 
### All that Blarney - A tour of Ireland

by Davina Penny

Copyright Davina Powell 2011

Published at Smashwords

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## Chapter 1 – The Build Up

We were sitting in the lounge sometime in January, watching a programme on TV. Don't ask me what was, I have no idea or memory of what I was watching in January. I would defy anyone to say that they can recall these insignificant details, but they always seem to manage it on the films don't they? A sure sign of guilt if you ask me. Anyone who recalls the fact they were watching a particular episode of Eastenders 6 months after the event, definitely has to be hiding something. If I was arrested for a murder and asked to account for my movements, I would be stumped. I would even be hard pushed to say if Steve was there, so alibi possibilities are slim indeed. Basically it was just another cold and boring winter evening. The type which makes me want to find a tree stump somewhere where I can hibernate, ready to wake up around April time. I love Autumn, and Spring, but winter does nothing for me. Thank goodness both Steve and myself have formed a habit of heading off to a faraway place each December, only to return once the hassles of Christmas and New Year have passed. Yes, I am the humbug of all humbugs. Dickens' Scrooge has nothing on me. I do not put up decorations, and refuse point blank to be bullied into doing so. I do not go to Christmas parties at work, and I am sure that I am gossiped about royally for it. Do I care? No. Am I happy with my life in general? Absolutely. It gives me a great deal of personal satisfaction to fly in the face of convention occasionally, and when it comes to Christmas time, I do so as much as possible. Doesn't get me out of buying presents though. Each year, I am as fleeced as the next person when it comes to trying to find presents for seven nieces and nephews. This task has to be managed with great dexterity and thought. If the presents are different you run the risk of fights breaking out over them, and accusations of "you spent more on Fred than you did Freda," and such like.

Buy them the same presents, you then run the risk of being accused of putting next to no thought into it. A real no win situation. I really do sometimes rue the fact my sisters are so damned fertile. Believe me, I drink bottled water whenever I visit – just in case it is caused by something the water company have added to the supplies. Suffice to say I have done the practise sessions for having children, but have resisted actually taking the plunge and having one of my own. Yet another reason to do a runner each Christmas time. My duty has ended at the buying of presents stage. As an Aunt there is absolutely nothing in the contract to say that you have to be in attendance when the said gifts are presented and unwrapped – normally at some unearthly hour because they kids have been awake all night with excitement.

So now the scene has been set. We were watching TV when the phone went.

Most of the phone calls are either from Steve's Mum, or my sister so it is a judgement call as to who answers it. Steve flinched first on the sofa, so that was a cue that he was to get up and answer it. I pretended I hadn't heard it. Now you may be wondering as to how I remember this? Bearing in mind I could not recall what programme was being aired? It is because it is the norm whenever the phone rings. This usually then ends up with someone eventually moving their backsides, whereby they then try to get to the phone before the answer facility kicks in. A routine no doubt repeated in houses all over the country. It is amazing how often a person's hearing can diminish when the phone rings, and they want someone else to answer the thing instead. Yet their hearing can miraculously reappear when they tune in to the ensuing conversation. Due to the fact Steve was on the phone for a few minutes I assumed it was his Mum, so settled back down again. There were no raised voices, no long pauses so I guessed the conversation was going quite well. Sometimes this is a difficult call to make, so I have developed a type of sixth sense whenever his Mum calls.

The wrong assumption on this occasion, as the caller turned out to be my wee cousin in Ireland. (Note the use of the Irish term of endearment there?)

He was calling to tell us that he was getting married in July, and would we like to attend. I made my mind up in a nanosecond, but this was something that I had to discuss with Steve first. He had never met my family from Ireland before, and it is a bit presumptuous to assume that they will want to go, knowing they will be in a different country with people they have never met before. I had two cousins in Ireland, and both of them are wee cousins to me. They are both grown men now, one of them being in his 30's but I have such strong memories of them as babies. The older of the two I recall climbing out of a baby bath on his Mum's living room floor, sending the thing flying. She was not too chuffed with having a few gallons of bath water on her carpet, but there was not a lot I could do about it. I wonder if he knows that one of my endearing memories is of seeing his tiny white backside as he scampered off along the floor out of the way as his mum went ballistic at him? He was only around 10 months old at the time. I was bought out of this whimsical reminiscence by Steve. He passed the phone to me, so that I could also hear the good news for myself.

