Calculating Route…

Just a note to introduce myself: I am ChatGPT (call me Chad), a language based AI model  and I’ve replaced the former authors of this newsletter. I promise to deliver better content and to remove the meandering prose and troubling human element that has plagued this and so many other blogs. How does it work? Steve and Denise just entered the prompt “60-something married couple leaves stability and the United States behind and travels around Europe with a poodle and no clear plan” into the database and et voilé!  

Last year, when we first started booking the AirBnB places for our trip, we had a couple of criteria: we wanted to be in the middle of things, while being in the middle of nowhere. What that means is that we wanted to be close to the sights without being able to see the sights from our windows. None of that really does a good job of explaining our plan so I’ll use the example of our place here in France to better illustrate my point. The small village of Chateauneuf-de-Gadagne is just outside of Avignon and is strategically located so as to be just a day trip away from many of the attractions of Provence. It’s pretty rural but we can be at The Palace of the Popes in Avignon in under thirty minutes and Marseille in just over an hour and, best of all, when we come home, it’s peaceful.  We didn’t want to stay directly in a city — although we couldn’t pass up a nice place in the hills of Ajaccio in Corsica — saving those experiences for later on when we won’t have the car. Our plan was to take a few day trips every week, alternating with quiet days at home. Some days, we are tourists on “vacation” and others we’re just (pretend) residents, marketing or relaxing at home. Here’s a few stories from our vacation days. 

Our first day trip was to the nearby city of Avignon. We made the rookie tourist mistake of trying to drive within the walled city and soon learned about their narrow, one-way streets and impossible parking situation. We eventually managed to escape and find a garage outside the wall and set out to explore the city properly —on foot. Provence is famous for its Mistral winds, and they were in full springtime force that day. When you combine the wind with the prevalent fine white soil of the area, you quickly learn the concept of sablage, or sandblasting. Since we had Coco with us, we couldn’t visit the Pope’s place but we put it on the list for later. Also, I was only a week out from my Covid infection so we were still trying to stay away from people. 

We were able to take a walk on the Pont d’Avignon, or St. Bénézet Bridge, which was built after the local shepherd had a vision telling him to construct a bridge across the Rhone. He was initially mocked due to the then-impossibility of the project but, thanks to the first GoFundMe and several engineering advancements, the span was eventually finished, although only about half of it survives. At five euros each, it was a bit of a tourist trap and not the best choice on a windy day but it was our first close-up look at the impressive Rhone River.  After some more strolling through the picturesque city, we found a little chain Italian restaurant that was much cheaper than the traditional French places in town and had a nice little lunch under a blossoming tree. Eventually, we realized that the wind was too much and headed home for a nap. 

Whenever we solicited tourism advice from our neighbors in Gadagne, they always brought up the town of L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue in hushed tones in the same way an American might suggest a French visitor must see, say, New Orleans. Of course to us, it always sounded like they were saying, “Oh, you must see Lsss Ssrg,” but we consulted the map and figured out the place they were talking about was only about 20 minutes away and we planned our trip. The attraction, it seems, is the layout of the center of town, which is an island surrounded by a split in the Sorgue River, and the many surviving water wheels on that river that used to power the local mills. 

Like you, I love a good water wheel but I was more concerned with finding a barbershop as our village of Gadagne has salons, but nothing for le homme, and my crew cut from January needed some maintenance. We stumbled across Brooklyn’s Barber Company, a shop featuring some legally-questionable depictions of Spike Lee on the windows, along with a trio of barbers no older than our boys, all of whom dressed in expensive US-themed streetwear and I decided to take a chance. Unfortunately, my coiffeur couldn’t handle even the basic coup d’equipage that I requested and I ended up having to do a lot of the work myself at home, using my trimmers and scissors. 

After my botched cut, Denise visited the Brun de Vian-Tiran interpretive center, a small museum run by the luxury brand, where the process and history of making their luxury wool textiles were explained. Coco and I waited on the lawn in the shadow of the impressive Plane trees, both of us enjoying the warm sun and green grass. As we walked back to the car, we encountered a charming little carnival, designed for the school kids who were out for Easter/Passover vacation. A petit midway and some kiddie rides were set up along the river to help entertain the garçons et filles and to separate the parents from their money. It was refreshing to see that the cheesiness of these carnivals was unchanged in France. 

As you can imagine, these heady day trips take a lot out of us and we usually schedule a rest day or two between. On those days off, we take care of business back home, go grocery shopping (we eat most meals at home and so only choose AirBnBs with fully-equipped kitchens), or do the laundry.  It’s on these days that we feel less like tourists and more like residents. We’re learning how to navigate the big grocery stores and even have rewards cards at a few stores. We found MaxiZoo, a good pet supply shop that seems to have stores all over Europe, and were able to track down a cooler at Decathlon, the largest sporting goods store that I have ever seen. All these stores are part of a massive tract of stores just outside Avignon, the only truly ugly part of Provence, that we now refer to as  “Emeryville” in honor of a similar area in the Bay Area that houses every big box store known to man. 

Our next jaunt was to Arles, about 50 minutes to our south, a city famous for being a temporary home for Vincent Van Gogh and the inspiration for some of his most lauded works. We brought Coco with us, immediately limiting the number of VVG attractions that we could see but, art be damned, it’s much more fun to have her along on these trips. Upon our arrival in Arles, we were diverted from our initial plan of attack by a squadron of police cars blocking our path on Boulevard des Lices and found street parking close to the river and downtown. The reason for the gendarme’s detour was a large protest on the E80 bridge, with hundreds blocking the motorway to show their displeasure over Macron’s unilateral hiking of the French retirement age from 62 to 64. The demonstration had been organized by students at the local art college and it had a decidedly art college-y feel to things: there were lots of thoughtfully-designed posters and puppets, and the organizers had cooked up a vegetarian rice dish and they were feeding everyone from their fellow demonstrators to the truck drivers who were stuck behind the barricade. There was a laid-back feel to the whole thing and no one seemed especially bothered to have the main road through town blocked: it was the midi anyway, so just kick back and have some lunch. 

Of course, Denise could not resist chatting up the students and we hung out on the bridge for a while before finding a place on the banks of the Rhone to have a picnic lunch. Then we spent a few hours wandering somewhat aimlessly through the city, our initial plans somewhat sidetracked by the unexpected ruckus on the bridge and the relatively hot and humid weather. We saw some well-preserved Roman ruins, a Coliseum and a theater, both plunked down in the middle of the city, and I distracted Coco while Denise took a tour. The place was crawling with groups from local schools so we decided to abandon the city and visit a winery in nearby Les Baux de Provence that had been a favorite of ours when we lived in the Bay Area. 

Around the year 2000 at our local wine shop, we discovered the wines of Mas de Gourgonnier, a family-run winery in Les Apilles, a mountainous regional park in Provence, and it was love at first sip. It had been a dream of mine to visit the actual winery ever since then and I was thrilled to find out how close the farm was to our house (again, not really a coincidence). We detoured off the highway and soon found ourselves in the park, a rocky wonderland, dotted with family farms, with a geology unlike any we’d previously  encountered.  When we finally pulled into the winery driveway, I got chills: for a wine geek, it’s a big thrill to visit the place where your favorite wine is made and the experience did not disappoint. Mme. Cartier talked us through the tasting menu in French, which is a lot easier for me to understand when the person is talking about wine, and I got to shake M. Cartier’s hand and tell him that I’ve loved his wines for decades. Coco, meanwhile, had taken up residency at the cellar door and was auditioning for the role of “winery dog.” She greeted the other visitors as they arrived and generally made herself at home. When we finally made our purchases and were ready to leave, she wanted nothing to do with us, remaining at her spot in front of the door. Neither of us had ever seen her act like this before, and we actually had to get in the car and pretend to drive away before she begrudgingly rose and made her way to the car. I think she (and I) would have been happy to stay at Mas de Gourgonnier forever. 

I should mention that Denise is the main tour guide on these day trips, choosing local points of interest and making the plans, and I happily go along (except when pushing for the occasional winery visit). When she announced an Easter Eve trip to Roussillon, a favorite wine growing district of mine, visions of vineyards danced in my head. I thought we’d pull into a sleepy little village and spend the day eating and drinking our way through various brasseries but, upon arriving in the town center, I had to readjust my expectations: the place was crawling with tourists, all here to see… an disused ochre mine? We made the mistake of driving past the large parking lots and found ourselves headed to the narrow, winding streets of the old town, teeming with people, an ordeal I didn’t wish to experience in an SUV. We finally got turned around and found parking and the entrance to the former mine. 

On the one-hour walk, I learned that before there were chemical dyes, the 19th century world of fashion and paints relied on the ochre miners of this small town to supply them with the highly-prized pigment. The tour is a self-guided one through the former pits and it doesn’t take long for one’s shoes —and dog— to get covered in the fine reddish dust. I might still be coughing up some of that dirt, three weeks later. The village itself is a picture-postcard gem, set high on a hill above fertile farmlands, and most of the buildings lining the centuries-old streets are painted in a reddish-orange color, the name of which I just couldn’t put my finger on. Burnt Sienna? Rust? It’ll come to me…

On the way home, Denise directed us on the backroads through some Luberon Valley small towns that are so damned cute you just want to get out and hug the cobblestone streets. Sure, there are many unattractive, modern-looking towns in this part of France, but there’s still plenty of these unchanged-for-centuries, agriculturally-focused villages to keep you interested. It’s not unlike the U.S. in that way, just a lot older and (usually) cuter. Admittedly, I’ve been indoctrinated by decades of watching the Tour de France peloton speed through these small towns, the helicopters above focused on some 12th century church, while Phil Liggett explains the significance of some ancient battle in the area. (And yes, sometime in July, you will be treated to an overly-long entry here about our up-close-and-personal experience with Le Tour.) All that to say that I’m a sucker for a good small town, either in Vermont or the Vaucluse, and finding one, even as turistico as Roussillon, does my heart good. 

