spiel he gave was blarney,
but really, what does it matter?
We checked out the river as it rushed through the town and
down under the bridge we had passed over and agreed that the motorhome park
below would indeed be a delightful spot to stay.
By now the traffic was dense, progress very slow, and the
coach drivers exhibiting less than competent and swift progress. Arriving at
the end of the inlet, we turned north at Kenmare back up toward Killarney National
Park, intersecting the road we had travelled through the Gap of Dunloe at Moll’s
Gap, here turning eastward and slowly making our way down past the lakes that
make up this very beautiful National Park. Today we were able to see the lakes
below us and stopped from time to time with the dozens of other tourists to do
so. Fortunately none of us would linger long in any one place, soon giving up
our temporary park to the next comer. The snake of traffic wound its way down
toward Killarney, the coaches particularly slow through the tunnel and past the
rocky overhangs.
In Killarney we refuelled and restocked, yet again, before
heading home for a simple and rather late dinner. Tonight I learnt my baby sister
who joined the sexagerians just days ago, has gained her twelve grandchild; I
trust mother and baby are well. My sister is delighted with the new arrival;
she is far more maternal than I.
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