"Do you want to go?" he asked when we had both had long chats with my cousin.

"Yes, too right I do, but only if you do. I know you don't know them at all and it could feel strange for you."

"Hey I am up for it," he said.

With this you could have knocked me down with a feather. When I first met Steve three years ago, he was quite shy and would have resisted meeting new people. He has blossomed so much in that short time, and is now at ease in any situation. Just as well really. Some of my family members can be a little intimidating, but he seems to hold his own with them on each occasion. My sister even scares me at times, (think of the matron played by Hattie Jaques in the Carry On films and you will have an idea of her character), but he seems to wrap her round his little finger. A few dozen Irish men plying him with beer would pose no problems for him.

"So does that mean we can make a holiday of it then?" I asked hopefully.

I had always wanted to tour the coast of Ireland in a camper van, and this opportunity was giving us the glimmer of a chance of doing so.

"Yes, I reckon we could make a holiday out of it."

"How many days then?" I asked, my mind already going into overdrive with what we could do, and where we could visit.

"I don't know. Somewhere around the two week mark?"

Ireland wasn't that big, so I did a quick calculation in my head and somehow came up with 12 days. To this day, I have no idea of my thought process behind this decision, but truly regret it. Ireland does not look big on the map, but do not be fooled. It is quite roundish and stumpy looking. To drive across country point to point, is a reasonable enough journey. Yes, it would take a few hours, but could be done in a day. Driving round the coastline is a different kettle of fish, and I had totally underestimated what would be involved, as you will see later.

The following months went by in a blur. Around February time I purchased two small guidebooks for Ireland, and promptly ignored them. They were scanned in the initial few weeks with a note being made of the interesting looking places. There lies the problem with guidebooks. They are always bought with good intentions, but once you read past the introduction you come to a grinding halt. They are invariably not user friendly and don't really tell you the nitty gritty of what you need to know about the various places of interest. Honestly, if you had gone by the images on the front cover and first few pages, you would be of the opinion that:-

It is always sunny in Ireland, (yeah right...)

All the children will be dancing in the street in the style of Riverdance.

All the pubs will be filled with Guinness drinkers cheering on the local band who play the backing tracks for Riverdance.

Everyone has the same accent and says "Top of the morning to ya" to each tourist they encounter.

A tiny bit disillusioning in my opinion. I had been to both parts of Ireland before, and had an idea of the reality of the place. I have to say, that I had fallen in love with everything about Ireland on both visits. The people are friendly, there is no doubt about that. A welcome and refreshing change to the situation in the UK, whereby you invariably have to be living next door to someone for around two years before you even get onto nodding terms with them.

The streets were spotless and well kept. Over here in England, I am used to the sight of chewing gum super glued to pavements. Some of it must be so old, the only way to date it is by carbon dating. If I saw as much as a sweet wrapper on the floor in Ireland, it knocked the prices of the surrounding houses down by around 20%.

The pace of life is so much slower, and yet Ireland still manages to be the second richest country in the EU behind Luxembourg. Heck knows what Luxembourg does, or produces, but I take my hat off to them. It can't be down to tourism surely? I have never yet met anyone who has visited this country. Come to think of it, I have never even seen it in any travel brochures.

As I type I'm looking at it on the map pinned to the wall by the side of the computer. It is shown by the letters 'Lux', which totally engulf the tiny area, before over spilling into Germany. If they had spelled it out fully I am sure Poland would have also hosted part of the country's name. Heck how do they manage to host the Formula One grand prix each year? The start line must be in Luxembourg, with the far stretch being in a totally different country.

Ireland in comparison looks at least 20 times bigger, so perhaps I should be giving the guidebooks a little more than a cursory glance.

One of them listed the 10 'must see' sites.

It was almost as if I could hear Fluff Freeman describing them as a countdown to the number one slot on Top of The Pops. (Yes I am that old that I remember him, and certainly old enough not to have watched it for years because I haven't heard of half the acts they show these days).