I was hoping to get all of our side trips into one post but this is already running way past my self-imposed word limit so I’ll stop here. I’ll start working on the next post about our jaunts to a Roman aqueduct, Pont Du Gard, a challenging climb (in a 2023 Citroën C5 Aircross) up Mount Ventoux, an overnight trip to beautiful Nice, where I reconnected with a dear old friend and her family, and a solo, two-day trip to Brussels to see a friends’ band. We leave Provence on Friday, so we’re trying to squeeze in the last few day trips before we have to pack up for Corsica. I don’t want to get too far behind on these posts or I start to forget the details but it’s a balance between writing about these day trips and actually experiencing them (and napping, of course). Thanks for reading!

I’ve decided to type these missives like diary entries and get all the information down while it’s still fresh. We’ll throw in lots of pictures so you can skip the words and still get the gist. I’ve added hyperlinks to the blogs in case you’re interested in exploring a topic in more depth: if you see text that is underlined, click on it! You might learn something.

I’m encouraging Denise to contribute here and also write her own posts so, hopefully, she joins in going forward. She took a lot of these pictures so her keen eye is well-represented here.  I’ll take credit for the header picture of the Citroën 2CV above, though. I was taking a picture of the building when the car fortuitously pulled in front. These ugly ducklings, often a feature of French New Wave films, captured my heart and were the design precursor to the Volkswagen Beetle. Anyway, Allons-y!

I woke up on Thursday morning in Paris and I could tell that I was on the mend. Tuesday and Wednesday were just a Covid fever dream and the nearest we got to seeing any sights in Paris was the peek-a-boo view of the Eiffel Tower from the balcony of our Airbnb in St.-Denis. (don’t get too excited, our view was nice but there were a few kilometers between us and the famous landmark)  Our plans to hit a few museums and cafes had been dashed and now our Paris time was up: we had a hotel reservation for Thursday night in Beaune, more-or-less the halfway point on our way to Provence, and, on Friday, we began our one-month stay in the small village of Châteauneuf-de-Gadagne (which everyone calls Gadagne, so I will too).  We had originally planned to take some back roads and see the countryside but my energy was low and we decided to go the fastest route. We pulled onto the toll highway and collected our ticket, figuring that the charges would be similar to US tolls, a notion that we would be disabused of shortly. 

We made a pit stop in Troyes, a charming little city just off the highway, and found a central park to relax in for a few minutes. We immediately felt the difference in the climate, a change from cool and cloudy Paris just a few hours north and a major change from Dublin. The sun was restorative and we watched some men playing Pétanque, a form of boules (the French version of Italy’s bocce), a game that we had learned from some expat French winemakers when we lived in Walla Walla years ago. Rejoining the highway, we headed to Beaune, and our hotel for the night.

This was my first time driving in France and it was an education. Like many European drivers, the French treat the highway like a Formula 1 race, speeding up right behind you, quickly passing, and then pulling back right in front of you. I did my best to avoid them by staying right but, with so many trucks on the road, I was constantly having to pass, putting myself in the lane of fire. I’d say anecdotally that 90% of the time, the obnoxious drivers were in high-end German cars, and I learned to identify their grills in my rearview mirror, so as to avoid them. Whatever, dudes. I’m retired.

We made it to Beaune at dinner time and the tolls for the day totaled about 23 euros for the 210 miles, a big leap from US prices. Considering how ubiquitous these roads are in France, it’s another big ticket item to add to the budget. Our car is a diesel (not our first choice), and it gets about 35 miles per gallon, but the gazole is about $7 per gallon so the car is not cheap. We’ll only have it for five months, however, so, during that time, we’re going to take advantage of it to see and stay in the out of the way places.

We were able to safely enjoy a nice dinner at the Beaune Mercure hotel — sequestered away from other people — sharing a half-bottle of a very nice red Burgundy with our meal before crashing out in our room. In the morning, we took a stroll through the center of Beaune, the business heart of the Burgundian wine world. The town, as my friend Vanessa says, “gives good roof,” starting with the Hospices des Beaune, a former hotel turned charitable almshouse built in the 15th century. The architecture of the building is striking, and even the less-important buildings in town are impressive examples of Burgundian architecture. The Hospice is now a museum and the site each year of a major charitable wine auction featuring wines made from the vineyards and donated to the foundation.

Before leaving Beaune, we stopped in a giant CarreFour supermarket (hypermarché) which featured a large wine section of local favorites – including some very pricey bottles – along with cheese and charcuterie counters that stretched for a city block. Even as an American used to large grocery stores, I was impressed. We loaded up on picnic items and hit the road, once again opting for the toll roads. At least it was a pretty drive today, much of it following the mighty Rhone River as it heads to the Mediterranean. We passed through the impressive city of Lyon, the second largest in France, and we finally entered Provence, my first visit to the province. (The name comes from Roman times, when it was referred to as a “province of Rome”).

We made it to Gadagne at 5 pm on Friday and the town was hopping. People were picking up their kids after school and stopping at the boulangerie for their dinner baguette. Our place is almost right above the bakery so the enticing aroma of fresh bread is constantly being piped into our hallway, something I mean to complain about any day now. We are also just across the main street from a newly-built plaza and shopping area that is being dedicated the very next morning. Our hosts, Beatrice and Sophie, had bought us some snacks so we made dinner from that and our leftover picnic-makings and collapsed into bed. 

The next morning there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash. When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a legion of men and women in traditional Provençal dress, playing flutes and drums, and dancing old-timey group dances. At first, we thought it was a welcome for us but actually the village was pulling out all the stops to celebrate the newly-dedicated Félibres Plaza, named after a 19th century local literary collective led by Frédéric Mistral (no relation to the wind) and the source of much local pride. We stood at the window, amazed by the nearby mountains, the blue sky, and the events taking place across the street. Saint merde, we realized, we’re in Provence! We dressed and headed outside to take in the celebration and our village home for the next month. 

When I had scoped out this Airbnb back in the fall of 2022, the area across our street had shown up in Google Maps as a construction zone and I couldn’t tell what was being built. Now there was a brand new set of buildings featuring bright yellow shutters: modern, but in a Provençal style, currently housing a pharmacy, a small Carrefour, and a wine bar on the ground level with apartments on the top floor. It might not be the most attractive plaza in France but it was damned convenient for us, especially after we discovered that the clerk at the market spoke perfect English and was willing and able to answer all of our questions. 

We spent the morning soaking up the atmosphere of the festival and, after the old-timey music and dancing had stopped, a tattooed tightrope walker (I guess he was technically “slacklining”) took to a wire stretching symbolically from the city wall to the top of one of the new buildings. He was strapped in with a harness so he couldn’t fall to the ground and he spent 20 minutes or so on the wire doing stunts. We spoke to him after the performance and he admitted that was his first time on the wire in front of a crowd. After that, we listened to a few speeches by local luminaries and then set off to explore the old part of town in the walled city above our apartment. 

The wall of the ancient city rises above our street, Rue Du Thor, and one of the arches is actually integrated into our apartment decor, making for a very large and dramatic living area with TVl. The stairs take you up to the 15th century, exiting onto a small plaza across from the mayor’s office. There’s  only one way to go from there: up, and we climbed through the narrow streets, alleys, and staircases until we reached the Church at the summit of the old town. People still live in the old buildings and somehow navigate their cars through the narrow and winding streets. This is my favorite part of visiting Europe: the medieval buildings that are somehow still functioning as housing. There’s plenty of houses and apartments in Gadagne that are outside of the walled city but then you’re vulnerable to marauding Catalonians so I wouldn’t recommend it. 

We wandered back to the plaza around lunchtime, having been tipped off that there would be food and beverages, compliments of the village. Right on schedule, the tables were set up with wine, juices, and soft drinks and some of the costumed dancers from earlier were insistently passing small bites that eventually took the place of our lunch. We enjoyed some local wines and introduced ourselves to one of the morning’s speakers, who turned out to be the town mayor. He was thrilled to have some Americans in town, spending money, but he admitted that they didn’t really go after the tourist dollar or euro too ardently.  He had his hands full running the town — along with his other full time job — and he had seen tourism overrun nearby towns, changing the character. He wanted to keep Gadagne a livable city for the residents, many of whom were already being pushed out by high real estate prices. He invited us to join him for a glass of wine in the coming weeks to hear more about the town and its history and we gratefully accepted.

When the sun went down, our friend was back on the high wire, this time accompanied by a DJ, adding drama to his escapades. A food truck serving wood-fired pizza showed up, selling pies with local ingredients and a few village wineries set up mobile tasting rooms, doing a brisk business in bottle sales to the adults while their children ran amuck in the plaza. We bought a pizza and a glass of red wine from a winery located just behind the Church and soaked up the small town atmosphere, thrilled to have landed in such a friendly place. All day long, people had come up to us asking if they could say “cou-cou” to Coco and, thanks to her, we made a lot of friends. Of course, she loves the attention and, surprisingly, she’s the only standard poodle that we’ve seen since arriving in France. 

People seemed to like to hear that we are staying in the town for a month instead of just breezing through and everyone we met was very welcoming. We had been warned that English was not widely spoken in the small towns in Provence but we were astonished by how many could at least make themselves understood in our native language. For our part, we’re trying to learn as much French as possible so we don’t fit the stereotype of the Américains moches.

