A noted Nat Geo photographer called the Dingle Peninsula in Ireland, ‘the most beautiful place I’ve ever photographed’. I tend to agree with him.
Casey and I spent our 15th there and in Dublin a few months back. The beauty of the place sort of lulled you to rest. Or that could have been the exhaustion after the overnight flight and the sustained terror of driving on the left side of the road across the country right afterwards. Either way.
The whiskey was grand. The music was unforgettable. The food was… forgettable (for the most part). But that was a small price to pay. Spending time in the little town of Dingle was a great contrast to Dublin later on. Both were visually arresting, but in very different ways. Dingle’s pubs felt like a warm burrow set in a mossy sliver of stone tossed into the north atlantic. Dublin looked like a confident woman many years after an abusive relationship; well put together, conscious of the past yet still smarting from it a bit, but over it enough to smile when she saw her old beau, England.