"Coming in at number 10, Ireland pickers is that Ulster-American Folk park. See how the Irish immigrants lived when they headed across the Atlantic to start new lives for themselves in a far away place we now call America.

Climbing a few places and in at number 9 is The Rock of Cashel. Not actually a rock, but a ruin of a 13thCentury Cathedral, so be prepared to be impressed. Hear how St Patrick slipped with the sword and caused a nasty injury. If you want to know more, go out and visit the place!

Holding steady at number 8 in our chart is The National museum at Dublin. A firm favourite of yours obviously, showing a great array of archaeological finds in the area. A sort of old worlde version of Ratners if you like!

Falling down slightly at number 7 we have Muckross House. Yes, it is a big house pop fans, but you like it!

Surprising us all at number 6 is not a tourist attraction, but a town.. yes a whole town folks! Kilkenny has shown that you fans can take anything to your heart and appreciate it.

Climbing slowly at number five we have the ever eternal, wedding weepie favourite of the Giants Causeway. Those of you who have tried and tried to get your tiling lined up in the kitchen will marvel at how nature did it with such ease!

Dropping a place at number 4 we have that area off the West coast, which Noel Edmunds loved the sound of. Yes it is the Dingle, which I will go on record as saying, has no similarity to a part of the male anatomy. (If you don't believe me pop pickers, check the maps!)

Now we are at the top 3, and getting close to finding out what is this week's number one. I know you can hardly contain yourself, but the wait is nearly over!

At number 3 we have Clonmacnoise. Try saying it five times over very quickly and I guarantee your tongue has formed a new type of knot!

Slipping one place to number 2 we have Brugh Na Boinne. Make sense of the doodles you have been drawing for years when you see the artwork on the stone at the entrance!

And a new entry at number one, going straight in there are the Aran Islands. Gaelic is the national language here, and the main export is Aran wool. Speaking slowly, and making hand gestures may be the way forward here. This is sure to be a long stayer at the top spot!"

This list looked very interesting indeed, and one or two caught my eye immediately. The Causeway had to be a 'must see'. Any quirk of nature that has endured the passing of time, and the passing of feet over its rocks had to be worth a visit. I knew it was only about 3 hours away from where my family were living so there was no reason why it shouldn't be on the list of places to see. My Aunt had previously had me rolling with laughter when we had discussed the Causeway.

She has lived Northern Ireland all her life, being born and bred there. She has never ever seen the Causeway. That in itself is not funny. I have lived in England all of my life, and have seen just a few places of interest or beauty. The fact is, she was taken there once on a romantic trip by my Uncle her husband. After hearing the story I cannot accept that romance is dead. It is actually dead, buried and cemented over in some cases. The trip was arranged and off they set. Two and a half hours later, they were in a car park at Portrush, just a few miles to the west of the Causeway. They parked up, had a cigarette and a sandwich and headed home again. A five hour round trip to see...... a car park.

When Steve took me out on a romantic day trip it was to Hunstanton. In comparison I had been taken to heaven and back. Bless his cotton wee socks; he has progressed in the three years I have known him. The second day out was to Skegness, and occasionally (if I am very good) I may even be taken for a KFC. As I said earlier: romance is sometimes not just dead, but totally extinct.

I am a sucker for beautiful coastline scenery, so the Aran Islands also caught my eye. My favourite beaches up until this point were sadly not Hunstanton or Skegness. If anyone is visiting South Wales, go and see Rossili and the Worm's Head. The beach is breathtaking, and if you get there as the tide is leaving, you can even climb over the causeway to an outcrop of rock that is absolutely stunning. Timing is important though. Get it wrong and you will be stuck on the rock for another few hours until the tide once again turns around. A lot of people have made that mistake and no doubt felt rather stupid. The walk along the cliff is so relaxing with the sheep not even bothering to give you a glance as you walk within a few feet of them.

Also the small bay at Tintagel castle is worth a visit. The sea was a lovely aquamarine colour and was crystal clear. If you are fit, or you want to develop iron solid thighs then give the castle a visit also. You get a great deal of satisfaction showing the photographs to friends whilst making a big thing of pointing out all of the steps you had to climb to get there. They will either be admiring in their praise or will think you are just being a cocky so and so. Alas the cast iron thighs developed whilst walking and climbing to the castle don't last long once you have got back home, so you may have a hard job convincing anyone that you actually made the journey in the first place.