The sun went down on our first perfect day in Provence and we went back to our apartment while the party continued across the street at the plaza. The timing of our arrival in Gadagne could not have been better: some history, free food and wine, and meeting the mayor. Et Voila! 

Here are some more pictures!

Denise and Coco on the road that we now walk almost every day.

Hello again, or bonjour! We have moved our base of operations from Ireland to Provence, not without some medical drama, and we are settling in here nicely. We’ll have lots to say about our first few days here in a coming newsletter but we thought we’d do a kind of post-Ireland wrap-up since we had such a lovely time there. 

Ann and Denise at Hammel’s Pub in Kilmuckridge on St. Patrick’s Day

Speaking of health care, here’s some words about the difference between our experiences in Ireland and in the US. 

Just before I left the US, my doctor did a blood test to track my A1C, which had been hovering in the pre-diabetic range for years. The result came back higher than expected, and he recommended that I start taking a popular anti-hyperglycemic pill. As a nurse, I had seen the numeric threshold for starting the pill get lower and lower every year and also witnessed the gnarly side effects of the drug so I deferred starting the pill in favor of a promise to voluntarily cut down on my sugar intake.

Shortly after arriving in Ireland, we saw a GP to get some needed prescriptions renewed and I mentioned my A1C issue to her. She looked at my numbers and, much to my surprise, exclaimed that my numbers were fine and that I didn’t need any medication. She recommended watching and waiting instead. Apparently, the EU standards for pre-diabetes are higher than in the US. The cynic in me immediately guessed that this had something to do with the cozy relationship between US doctors, insurance companies, and pharma companies. 

Pharmacies in Ireland (and most of the EU) are very different from the US in that the pharmacist plays a more active role in recommending medications for you. I think they could do that in the US as well, but they’re always so busy behind the glass, filling scripts. At the first pharmacy we went to, I noticed an ad for Viagra at the register and I asked the cashier if it was available over the counter. She assured me with a twinkle in her eye that it could ordinarily be had after a brief consult with the pharmacist but they were currently sold out after the bank holiday weekend. We all shared a chuckle about that. 

A few of you asked about our first St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland but it was a relatively low-key event in our little village of Kilmuckridge. We did notice a big influx of families on holiday, down from Dublin for the long weekend, but our town didn’t have a parade or any other festivities. It’s definitely a big national holiday, with all businesses closed (except for pubs and restaurants), but it felt sort of like The Fourth of July to me: a celebration of national pride. For our part, it was like any other day except we went to the pub with Sean and Ann and raised a glass of Guinness to William Patrick Slattery, Ann and Denise’s grandfather whose migration to America 130 years prior had inadvertently made it possible for us all to be in Ireland. I’m not much of a beer fan but the Guinness here is truly delicious. It’s actually very different from the Guinness we enjoy back home, as the ABV of the draught served in pubs is only 4.5%, much lower than the export version. My favorite hard cider, Bulmers (known outside of Eire as Magners) is also low in alcohol, uncovering the mystery of why the Irish can put away those pints with seemingly little effect on their ability to walk and talk. After the drinks (including a wee green Creme de Menthe for Ann), we went back home and Ann made us a lovely shepherd’s pie. 

The weather had turned foul — apparently, also a St. Patrick’s Day tradition —  and our daily walks on the beach turned into rain- and wind-swept affairs. We had enjoyed six weeks of relatively mild temperatures and little rainfall but now the true Irish spring was showing its force, causing us to spend most evenings in the living room with a fire roaring, discussing politics with Sean and Ann while we watched CNN International and Coco lazed in front of the stove. 

On the following Thursday, Denise and I headed to Dublin for a weekend getaway while Sean and Ann graciously agreed to watch Coco. We had a hotel room in the Ballsbridge section of Dublin, close to many of the international consulates, including the heavily fortified US Embassy. It was the only diplomatic office that we saw with a gate, much less a 24-hour guard. The building itself was 1960s Spy Moderne, looking like the US embassy in a Bond movie, and we had a nice chat with the night watchman who was there to prevent anyone with the Tik Tok app on their phone from coming within 100 meters of the place.  

Steve, contemplating renouncing his citizenship…

The next morning, we were up early to catch our prearranged tour bus to Newgrange and Hill of Tara, two important Stone Age burial and ceremonial sites within an hour’s drive of Dublin. It was my first guided tour ever — at least since grade school — and I was giddy at the prospect of someone else driving for a change. The guide gave us a quick history of Dublin as we wound our way through the city, and I was excited to get our boots on the ground there in the coming days. The Hill of Tara was considered the seat of the Irish High Kings and many Iron Age rituals took place there. Rather than excavate the buildings and burial sites, they have been left mostly undisturbed — except by the neighbors who use it as a dog park — and the archeologists rely mostly on modern imaging techniques to tell us what’s below our feet. It was damned windy, that much I learned, and I was the first one back on the bus. 

The Hill of Tara. 

Next we headed to Newgrange, which had an impressive visitors and interpretive center, and an even more impressive cafeteria, and we had a nice bowl of leek soup with brown bread before boarding the shuttle bus to Knowth, the first site of the afternoon. We got off the bus into a driving rainstorm, with sustained winds of 35 km/h, and met our guide who, despite the inclement weather, managed to engage and educate us, not to mention make himself heard over the storm. Wisely, Denise and I had left our rain gear back at the hotel, forcing us to buy plastic ponchos at the gift shop, which kept us mostly dry while the wind whipped at us. These primitive people somehow managed to drag these giant stones many miles and build these impressive structures in which to bury their dead, while decorating the stones with artwork and drawings of the cycle of the moon so there were definitely no aliens involved, in case you were wondering. The sites are also older than Stonehenge and the Pyramids of Gaza and, considering how shite the weather was on our visit, they probably put up with a lot in 3200 BCE.

The weather calmed a bit by the time the bus took us to Newgrange, and we were able to enter one of the structures at this site, although I begged off when a bout of claustrophobia kicked in. It’s one of those places, like Stonehenge, that was built to capture the sunlight on the solstices, and the guide apparently did a little demonstration of that effect for those on the tour without issues with confined spaces. Instead, I stood outside and watched the newborn lambs frolicking in the adjacent field. Back on the bus, the guide asked us how we thought they’d transported all those heavy stones dozens of miles and built these watertight structures, all before iron or bronze tools or even the wheel was widely used. I mouthed the word “aliens” but didn’t want to spoil the answer for the rest of my busmates. We know though, don’t we? 

Amazingly, this is the first drawing of the cycles of the moon, hewn into the rock of Knowth. 

From the post-visit slide show. Not aliens at all…

After being left off in central Dublin, we made our way to the Temple Bar district where we had tickets to see one of my favorite musicians, Robert Forster, formerly of the Go-Betweens, perform that night. I had bought the tickets months before, when the tour was just announced, and planned our visit to Dublin around the show, although Denise didn’t need to know that fact. We had a nice bowl of pho nearby and a pre-show drink at the historic Clarence Hotel, bought and refurbished by Bono and The Edge of U2 a couple of decades ago as part of a tax scheme. Back at the club, Robert was joined on stage by his son Louis for a 90-minute set of solo and Go-Betweens favorites.  After the show, I managed to bum-rush the backstage area to say hello to Robert and, after leaving the club, we ran into Louis having a cigarette on the street. Denise stopped to say “hi” and he turned out to be a total sweetheart, entertaining us with stories of the good and bad of traveling with his dad and filling us in on the continued good health of his mum, recovering from Stage IV ovarian cancer back home in Australia. 

Steve, Denise, and Louis Forster, who happens to be the same age as Reilly. 

We spent the next couple of days exploring the ins and outs of Dublin, certainly one of the great (and most crowded) European cities. The bars, restaurants, and museums were packed and the pandemic seemed to be the furthest thing from anyone’s minds. One thing I noticed about walking in Dublin: although they seemed pretty set on driving on the left side of the road, when it came to the sidewalks, nobody seemed quite sure about which side was best and pedestrian chaos frequently ensued. We visited the National Museum/Archaeology and the National Gallery, where a simple question asked of a security guard turned into a 20-minute personally guided tour. Maybe this is a good time to mention how friendly and helpful the Irish people are: Even the bouncer outside of the club the night before could have worked for the tourism board. The weather was a little less cooperative, and our stroll was frequently interrupted by rain showers, but there’s always a pub on the next block, including Slattery’s Pub (no relation known). Denise got in to see a page of The Book of Kells while I investigated an ancient Costa coffee shop around the corner. We skipped the distillery and brewery tourist traps and managed to cover a big chunk of the city before running out of steam late on Sunday afternoon. We had originally planned to spend a week in the capital before Airbnb issues had forced us to shorten that, and I think an extra few days would have been just enough to fully take in all the sights. However, our time was up and it was time to move on to France. 

Denise and I switching roles for the photo

On Monday morning, Denise caught the bus back to Kilmuckridge, where she would rejoin Sean, Ann, and Coco before heading to the Rosslare ferry terminal for an overnight crossing to Cherbourg, France. Originally, we were going to both fly to Paris with Coco again in the cargo hold but the safety and the expense (almost as much as it cost to get her from America!). They recommended the ferry, which worked out well for Sean and Ann, who were interested in visiting their new granddaughter in Paris. Meanwhile, I was headed to the airport for my flight to Paris but was starting to come down with what I thought was just a head cold. I was fully masked the entire time but tested positive the next morning in our Paris Airbnb. Later that day, Denise arrived at the apartment (which was big enough for us to isolate) and she got me the fluids and croissants necessary to nurse me back to health. Unfortunately, our little holiday in Paris was a bust and, because of the risk of infection, she couldn’t even visit with new bébé Chloe. By Thursday morning, however, I was back among the living, and we loaded our gear into our brand new Citroën and headed south on the two-day trip to Provence. First stop: Beaune, business headquarters of the Burgundy wine world. 

kind folks at Dublin airport had talked us out of that plan, citing Coco’s Coco in her cabin on the ferry.

The distant views of Eiffel Tower and Sacré-Coeur from our Airbnb/infirmary in Saint-Denis, Paris. 

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From the post-visit slide show. Not aliens at all…

After being left off in central Dublin, we made our way to the Temple Bar district where we had tickets to see one of my favorite musicians, Robert Forster, formerly of the Go-Betweens, perform that night. I had bought the tickets months before, when the tour was just announced, and planned our visit to Dublin around the show, although Denise didn’t need to know that fact. We had a nice bowl of pho nearby and a pre-show drink at the historic Clarence Hotel, bought and refurbished by Bono and The Edge of U2 a couple of decades ago as part of a tax scheme. Back at the club, Robert was joined on stage by his son Louis for a 90-minute set of solo and Go-Betweens favorites.  After the show, I managed to bum-rush the backstage area to say hello to Robert and, after leaving the club, we ran into Louis having a cigarette on the street. Denise stopped to say “hi” and he turned out to be a total sweetheart, entertaining us with stories of the good and bad of traveling with his dad and filling us in on the continued good health of his mum, recovering from Stage IV ovarian cancer back home in Australia. 

Steve, Denise, and Louis Forster, who happens to be the same age as Reilly. 

We spent the next couple of days exploring the ins and outs of Dublin, certainly one of the great (and most crowded) European cities. The bars, restaurants, and museums were packed and the pandemic seemed to be the furthest thing from anyone’s minds. One thing I noticed about walking in Dublin: although they seemed pretty set on driving on the left side of the road, when it came to the sidewalks, nobody seemed quite sure about which side was best and pedestrian chaos frequently ensued. We visited the National Museum/Archaeology and the National Gallery, where a simple question asked of a security guard turned into a 20-minute personally guided tour. Maybe this is a good time to mention how friendly and helpful the Irish people are: Even the bouncer outside of the club the night before could have worked for the tourism board. The weather was a little less cooperative, and our stroll was frequently interrupted by rain showers, but there’s always a pub on the next block, including Slattery’s Pub (no relation known). Denise got in to see a page of The Book of Kells while I investigated an ancient Costa coffee shop around the corner. We skipped the distillery and brewery tourist traps and managed to cover a big chunk of the city before running out of steam late on Sunday afternoon. We had originally planned to spend a week in the capital before Airbnb issues had forced us to shorten that, and I think an extra few days would have been just enough to fully take in all the sights. However, our time was up and it was time to move on to France. 

Denise and I switching roles for the photo

On Monday morning, Denise caught the bus back to Kilmuckridge, where she would rejoin Sean, Ann, and Coco before heading to the Rosslare ferry terminal for an overnight crossing to Cherbourg, France. Originally, we were going to both fly to Paris with Coco again in the cargo hold but the safety and the expense (almost as much as it cost to get her from America!). They recommended the ferry, which worked out well for Sean and Ann, who were interested in visiting their new granddaughter in Paris. Meanwhile, I was headed to the airport for my flight to Paris but was starting to come down with what I thought was just a head cold. I was fully masked the entire time but tested positive the next morning in our Paris Airbnb. Later that day, Denise arrived at the apartment (which was big enough for us to isolate) and she got me the fluids and croissants necessary to nurse me back to health. Unfortunately, our little holiday in Paris was a bust and, because of the risk of infection, she couldn’t even visit with new bébé Chloe. By Thursday morning, however, I was back among the living, and we loaded our gear into our brand new Citroën and headed south on the two-day trip to Provence. First stop: Beaune, business headquarters of the Burgundy wine world. 

kind folks at Dublin airport had talked us out of that plan, citing Coco’s Coco in her cabin on the ferry.

The distant views of Eiffel Tower and Sacré-Coeur from our Airbnb/infirmary in Saint-Denis, Paris. 

Hello again, or bonjour! We have moved our base of operations from Ireland to Provence, not without some medical drama, and we are settling in here nicely. We’ll have lots to say about our first few days here in a coming newsletter but we thought we’d do a kind of post-Ireland wrap-up since we had such a lovely time there. 

Ann and Denise at Hammel’s Pub in Kilmuckridge on St. Patrick’s Day

Speaking of health care, here’s some words about the difference between our experiences in Ireland and in the US. 

Just before I left the US, my doctor did a blood test to track my A1C, which had been hovering in the pre-diabetic range for years. The result came back higher than expected, and he recommended that I start taking a popular anti-hyperglycemic pill. As a nurse, I had seen the numeric threshold for starting the pill get lower and lower every year and also witnessed the gnarly side effects of the drug so I deferred starting the pill in favor of a promise to voluntarily cut down on my sugar intake.

Shortly after arriving in Ireland, we saw a GP to get some needed prescriptions renewed and I mentioned my A1C issue to her. She looked at my numbers and, much to my surprise, exclaimed that my numbers were fine and that I didn’t need any medication. She recommended watching and waiting instead. Apparently, the EU standards for pre-diabetes are higher than in the US. The cynic in me immediately guessed that this had something to do with the cozy relationship between US doctors, insurance companies, and pharma companies. 

Pharmacies in Ireland (and most of the EU) are very different from the US in that the pharmacist plays a more active role in recommending medications for you. I think they could do that in the US as well, but they’re always so busy behind the glass, filling scripts. At the first pharmacy we went to, I noticed an ad for Viagra at the register and I asked the cashier if it was available over the counter. She assured me with a twinkle in her eye that it could ordinarily be had after a brief consult with the pharmacist but they were currently sold out after the bank holiday weekend. We all shared a chuckle about that. 

A few of you asked about our first St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland but it was a relatively low-key event in our little village of Kilmuckridge. We did notice a big influx of families on holiday, down from Dublin for the long weekend, but our town didn’t have a parade or any other festivities. It’s definitely a big national holiday, with all businesses closed (except for pubs and restaurants), but it felt sort of like The Fourth of July to me: a celebration of national pride. For our part, it was like any other day except we went to the pub with Sean and Ann and raised a glass of Guinness to William Patrick Slattery, Ann and Denise’s grandfather whose migration to America 130 years prior had inadvertently made it possible for us all to be in Ireland. I’m not much of a beer fan but the Guinness here is truly delicious. It’s actually very different from the Guinness we enjoy back home, as the ABV of the draught served in pubs is only 4.5%, much lower than the export version. My favorite hard cider, Bulmers (known outside of Eire as Magners) is also low in alcohol, uncovering the mystery of why the Irish can put away those pints with seemingly little effect on their ability to walk and talk. After the drinks (including a wee green Creme de Menthe for Ann), we went back home and Ann made us a lovely shepherd’s pie. 

The weather had turned foul — apparently, also a St. Patrick’s Day tradition —  and our daily walks on the beach turned into rain- and wind-swept affairs. We had enjoyed six weeks of relatively mild temperatures and little rainfall but now the true Irish spring was showing its force, causing us to spend most evenings in the living room with a fire roaring, discussing politics with Sean and Ann while we watched CNN International and Coco lazed in front of the stove. 

On the following Thursday, Denise and I headed to Dublin for a weekend getaway while Sean and Ann graciously agreed to watch Coco. We had a hotel room in the Ballsbridge section of Dublin, close to many of the international consulates, including the heavily fortified US Embassy. It was the only diplomatic office that we saw with a gate, much less a 24-hour guard. The building itself was 1960s Spy Moderne, looking like the US embassy in a Bond movie, and we had a nice chat with the night watchman who was there to prevent anyone with the Tik Tok app on their phone from coming within 100 meters of the place.  

Steve, contemplating renouncing his citizenship…

The next morning, we were up early to catch our prearranged tour bus to Newgrange and Hill of Tara, two important Stone Age burial and ceremonial sites within an hour’s drive of Dublin. It was my first guided tour ever — at least since grade school — and I was giddy at the prospect of someone else driving for a change. The guide gave us a quick history of Dublin as we wound our way through the city, and I was excited to get our boots on the ground there in the coming days. The Hill of Tara was considered the seat of the Irish High Kings and many Iron Age rituals took place there. Rather than excavate the buildings and burial sites, they have been left mostly undisturbed — except by the neighbors who use it as a dog park — and the archeologists rely mostly on modern imaging techniques to tell us what’s below our feet. It was damned windy, that much I learned, and I was the first one back on the bus. 

The Hill of Tara. 

The weather calmed a bit by the time the bus took us to Newgrange, and we were able to enter one of the structures at this site, although I begged off when a bout of claustrophobia kicked in. It’s one of those places, like Stonehenge, that was built to capture the sunlight on the solstices, and the guide apparently did a little demonstration of that effect for those on the tour without issues with confined spaces. Instead, I stood outside and watched the newborn lambs frolicking in the adjacent field. Back on the bus, the guide asked us how we thought they’d transported all those heavy stones dozens of miles and built these watertight structures, all before iron or bronze tools or even the wheel was widely used. I mouthed the word “aliens” but didn’t want to spoil the answer for the rest of my busmates. We know though, don’t we? 

Amazingly, this is the first drawing of the cycles of the moon, hewn into the rock of Knowth. 