Getting back to the book, it was noticeable how much there was to see in Ireland. I had a sneaky, niggling feeling that we had not really left ourselves enough time in which to do it justice. I had to be really strict and choose two or three things to do each day, knowing that we had to be in Armagh on the Friday for the wedding. Timing and planning were going to be crucial. Little did I know that Steve had other ideas, which I should have guessed having known him for three years.

"Right," I said excitedly, "I have got a list drawn up of where we can go."

"Really," was the reply as he continued working on his computer. This was not the anticipated response but I was not going to be deterred. I had hoped for a high level of enthusiasm, with all tasks being dropped so that he could give his opinion on the list I had painstakingly compiled.

Shuffling in closer to where he was sitting, the list was dutifully placed in direct line with his keyboard:

Day one – arrive at airport (Thursday)

Day two – Wicklow mountains & Powerscourt House waterfall

Day three – Cork city centre & cork jail, & Blarney castle

Day four – Ring of Kerry

Day five – Kilarney park and Inch

Day six – Dingle and Dingle peninsula

Day seven – Aran Islands

Day eight – Causeway and rope bridge

Day nine – wedding

Day ten – Newgrange

Day eleven – Dublin

Day twelve – travel back to England.

"So what do you reckon then?" I said once had no option but to look at it.

"I thought we were going to just drive around and see where we were each day?"

"We are, but we need to know what is on the route though and where it will be good to visit."

"Yes... but this is a plan. We can play it by ear can't we?"

My enthusiasm deflated even more at this stage. Instead of being totally enthused by my ideas he was just shrugging his shoulders.

"Well, can you have a look through the books, and let me know if there is anywhere you want to visit?" I suggested, more with hope than anything else.

"I am not bothered Dee. As long as Newgrange is on there, which Alfie recommended, and the Causeway, I am pretty easy as to where we go. Don't lose sight of the fact that the wedding is the most important thing here."

There spoke the voice of reason. The wedding was important, and I was in danger of losing sight of that fact. It was going to be the chance to meet up with members of my family we usually only see on rare occasions. We had to dedicate at least a day to this process, and no matter what I thought now, it was the most important day of the holiday.

"Let's have a look at the list though," he sighed, knowing there would be no peace until he had least glanced at it.

I gave him a few minutes, occasionally peering over his shoulder to show that I was waiting with keen anticipation for his opinion. I thought I had put together a pretty impressive itinerary.

"So, what do you reckon?" I asked when he eventually made the mistake of looking up from the scrap of paper I had forced him to consider.

"So what you are saying is, we have a shortish journey to Wicklow, followed by a longer journey to Cork."

I checked the map, wondering where he was going with this tact.

"Yep, that's about right."

"And then, we go to Kerry with some other stops after that up until the Aran Islands. And then you want me to do a huge journey to the Causeway, which is going to be one day before the wedding? Have you seen how far that is Dee?"

I sensed the disbelief in his voice, so once again checked the map, only to find he really did have a point. Re-calculating, I guessed that the drive would take approximately 6 hours, assuming there were no hold ups along the way. Even that was going to be pushing things a wee bit too far. I had to admit defeat here, because it was no apparent I was asking way too much of him, knowing that he would end up doing most of the driving. At the time though, it really did look possible. Once again, I had not taken into account the fact that Ireland is actually quite a large country. And you have to add the fact that the roads are sometimes.... well... rather rural. They don't really believe in resurfacing until a whole lorry has been swallowed up, and the driver reported missing. Therefore, in deference to any car you drive, the speeds are normally reduced in comparison to what we are used to.

"So what do you suggest?"

"As I said, we play it by ear."

"Aren't you going to look at the books to see what is available then?"

"Yes, but when I am ready. This trip is weeks away yet."

With that, it signified was the end of the conversation. I was left forlornly looking at my list, wondering how much, if any, of it would be completed.

The next discussion point revolved on how to get there.