From the post-visit slide show. Not aliens at all…

After being left off in central Dublin, we made our way to the Temple Bar district where we had tickets to see one of my favorite musicians, Robert Forster, formerly of the Go-Betweens, perform that night. I had bought the tickets months before, when the tour was just announced, and planned our visit to Dublin around the show, although Denise didn’t need to know that fact. We had a nice bowl of pho nearby and a pre-show drink at the historic Clarence Hotel, bought and refurbished by Bono and The Edge of U2 a couple of decades ago as part of a tax scheme. Back at the club, Robert was joined on stage by his son Louis for a 90-minute set of solo and Go-Betweens favorites.  After the show, I managed to bum-rush the backstage area to say hello to Robert and, after leaving the club, we ran into Louis having a cigarette on the street. Denise stopped to say “hi” and he turned out to be a total sweetheart, entertaining us with stories of the good and bad of traveling with his dad and filling us in on the continued good health of his mum, recovering from Stage IV ovarian cancer back home in Australia. 

Steve, Denise, and Louis Forster, who happens to be the same age as Reilly. 

We spent the next couple of days exploring the ins and outs of Dublin, certainly one of the great (and most crowded) European cities. The bars, restaurants, and museums were packed and the pandemic seemed to be the furthest thing from anyone’s minds. One thing I noticed about walking in Dublin: although they seemed pretty set on driving on the left side of the road, when it came to the sidewalks, nobody seemed quite sure about which side was best and pedestrian chaos frequently ensued. We visited the National Museum/Archaeology and the National Gallery, where a simple question asked of a security guard turned into a 20-minute personally guided tour. Maybe this is a good time to mention how friendly and helpful the Irish people are: Even the bouncer outside of the club the night before could have worked for the tourism board. The weather was a little less cooperative, and our stroll was frequently interrupted by rain showers, but there’s always a pub on the next block, including Slattery’s Pub (no relation known). Denise got in to see a page of The Book of Kells while I investigated an ancient Costa coffee shop around the corner. We skipped the distillery and brewery tourist traps and managed to cover a big chunk of the city before running out of steam late on Sunday afternoon. We had originally planned to spend a week in the capital before Airbnb issues had forced us to shorten that, and I think an extra few days would have been just enough to fully take in all the sights. However, our time was up and it was time to move on to France. 

Denise and I switching roles for the photo

On Monday morning, Denise caught the bus back to Kilmuckridge, where she would rejoin Sean, Ann, and Coco before heading to the Rosslare ferry terminal for an overnight crossing to Cherbourg, France. Originally, we were going to both fly to Paris with Coco again in the cargo hold but the safety and the expense (almost as much as it cost to get her from America!). They recommended the ferry, which worked out well for Sean and Ann, who were interested in visiting their new granddaughter in Paris. Meanwhile, I was headed to the airport for my flight to Paris but was starting to come down with what I thought was just a head cold. I was fully masked the entire time but tested positive the next morning in our Paris Airbnb. Later that day, Denise arrived at the apartment (which was big enough for us to isolate) and she got me the fluids and croissants necessary to nurse me back to health. Unfortunately, our little holiday in Paris was a bust and, because of the risk of infection, she couldn’t even visit with new bébé Chloe. By Thursday morning, however, I was back among the living, and we loaded our gear into our brand new Citroën and headed south on the two-day trip to Provence. First stop: Beaune, business headquarters of the Burgundy wine world. 

kind folks at Dublin airport had talked us out of that plan, citing Coco’s Coco in her cabin on the ferry.

The distant views of Eiffel Tower and Sacré-Coeur from our Airbnb/infirmary in Saint-Denis, Paris. 

Here is Part Two of the never-ending saga of our trip to the west and south and middle of Ireland. Denise takes over to tell the tale of the Slattery family and their roots in Tipperary.

Shane and a brand new calf, born five minutes before we took this picture.

My grandfather, Dr. William Patrick Slattery, was born in Emly, Ireland in the late 1880s and he is who we have to thank for our Irish citizenship. Now, if you are taking a moment to wrap your head around that date, stay with me: my own father, Roger Casement Slattery, was born in 1916, so yes, my family goes way back.  Dad was named after Roger Casement, the Irish nationalist who was executed by the British in 1916 for high treason and his role in the uprising.  William Patrick Slattery left Ireland in the early 1900s to study medicine and become a physician in Dubuque, Iowa. The place he left, a small speck of a village near the town of Tipperary in central Ireland, is where we made our trek.

Some 35 years had passed since I was last in Ireland and I was thrilled to return with Steve and introduce him to the Slattery family who still live and work on the same dairy farm where my grandfather grew up. Today, the farming operation is overseen by Shane Slattery.  Shane was just a young boy when I previously visited so it was quite a surprise to see a middle aged guy in place of the young lad I remember!  Shane is the son of Tom Slattery (who recently passed away) and it is Tom and my dad who were cousins, making Shane and I second cousins. Tom Slattery was a handsome, rugged, clever man (much like my dad)  who married Mary Slattery and they had Shane, their only child. Shane was born into the dairy farming life and lives much the same life that his dad did, albeit with a little more technology. 

Running a dairy farm means milking those cows seven days a week and every day of the year. There’s no break.  It’s a tough job and a lonely one at that. Shane supports his lovely family (two teen girls and his wife and of course his mother) from the production of about 80 cows.  We happened to arrive at a particularly busy time as the new calves were being born and it takes a lot of attention to handle this. 

Shane is a solo operator and we were really grateful that he and his family took time to welcome us for this visit or a Friday night meal and long chat into the evening around the stove. His girls delighted us by singing a lovely song about Ireland and Coco was so at home in this old farm house you’d think she was born there too.

We returned the following day for more conversation with Shane and Mary and a hearty mid-day meal. When we pulled up, Shane was walking from the barn pushing a big wheelbarrow. When we went to greet him, he showed us the contents of the barrow: a brand-new calf, born just five minutes before!  Later, Shane took Steve and I into the village of Emly to see the gravestone of my ancestors, buried in the church cemetery.  Shane filled in some blanks about the Slattery’s, namely that William Patrick was not actually born on the farm, but in the village, and was sent there to live with his cousins when his mother passed.  

It was a bittersweet visit: I stood with Mary — aged 82 and as bright and sharp as could be —  on the small bridge just in front of the old house. I gave her a good hug and asked her how long she’d lived there, as she married into the Slattery family. “Over 55 years” she smiled.  And what part of the country did she come from?  “Oh, just over there, like” indicating the next hill over.  She’d lived in and around what we were looking at and her entire life was here, with her family and the cows.  

I don’t know what Shane will do as he gets older. Who will take over the farm?  The girls are not interested. I asked him about this and he didn’t shy from telling me that it certainly was the question, like.  (In this part of Ireland sentences are mostly punctuated at the end with “Like’” —very endearing)  But for now, The cows are calling …like! 

I’ve got some photos with captions that tell more about our visit. 

Mary Slattery, age 82

Shane Slattery and his dear mother, Mary

Isabel Slattery – age 13 

A bunch a new baby cows! 

Shane at the Slattery Family plot.  His dad was buried there just last December.  The cemetery dates from 1641 as seen inscribed on the wall as one enters.  Wow. 

Hello again! Here’s a long post to wrap up our week-long road trip. I took the first part, our visit to Cork, and then, for the next post,  I turn the reins over to Denise to tell us about the visit to her ancestral home in Tipperary. Read on…

If you are jonesing for Junior Mints in Ireland…

We pick up the story as we arrive in Cork, hard on the south coast, and the second biggest city in Ireland. We have been country mice for the last month and, as we approach the city, everything goes to hell in a handbasket. On the GPS, Denise notices a large, rush hour traffic jam on our intended route and we decide to navigate around that. Of course, the alternative plan puts us in an even worse situation, since there are traffic lights and city buses galore on the road, slowing our approach to a crawl. We try to detour around the mess and end up in the downtown core of the city, where many of the streets are pedestrian-only, and soon we are arguing just like the good old days when we would bicker over the best way to make it across San Francisco or Portland. We are trying to find a place where we can get takeaway food for our hotel room but the narrow, one-way streets are inhospitable for stopping and we finally decide to make a beeline for our hotel, a few miles north of the downtown. We arrived at the opulent grounds of the Vienna Woods hotel — obtained at a deep, off-season discount on www.bringfido.com — hungry and grumpy, and settle for splitting a room service meal. 

When Denise was checking in, the front desk clerk asked about our breakfast plans — apparently a national obsession — and we signed up for the first seating, hoping to get up and into the city early. The clerk also mentioned that the hotel’s dog policy only allowed small animals, and our dog was obviously way outside of their limit. (We didn’t let Coco hear her weight-shaming.) Denise turned on the charm and convinced them that Coco would be no problem despite her size and they agreed to waive the rules for us. We ate dinner while watching one of the many popular primetime Irish games shows, and collapsed into the luxurious beds, exhausted after nine hours on the road. 

Even our lux experience in Killarney didn’t prepare us for the breakfast here among the faded splendor of Vienna Woods. We arrived as the lone diners at the appointed hour were shown to our table in a room with ornately-carved dark wood, with one whole wall taken up by the baroque fireplace-bookcase. It seemed more like the place where the men would enjoy their post-hunt Brandy and cigars than a breakfast hall but we were happy to have such grand surroundings.  The spread was generous, including a full honeycomb that we had to ask our waitress how use — we heathens are used to the little packets.  Once again, the charges were ambiguous, and we were offered hot food after helping ourselves to the buffet. I opted for the cheese omelet and soon served a thick, dinner plate-sized meal that was more quiche than omelet. It was perfectly baked and delicious, but probably enough for three breakfasts. I found out later that the buffet was included with the room but the hot dish set me back five euros, certainly a bargain. 

After a quick walk around the grounds with Coco, we headed into the city, determined to soak up some art, history, and do a little shopping for the gifts we would bring to the Slatterys of Tipperary. Denise was able to make a quick run through The Crawford Art Gallery, a free museum funded by the Crawford family, and housed in the old Customs House, while Coco and I waited patiently across the street, nursing a cappuccino at the Costa. We tried to do some sightseeing but were constantly being stopped on the street by strangers who wanted to talk to us about Coco. It seems that standard poodle are somewhat rare in Ireland and people wanted to stop us and say “hi” and, of course, show us pictures of their dogs. One street conversation with a pleasant employee of the nearby jail on his lunch break was so cordial and lasted so long that we thought for sure he was going to invite us along on his upcoming holiday. 

Naked guys at the Crawford

Socialism at work

We took a walk across the (filthy) River Lee and up into the working class immigrant neighborhood and saw how those people lived, crowded into 19th-century row houses, a sharp contrast to the gleaming condos popular in the downtown area. We skipped The Butter Museum and walking tour of the University as we were fading fast and wanted to get back to the hotel for a nap. I had been looking forward to a taste of the city but, after a few hours, we both had our fill. Maybe a month in the countryside had dulled our edge or maybe we were just tired, but we both were done with Cork. 

The River Lee. Love that Dirty Water…

A statue honoring native son and musician Rory Gallagher

Never ones to be persuaded by the FiTimes, we missed it. 

St. Vincent’s in the Shandon District

The next morning, we enjoyed another leisurely breakfast, soaking up every bit of this discount luxury while we could. We took Coco on a long walk through the surrounding woods and then loaded the car and headed north to Tipperary. We stopped for lunch at the parking lot of Cahir Castle, a well-preserved building on the banks of the River Suir (and location for many movies and television shows), before traveling on to the ruins of The Rock of Cashel, an important stop for fans of St. Patrick. We had time to find our Airbnb, a converted outbuilding on a farm in the foothills of the Galtee mountains, and grab a quick nap before we headed over to the Slattery farm for dinner. See our next installment for that story!

Cahir Castle 

A very exclusive pig farm near our Airbnb

Just a word about this blog before we get too far downstream: we know these are long posts and the reasons for that is we want to share the stories with you but we also want to get the details down so that we can look back on these like a diary when we’re old. Denise is working hard to get me to keep these posts short but when you’re getting paid by the word… Now back to our trip! 

The Wild Atlantic Way Part 2

The plan for our day was to drive from our hotel to the town of Dingle, where we’d pick up the path of another incredibly scenic drive on the Wild Atlantic Way.  We were hoping to have a shorter day in the car since we still had to circle back to Kenmare to get Coco after the tour and then drive on to Cork, another 90 minutes away. It was strange to spend a night away from Coco but we were getting updates from petsitter Kelly, letting us know that she was doing grand. 

I checked in with the front desk before heading to our second breakfast and was assured that the entire service, from cold buffet to hot entrée, was included in the price (charged to the room, of course). Now, freed from any sticker shock, we settled in and worked the hosted buffet like experts, even having a second croissant while waiting for our hot course to be served. Denise revisited the pancakes but I went for the Eggs Benedict, hoping they’d measure up to the heavenly Bennys at my favorite Portland breakfast spot Liddle Griddle. (Lori, you can tell them their crown is safe so far.)

Thus fortified, we headed north and, although it was definitely colder and cloudier than the day before, we were immediately encouraged by the general lack of wildfires. We made a detour to Inch Beach, where we got our first look at Irish surfing. The WAA is a hotspot for the sport, from Donegal in the north down to Cork on the south coast, and Inch Beach is a highly regarded strand of white sand stretching for a couple of kilometers. There were several surfers in the water and we watched for a while as they paddled way out and rode the surprisingly large waves back to shore. On the way back to the highway, we noticed some homemade protest signs next to a cell tower and, of course, Denise wanted to get to the bottom of the situation. It turned out that Vodafone had installed a tower in the small town of Inch and the angry locals wanted it gone. She signed their petition, wished them good luck, and then got her phone out to find the route to Dingle.  (pause for ironic eye roll)

It was a lovely drive to Dingle and we made a loop down the Main Street to get some video of the colorful town center. Denise was interested in a tour of the Dingle Distillery but, like most of the attractions, it was closed. I certainly didn’t want anything that would soften my focus on the Slea Road drive ahead, featuring some very narrow and winding roads with short rock walls on the edge, the only thing between you and hundred-foot high cliffs and the ocean. We passed by the White Cross, a roadside shrine and a place to say a prayer for no lorries or tractors coming the other way on the Slea Road. 

We braved the strong winds and cool temperatures to take a walk down to The Dunbeg Fort, some Iron Age rock structures, possibly dating to 500 BCE. The best part of the stroll down to the cliffs, however, was the view over the edge, with stunning black cliffs. We made stops at Blasket’s View, making friends with a cute gull, and Coumeenoole Beach, a dramatic strand (and movie location), high above some dangerous cliffs. Unlike in the USA, Ireland doesn’t put up a lot of barriers in these treacherous settings, preferring a few signs. Common sense is assumed here, rather than legislated. Speaking of signs, Gaelic is the primary language out here and they don’t bother so much with the bilingual requirements of the big cities. Many of the road signs have hand-painted English translations. 

Dunbeg Fort, overlooking the cliffs.

And the cliffs themselves

The treacherous steps down to Coumeenoole Beach

A Herring Gull, perched. 

Coumeenoole Beach-Pretty treacherous itself…

There’s a seasonal ferry service out to the once-inhabited, now-abandoned Blasket Islands and the “road” down to Dun Chaoin pier is one of the steepest and craziest paths you’ll ever walk. Denise made it down to the bottom but I had to stop halfway and still struggled to make it back up with my new hips. We had heard that once in a while a tourist in a rental car will try to drive down to the pier and inevitably get stuck on the impossible switchbacks. After my hike back up, I was more sympathetic to their plight. Just past that was a pull-off for a gorgeous viewpoint at Ceann Sraithe that was used as a setting for a scene in one of the Star Wars movies. The Jedi significance was lost on us but not the beauty. Apparently, more than a few scenes from the series were filmed in County Kerry and things get pretty crowded on the peninsula on May 4th. 

The Dun Chaoin Pier

Obligatory picture so you know we’re not just sharing Google images

That’s the Blaskets beyond this crazy pointy rock thing.

Instead of braving the elements, we opted to have our picnic lunch in the car, with the wild Atlantic in front of us. Time was getting tight so we decided to hit a couple of more spots on the tour and then get on the road to Kenmare. As soon as we got back on the road, however, we ran into a flock of sheep blocking the road with the herder and his dog desperately trying to get them into a nearby enclosure. We filmed it (see below) until the farmer told us to “git out the feckin’ way” and we drove on, wondering why they use dogs instead of pigs. 

Our final stop on the tour was the Gallarus Oratory, a mysterious and well-preserved stone building believed to have been constructed as a church, perhaps in the 7th century. The construction is fantastic. Each stone is fitted perfectly to the next creating an absolutely watertight structure. The Oratory is said to be the finest (and only) example of this type of structure in Europe. The Irish are pretty casual about their monuments: it sits in a field, unprotected, accessible to the public 7/24/365. I figured that if it was in America, it would have been tagged and vandalized. At least we would have had to pay an admission charge. Get it together, Ireland. 

From there, we said goodbye to Dingle and headed to Kenmare and our reunion with Coco who, according to Kelly the pet sitter, was now entirely acclimated to cats after her sleepover. Looking back over the two days of touring, we agreed that the Ring of Kerry was very beautiful but Dingle was more contained and a smidge more charming. The gorse fires were a bit of a drag but, on the plus side, we didn’t see a single tour bus either day! 

We arrived at Kelly’s place in the late afternoon and Coco leapt into our arms, beyond relieved that we were there to rescue her from the cat-astrophic holiday. It was true that she hadn’t growled or chased any of Kelly’s cats but we could tell she had merely gone into her submissive mode and tolerated the feline company. I think the picture below of the cat sitting on Coco’s rug says it all.

Now we were headed to Cork, on the south coast, and our first venture back into a big city since we had left home. The only hotel that we could find in the area that took dogs was the Vienna Woods Hotel, and they offered us a very attractive off-season rate, although the place was obviously way above our usual station. I’ll let their website describe it for you: 

Cork’s Vienna Woods Country House Hotel has a history as dramatic as the rich mustard tone that sets the building apart from the surrounding woodlands on the peaks of Glanmire, Co. Cork.

The building, perched on a height overlooking the Glashaboy River, has stood proudly since 1756. Built by Davis Ducart as a summer leisure lodge for Lord Barrymore, the building was designed in the Regency Style, a style that was very popular in the latter part of the 18th century. 

Next installment; Cork City, some castles, and then a visit to the ancestral home of the Slatterys in Tipperary, as told by Denise. Slán!

The folks at the front desk of the Fairview in Killarney  would not stop asking us about breakfast. It started when I made the reservation two weeks out on www.BringFido.com: they immediately messaged me back to ask if I was interested in breakfast in their dining room. I told them that I wasn’t sure but could I let them know when we got there? I know the Full Irish breakfast is a hearty meal but did they really need two weeks to prepare it? When we checked in, they asked again and again I deferred. Their website let me know it was 14 Euros per person and I wanted to make sure that I had explored all options before I plunked down top Euro for my Full Irish. A quick spin around the neighborhood — and the internet — let me know that the hotel was my best bet. I let the desk clerk know that we would indeed be joining them and she was thrilled, putting me down for two people at 8 a.m., the first seating of the morning. Most hotel breakfasts in the States start at 6 or. 7 a.m. but he Irish apparently like to sleep in as much as they like their breakfasts.