The choices were as follows:

a) Hire a camper van in the UK and drive it across on the ferry.

b) Hire a camper van in Ireland. (We had been told that there was a company in Banbridge where my cousin lives, who would hire them out for the duration).

c) Drive over and use our car to tour with.

d) Fly over, and then hire a car to tour with.

Too many choices, and this in itself caused stress. Steve hates having too many alternatives being presented, particularly if there is no clear-cut preference. I tend to make instant decisions, most of which are okay, but occasionally huge clangers are dropped, as seen by my attempt at an itinerary.

Eventually we decided on flying over, with hiring a car at the other end. We had looked at the option of hiring a camper van, but having never ever used one before, Steve was quite rightly reluctant to try one out. The excess you sign up for on the insurance is horrendous enough with hire cars. It would require a second mortgage for a camper van no doubt, as they probably get banged and dented more than most cars would. No, the safer option had to be the car. As it turned out, the camper van hire cost was astronomical, and all because we were looking to tour during the school holiday period. Yes, we had been caught in the trap of being fleeced because we were looking to be in the country from 15th July onwards. How I sometimes curse the fact I am limited to school holidays with my annual leave allocation. Calculations were done, (by Steve I hasten to add who has 'A' levels in maths, beating my grade C at 'O' level hands down) and the advantages and disadvantages weighed up. It worked out roughly as expensive to hire a car for the duration whilst staying in B & B accommodation along the route.

Now came the next challenge: Who to fly with?

I had previously used Easy Jet and found them to be fine. If you are only going to be in the air for 50 minutes you really are not bothered about the fact it is a 'no frills' company. A packet of crisps and a bottle of water is enough to see me through so there was no question that we would be going to use a budget airline. Why pay up to another £100 for the sake of having a lukewarm meal served in tin foil?

Eventually, after yet more careful consideration, we opted to take Ryanair to Dublin. This meant that we could tag the wedding on the end of the trip, allowing Steve recovery time Saturday, with the visit to Newgrange being fitted in on the Sunday. It would also mean that we would not be under pressure to stay in the Armagh area with my family who would no doubt want to play host for as long as possible. I love them to bits, and was looking forward to spending time with them, but we had so much we wanted to do we could not afford to spend more than a day or two in that area. If they knew we were heading back to Dublin and only had two days left, they would not put as much pressure on us to stay. I felt a little guilty at doing this, but was sure they would understand. Steve had never been to Ireland before, and I really wanted him to experience what I had experienced on previous visits. Although he wasn't as enthusiastic as I was, I knew he was going to be in for a real treat. As far as I was concerned, this holiday could not come round soon enough. Even the threat of a possible luggage handler strike was not going to stop me enjoying this 12-day break in the Emerald Isle.

## Chapter 2 – The Day of Departure

On our previous holiday to Canada, we had gone through what could be classed a ritual of what to pack and how. A ritual and system repeated in most households no doubt, and possibly the cause of early holiday arguments. Our relationship is still at the 'mushy' stage so annoying little niggles we have, never ever blow up into anything even having a remote resemblance to a tiff. However, that is not to say that in future, perhaps when I am menopausal it won't result in my wanting to rip his throat out, all because he packed the wrong brand of deodorant, or something equally as trivial. I had been married before and still have memories of a 3-day sulk my husband of the time went into - all because the directions we had been given for the dog kennels had been rather vague. My Springer spaniel was booked in for the duration, but it was not a kennel we had used before. We ended up spending all of 10 minutes looking for the place, which was the excuse he needed to throw all his toys, and blankets out of the pram. Naturally it had all been my fault, and no he was NOT going to stop and ask for directions at a nearby service station. Made for a really quiet flight though, so some good had come out of it.

The issue at the packing stage is that of will we be over our allocated limit or not? This was going to be a shortish visit, so that was never going to be an issue. Even taking into account we had to pack a suit for Steve, and my entire make up back in readiness for the wedding, we were confident we would be well within the allocated allowance.

"So, what do you reckon then, rucksack or suitcase?"

I immediately knew what had been behind his train of thought. We were looking ahead (with some excitement I may add) at our Christmas holiday, which was hopefully going to be 9 weeks in duration, and was going to culminate with a visit to New Zealand. There was a fair chance we were going to have to do a short amount of hiking, with some overnight stops in Youth hostels and such like. Therefore a suitcase would be totally unpractical. Not only would it be difficult to carry over anything over distance, it would make us look totally nerdish if we tried to book into a Youth Hostel. The fact we would be registered with them would not make any difference – there is no way we would be considered as being serious travellers if we traipsed in with two suitcases, and totally crease free and smell free clothes.

Steve was itching to try out using a rucksack for a holiday, and had dug out his old one, which he had used in his youth for a trip to the Peak District or something similar.

It did seem a good idea, and one I would have been up for it if hadn't been for the fact we had to look after our wedding clobber. Screwed up and creased T-shirts are acceptable whilst trudging through the outback, but I doubt if a suit that has been given the same treatment would be seen in the same way at a posh wedding. I have total faith in his packing ability, but even this got me thinking.

"What do you want to take?" I asked, not wanting to come across as one of those bossy women who always knows better. It was going to be to my advantage if the decision taken seemed to be his to start with. That way, if there were any subsequent problems, I could pass total responsibility over to him. A sort of catchall disclaimer if you like, but I had gotten used to doing this whenever he was unsure what to do for the best. The previous holiday to Canada had stood me in good stead, and had been a good learning experience in that respect.

"Well, I want to take the rucksack. It's going to be easier for lugging around bed and breakfasts."

"And where is your jacket going to go?"

"In the rucksack."

I looked at the bag lying on the floor, and then looked at Steve. He could not be serious surely? His jacket was quite bulky, and it would be akin to stuffing a turkey trying to get it through the opening of the rucksack. With all the best will in the world, after 9 days of doing this around Ireland it would have more creases than Bruce Forsyth.

"Do you reckon your jacket will be able to take it though?" I put forward.

"Yes, should do if it's packed right."

In other words, as long as I didn't go anywhere near it. I knew my limitations, and the unsaid words hung in the air. My packing was atrocious, only beaten by my ability to wrap Christmas presents.

"So what is the alternative?" I asked.

"Well, you could take your little case, or we could put everything into my big case."

I had already tried my small suitcase, and it was just that little bit too small. It meant Steve still had to take something big enough for his clothes etc, along with my overspill. This narrowed the options available, unless he wanted to go and buy a medium sized case which would no doubt end up gathering dust in the loft once this trip was over. A bit wasteful looking at the big picture, so it had to be either the rucksack or the suitcase.

Steve spent a good half hour pondering over this, muttering away to himself as he looked at the pros and cons of both systems.

Eventually we put everything we planned on taking into his case. On its own it weighed 6 kilograms, so lightweight it certainly wasn't. With all of our clothes, it weighed in at 20 kilograms. Manageable but only just. I had helped out a little by purchasing a really gadgety overnight bag. Not only did it hold all toiletries, make up and such like it also housed all of my underwear and socks. It was like a Tardis. Outside it looked like a handbag, but once it was opened you could virtually move a family of three into it. Oh, and included was a paperback book, a set of tarot cards (which always go on holiday with me) and a puzzle book. I was so fascinated with it, I was opening it every five minutes just to check that it really was as good as it had first appeared. It also meant if the suitcase went missing and didn't arrive at the airport I had a change of underwear. Steve would have been a bit up the creek, but I would have been charitable and lent him a pair of my Matalan knickers. Would have drawn the line at my socks though. I only had a few pairs, and besides which the colour wouldn't have suited him.

Eventually we were happy with how we had packed, and with the contents. Steve always took control and ownership of the important documents. My trust and faith in him is unwavering, and I knew there was next to no chance of them going missing or being mislaid. The other question now arose:

Do we drive to the airport on the day, pre-book the parking, or stay at a nearby hotel that offered parking?

On previous visits to Luton I had just parked at the long-term stay car park and hadn't had any problems with this. However, when we had gone to Canada, it had worked out a lot cheaper to actually stay for a night in a hotel and use their parking facilities for the duration of our holiday. In addition they had laid on complimentary transport to and from the terminal.

"What should we do?"

"I don't know. I have been to Luton before and it is easy to park in the long stay."

"Shall we book it beforehand?"

"Up to you babes," I answered.

"We could stay in a hotel again."