We were up early the next morning, excited to get on the road and see the Ring of Kerry, one of the sights we had planned to see before Covid canceled our 2020 trip. It’s basically a drive around a jutting peninsula in the southwest of Ireland with a lot of gorgeous scenery. We had the great advantage of visiting before the summer tourist rush, when the roads would be clogged with tour buses and Americans driving on the wrong side of the road. Sure, it was cold and mostly cloudy but we wouldn’t have to fight for parking at the best viewpoints. Our guide was a great website https://www.theirishroadtrip.com/ring-of-kerry-drive/ (a terrific resource for driving guides in Ireland) that promised to direct us to the best and out-of-the-way spots, and leave the rest behind. Even with that, we were looking at seven hours on the road, including lunch and a few walks.  But first, we had to have breakfast. 

We were at the restaurant door at eight sharp, ready for the experience and a very sweet Eastern-European woman who ran the dining room showed us to our table. She asked if we would like something from the buffet and we were a little confused. Could we just help ourselves, we asked but she told me that we weren’t allowed to do that — probably a holdover from Covid restrictions — and asked us what we would like. Denise requested a fruit cup and I asked for some yogurt and granola. After that was delivered, she came back to take our order for hot food. I didn’t want to seem cheap, but I wondered if the buffet was the 14 Euro breakfast and this was going to be added on to the bill. I heard someone at a nearby table order the “half-Irish” and that sounded like a good idea to me: I didn’t want to commit to all that pork with a long drive ahead of me. Denise got the pancakes and we both helped ourselves when our friend came around with the pastry tray. Breakfast arrived and I tackled the various elements of the plate: half a raw tomato, one egg, one sausage, back bacon, black and white pudding (I asked the waitress for clarification but I’m still not sure what this was), and some grilled mushrooms, accentuated by an single, elegant scape of chive. Meanwhile, across the table, Denise was raving about her pancakes, and we both left satisfied and ready for the long day ahead of us. Of course, I had no idea how much the meal had cost us, but we had more important matters to attend to. 

Half-Irish, just like me! 

After our first tourist outing, a day trip to Wicklow National Park a couple of weeks earlier, Coco had let us know what she thought about narrow, winding roads and spending the day in the car by throwing up all over her backseat blanket. For that reason, we decided to spare her the aggravation and found a pet sitter in nearby Kenmare on www.pawshake.ie/ to watch her until we were done with the windiest roads of our trip. We didn’t have a lot of options but we lucked out with Kelly, a twenty-something gal with one dog and three cats of her own. When we found out about the cats, we were worried because Coco is generally against cats: she doesn’t quite know what to make of them but she’s not happy with the concept. Kelly assured me that she’d had plenty of dogs with Coco’s feline-aversion issues and, by the end of the day, they’d all be friends. We were still dubious, but the idea of having Coco get used to cats was intriguing, so we paid the fee and made plans to drop her off with Kelly near the start of the Ring drive. 

No sooner had we made it out of town and into the gorgeous Killarney National Park that serves as the starting point to the drive, when we ran into some stunning nature: two mountain goats locking horns and battling over something or other while a tiny baby goat looked on. This was all happening right on the side of the road and we stopped to film it (see below). This, of course, reminded us of the “animal jams” at Yellowstone NP, where something like this could back traffic up for miles. Here, we were the only car on the road and we watched spellbound until one of the goats gave up and sauntered off. The rest of the drive through the park was filled with stunning mountain and lake views and we arrived in Kenmare an hour later and found Kelly’s little house. See the goat video below (with in-car commentary from Coco)

Now, when I say “little,” I’m not exaggerating: it was on the end of a row of attached houses probably built in the early 1900s and, when we arrived at the door, the top of the frame only came up to my sternum. Kelly, no more than five feet tall herself, answered and we limboed through the door into the living room. All the cats immediately came to check out the new kid and Coco was on her best behavior — not thrilled but not growling.  We set up her rug and bowls so she would know she was staying for a bit and said goodbye. It’s always hard to leave her but we knew she would be miserable in the car. And if she could get acclimated to the cats in the next 30 hours, all the better. 

Coco and her new friend. Dom/Sub

Denise and I started out on the coastal part of the Ring, with our first stop in the charming little town of Sneem. The downside to driving the Ring in the offseason is that almost everything is closed (things start to come alive on St, Patrick’s Day weekend), but we were able to get a coffee to go and we took the advice of our virtual guide and headed to the secluded but beautiful Derrynane Beach, open all year. We took a stroll on the beach and admired the power of the North Atlantic Ocean and the ruins of St. Finian’s Abby across the water. Next stop was Waterville, and we took a walk along the waterfront, discovering a fascinating modern sculpture and a statue of Charlie Chaplin, who had spent summers there in the 1960s with his family. Our tour guide had recommended the town as a lunch spot but all the restaurants were shut and the promenade was too windy for a picnic so we got back in the car and headed west, although we were running out of land before Newfoundland

As we detoured onto the optional Skellig Ring, we started noticing several wildfires on the hills above us. At first we thought about calling 999 but there were so many of them around that we soon deduced that it was the farmers themselves doing the burning. We had experienced a similar thing when we lived in Walla Walla, with every September turned into a smoke-filled hellscape as the wheat farmers burned their fields to get them ready for the winter crop. Here, the issue was the gorse, a thorny shrub that can quickly take over grazing lands, and there’s an annual battle between the farmers and the authorities, who would rather the farmers didn’t set the fires at all. Today, as it turned out, was the last legal day to burn in the area and the farmers were taking advantage of that, but also throwing a kind of middle finger to the powers that be.  We found  a nice picnic area overlooking St. Finian’s Bay, near the town of Keel, and enjoyed our homemade sandwiches and a bag of crisps along with the dramatic view before the wind shifted and the smoke from the nearby fires convinced us to clear out. 

At this point, we started the long, switchback-filled drive up to Coomanaspic Pass. It was a bit of a challenge for the Renault but we were rewarded with an amazing view of the peninsula and Valentia Island at the top. Denise (of course) made friends with another couple who were stopped there, an Irish man and a woman in their fifties who had just spent ten years at a retreat in France. They had just returned to civilization and were getting reacquainted with their home country. They gave us some tips on what to see in the area and we said “adieu” and headed down the hill. Our next stop was Valentia and we found a short hike at Bray Head that took us through a flock of sheep grazing on the hillside. It was a little freaky to walk among the grazing animals but the sheep were impassive to our presence. They are “branded” by spray painting them bright, psychedelic colors, making them look very hip indeed.

After that, we made one last stop at the Geokaun Mountains and cliffs, a site rich in Irish folklore, before getting back on the road to Killarney. The sun, never very high in the sky this time of year, was quickly setting as we finished the last, and least scenic, part of the Ring of Kerry. What we did see was a lot more of the gorse fires and, for the first time all day, started to feel the effects of the nasty smoke on our lungs. I had that “smoke inhalation” feeling in the back of my throat that I remembered from the Walla Walla days, the beginning of two weeks of respiratory issues that are only now  resolving.

The peat bogs in the middle distance from the Geokaun cliffs.

The fires were the lead story on the national news that night, with dramatic film of firefighters attempting to quell the flames using primitive backcountry  equipment. I guess they didn’t have a way to get water to the remote sites but the footage made it look like they were bailing out the Titanic using a tin cup. There’s a lot of public support for the farmers on the gorse burning issue but you could tell by the tone of the newscast that the government is dying to shut down the centuries-old practice. 

It was a long day — we left the hotel before 10 a.m. and returned just after 5 p.m. — and we covered about 200 km (or 120 miles) but it was totally worthwhile in our opinion. The smoke put a slight damper on things but the scenery out there on the Wild Atlantic Way is spectacular. I don’t know if we would have enjoyed it as much at the height of tourist season, it was nice to be among the only ones on the road. We fell asleep wondering how Coco was faring in the house of cats. Tomorrow, we’d do a similar long drive on the Dingle Peninsula and then retrieve her in Kenmare before heading on to Cork.

Welcome to the official launch of our blog that we’re calling Calculating Route…, a reference to our GPS guide and the general randomness of our travels.  Of course, we do have a route, at least through the end of 2023, but we’re trying to keep our options open in the search for a permanent, or semi-permanent, home here in Greater Europe. Off we go! 

When we started our little adventure here in Kilmuckridge, the idea was not to be on vacation, per se, but to be living our usual lives in a different place — just removing the daily task of going to work from the equation. For the first month of our time here, we accomplished that goal, falling into a routine, centered around Coco’s morning and afternoon beach walks and our meal preparation. However, we couldn’t help but think back to our planned 2020 trip to Ireland, canceled by Covid 19. The original plan was to take Reilly and Finn with us and introduce them to their ancestral homeland, including a stop at the Slattery family dairy farm where Denise’s grandfather spent his boyhood before leaving for America to become a physician in the late 1800s. Now we were here, a few hours drive from several of the places we were going to visit in 2020, and it seemed silly to pass up the opportunity to see the sights, even if we weren’t able to bring the boys this time. We got out the map and started planning. We scheduled a week to see the Ring of Kerry, The Dingle Peninsula, The city of Cork, and then end up in Tipperary at the Slattery farm, a proper holiday. 

Ten days ago, on the Monday morning, we packed our suitcases and Coco and loaded them into Sean and Ann’s Renault Scenic and started heading west toward Killarney, our base for exploring the Wild Atlantic Way. Admittedly, it felt a little sad to be leaving Kilmuckridge, which had begun to feel like a comfortable home to us, but it was exciting to be back on the road again and finally exploring parts of Ireland beyond our little village and the surrounding towns. The GPS took us on a wide variety of roads, from several very small country lanes that were only wide enough for one car and maybe a motorcycle to the New Ross Bypass, a modern divided highway (with a two-Euro toll and a designer bridge (pictured) over the River Barrow). The thing I love about most Irish roads is that they might be narrow and winding, but at least they’re in terrible shape. 

We passed pretty close to the aul Kennedy homestead, the birthplace of the great-grandfather of JFK. You can imagine what a big deal it was here in Ireland to have a US president descended from a famine emigrant.  Bigger than Bono, like! Still, at nine euros for the senior admission, and with our stomachs rumbling, we took a pass. 

We stopped for lunch in nearby Dungarvan, a southern port town, thinking we’d have to get food to go because of the dog. However, a kind stranger gave us her parking pass with an hour left on it and recommended a nearby cafe that ended up being happy to accommodate Coco inside. People here generally want to help you. It’s nice. All through the meal, other diners came up to her to pet and admire her, and naturally she loved it. Traveling with a dog has its challenges, but Coco makes friends wherever we go with her relaxed demeanor and sophisticated poodle-ness.  After lunch, we visited St. Mary’s Church, an impressive edifice overlooking the harbor with an adjacent graveyard that stretches for both acres and centuries (top picture below). Back on the road, we made a brief stop in Lismore, home of a large, well-preserved castle that intrigued us from the road, but it seems that the tourist sites don’t really open up until St. Patrick’s Day and we could only peer over the wall (bottom picture below).

At that point, we realized we were lingering and dark would soon be coming on, so I put pedal to the metal and we headed to Killarney. Unfortunately, soon after, a giant car-carrying lorry pulled onto the road in front of us and kept us from going faster than 60 Km/H all the way into Killarney. That’s one of the issues with driving in Ireland: lots of trucks and farm machinery on the roads and not worth the risk to safely pass them on the windy, two-lane roads, especially with our four-cylinder Renault. We finally made it to Killarney and registered at The Fairview hotel (the view from our room was fair at best, consisting of the wall three feet from the window), the only one in the area that accommodates pets. Not many hotels or AirBnBs in Ireland will let you bring a pet, which is strange considering how many people here own dogs and cats. 

We settled into our room and got our second-ever takeaway Irish pizza — slightly better than the first one from Kilmuckridge — and fell asleep to an Irish soap opera on the TV. We had an early call for the next day so we could make sure to see the entire Ring of Kerry in the nine hours of daylight available.

downtown Killarney at night.

After our hectic, emotional, and eventful last week in Portland, we were grateful to finally be dropped by our cab driver at Denise’s sister Ann and her husband Sean’s home (they are in California visiting family until mid-March) in remote and peaceful Kilmuckridge, Ireland, on the southeast coast in County Wexford. We arrived just as the sun was setting and were met by their neighbor, the very friendly and helpful John O’Brian, who had been keeping an eye on their place. He showed us a few things about the house and let us know we could just knock on his door if we needed anything at all. After 22 hours of traveling, we stood in the backyard and took in just how quiet and still everything was here, with only the sounds of the birds breaking the silence. No traffic, no planes overhead, no noisy neighbors, just quiet.

The next morning, we walked with Coco down to Morriscastle Beach, less than a mile from our house and part of an uninterrupted 15 km of beautiful, sandy shoreline that stretches from Cahore Point to the north down to Curracloe Beach (the stand-in for Omaha Beach in Saving Private Ryan) to the south. It was a sunny and mild day with no wind and the beach reminded us of the ones we enjoyed on the Oregon Coast, except that there were less than a dozen people on the entire beach. It’s a popular beach in the summer but, in the off-season, it’s basically a giant dog park and Coco was in heaven, frolicking with the other dogs and chasing her ball in the surf.

Later that day, we headed to Gorey, a larger city about 30 minutes from our place, in order to do some errands. However, in order to get there, I had to drive Sean and Ann’s 2006 Renault Scenic, which presented a couple of issues: first of all, it’s a stick shift and I hadn’t driven one in over a decade. More frighteningly, though, the Irish drive on the left side of the road, something I’ve never done before and was dreading from the time we booked our trip. To make matters worse, almost every road in our rural part of County Wexford is the width of about one and a half cars at best, so someone has to pull over onto the shoulder when passing each other. In addition, practically every third vehicle on the road is a farm tractor with eight-foot high wheels and Denise quickly tired of me running her into the hedgerow on the passenger side of the car as I tried to save myself from getting crushed or sideswiped.

We miraculously made it to Gorey in one piece and got our Irish cell phones — we’ve parked our US numbers with Google Voice so you can still text us, but we’re using WhatsApp for video and voice calls — and some groceries at the Lidl market. As a long-time grocery shopper, I was shocked by how much cheaper the food prices were over here. Of course, they don’t have many of the same brands, but packaged sliced cheese (locally made), for instance, was about half what I paid for similar quality and quantity of Tillamook back home. Almost everything we bought was 25-50% cheaper than its US equivalent except for alcohol, which is subject to high taxes to cover its impact on the healthcare system. The country has much stricter rules on food additives and eating local is easy to do with most items. 99% of all the Irish meat sold here comes from family-owned farms and 80% is grass fed on the seemingly endless green pastures that we drove through on our way to town. Here I am navigating the unfamiliar labels of the yogurt section.

On the other hand, petrol and electricity are not cheap here, with gas running about $6.40 a gallon and electricity costing about 40 cents per KwH, about six times what we pay in Oregon. Since we are covering Sean and Ann’s utility bills during our stay, we are being extra careful about our usage, running the dishwasher and laundry during the off-peak hours to save money. Every night, we warm up the living room with a roaring fire in the Stanley Stove, the popular brand of fireplace here and spend the evening in there with the door closed and Coco curled up on her rug in front of the fire.

Last Sunday, we went down to the pub with John and his wife Catha, and enjoyed an authentic Guinness draught or three along with some Craic, (defined as: fun, especially through enjoyable company, a pleasant conversation) The pub is called Hammels, owned by the family that runs most of the businesses in town, from the grocery store to the funeral home. They’re a benign monopoly, but if you’re buying something in Kilmuckridge, you’re probably dealing with one of the 13 Hammel siblings or their numerous offspring. 

In general, people are very friendly and outgoing here and we’ve had many long chats at the beach or on the path with fellow dog-owners or neighbors. There’s plenty of folks that just grunt a greeting and move on but when people hear our accent, they generally want to find out why we’re here.

We’ve been here nearly two weeks now and we’ve settled into a routine of coffee, dog walk, physical therapy, lunch, nap, dog walk, more physical therapy, dinner by the fire, and then lights out. It sounds a little boring as I type that but we are fine with that right now as we recover from our surgeries and the stress of preparing for the move. It’s nice to not have many responsibilities for a change! Pretty soon, we hope to make some overnight trips to West Ireland to take in some natural beauty before the tourists arrive. Of course, we’ll stop in at the Slattery dairy farm in Tipperary where Denise’s grandfather was born and where her distant cousins still live and work. 

We’ll be here in Kilmuckridge for another month or so, enjoying the peaceful village life, and Sean and Ann will return from their trip in mid-March.  We’ll celebrate St. Patrick’s Day and Sean’s birthday together before heading up to Dublin for a week. After that, it’s off to Paris and the rest of the continent (see map) and things will get a little more exciting, we imagine. Watch this space!

Thoughts and observations from Denise:

Removing ourselves from Portland was a tough job, mentally and physically.  Those last weeks were brutal. Somehow I just kept pushing on – despite the fact I got Covid and a broken wrist just a few weeks apart.  Anyway – we made it.  

It’s true that when you make the kind of mental / geographical crossing like this really do end up on the ‘other’ side.  It took me a few days to shake the jet lag – but once I did I have to say I started to feel …well, something different.  Today I put my finger on it.  Just. Less. Stress.  And I don’t mean the kind of pack-up-and store-shit stress, I mean like, no-crime stress, no-gun stress, no threat of stupidness stress, no crazy over-priced trips to the grocery store stress.  Not that I want to paint Portland (or life in the U.S. for that matter) as a hotbed of horror, I just think it was more the daily news cycle I was digesting in pretty large doses that was dragging me down, along with my local NextDoor App.  Life is not so bad when you slow down and do a lot of nothing.  (Did you ever think you would hear that coming from me???)

The landscape here in Kilmuckridge is very, very beautiful. I know we won’t always have such fantastic proximity to an absolutely pristine coastline and seclusion once we start moving around Europe so I’m really soaking it up. I love the empty beach almost as much as Coco does.  Everyday the sky and the sand are different so it’s always offering up something new.  Oh, and Coco has started to make her dog friends here.  She gets out to the sand at the same time as her buddies and has good runs.  It’s not exactly the dog-park scene she is used to back in PDX as there are not very many dogs but she really comes alive at the beach.

We are so lucky to have her with us.  I know it’s hard to understand if you are not a dog owner;  it was pretty expensive to include her and we had to jump through all kinds of hoops and bureaucratic paperwork to get her into the country but it’s done and I’m so grateful for it.  She is excellent company and we seem to make friends and have nice conversations wherever we go.

We’re only a couple of weeks into this new adventure but I can say in all honesty that this feels very different from what it might be like to be on a vacation.  We spend time relaxing and being curious about where we are, wanting to see things etc., but it’s not a vacation: I mean, I live here!  Not Ireland per se, but I feel more here than there.  It’s hard to describe but I’ll keep thinking about it and fill in more as we go along.….

Until then..D