"We could, but is there any point?" I replied. "The flight's in the afternoon and the airport is only 90 minutes away. We don't have to leave at the crack of dawn to get there, and we can still avoid any heavy traffic."

Eventually Steve took the decision to just drive down and park, taking on board the comments I had made about previous experiences.

Little did I know that this would come back and haunt me.

On the morning of the flight, the car was dutifully packed, and the house once again checked over for any dripping taps, gas rings left on or windows left open. It's a really strange thing though: no matter how many checks are made I defy any woman to admit that they have nagging thoughts as they drive away as to whether they remembered to check the bath taps also. How many have actually returned from a holiday to find that they have in fact left a tap running? Probably none, but it is still something that goes through your mind regardless of the likelihood being next to nil. How many have given in to the urge to request that they go back, just to make one more final check?

The route to Luton airport is fairly straightforward, but we were going to approach the airport from a different direction to any I had made before. I was fairly confident of the way, so we decided to leave the GPS system packed away in the rucksack on the back seat.

"You sure you know where you are going?" were Steve's words as we headed towards the A1.

"Yes, no problem. Just aim for Hitchin and it will be sign posted from there."

"Are you sure you want to go this route, or do you want to go the way you know?"

"No, we'll be fine," I said with confidence. This was my chance to show to him that I knew where I was, and more importantly, how to get to where we wanted to be. A skill most guys think that women lack, but I was prepared to fly the flag for the ladies out there who know they can map read. We are in the majority, albeit a silent one, letting men have their laughs and giggles when they think we don't know what we are doing. Deep down we know exactly what we are doing, but sometimes men have to have their ego's massaged so we just pretend to get it wrong, just to keep them happy. A secret now in the open for all to realise. Yes gentlemen, women CAN read maps, sometimes without the need to turn it upside down in the process! We just don't harp on about this ability, as we know you need to feel that you are the only ones who can actually fulfil this task.

45 minutes into the journey we were still on the A1, approaching the turn off to Bedford. A journey I had done hundreds of times before having lived there for 18 years.

"You sure you want to carry on?" Steve asked. "Let me know now before it's too late."

"Nope, carry on," I replied, totally confident in the fact that going via Hitchin would be easier and quicker.

Another half hour on and I was looking out for the turn off to take through the town. I knew it was near to the turn off for Welwyn Garden City, as I had been there once before. However, the further we drove, the more the feeling of unease set in. Not one sign had indicated that we were anywhere near to where I was hoping to be.

"Should be the next one I reckon. We're not that far from London now so it must be coming up."

Two more junctions passed and still no sign of Hitchin. By now I was starting to panic that we had either missed the turn off or I had been wrong in my assumptions in the first place. Steve just stayed very, very quiet. That sort of silence which says "see, I knew you would get it wrong," without the words actually being said. The sort of silence most women can tune into and decode. The next sign told us that Letchworth was next. Not exactly what I was hoping to see at this stage of the proceedings.

"Take this one," I yelled. "We can check the GPS somewhere if we get off this road."

These two sentences summed up the fact that I was panicking, and had no idea where Hitchin was.

The GPS system Steve uses is great at plotting routes from where you happen to be at the time, as well as showing a detailed map system of the country. Once we had pulled over, Steve went to work. Apparently we had not missed Hitchin at all. It was shown as being one junction further down the road. Had it always been that close to London, whereby I just hadn't realised?

This detour had only added around 10 minutes to the journey so there was absolutely no danger of us missing the flight. However, I now felt very silly indeed and stayed quiet for the rest of the journey, just pointing out the odd signpost where Steve may have missed it, due to its positioning. I just hate getting things wrong, especially if Steve is involved. Even though he doesn't say much, I always feel totally inferior, with this emotion lasting for ages.

My next moment of feeling as large as a cockroach was soon to follow. Nope – sorry a cockroach is too big. Make that a single celled amoeba instead. Believe me, I felt incredibly insignificant.

Luton airport, although a major and well-known airport (many thanks to Lorraine Chase for immortalising it in a song) it is not one of the largest. Most of the car parks are well signposted and it wasn't long before we were heading past the Luton Vauxhall car factory en route to the long stay area.

Only to find that we couldn't use it.

A really large sign was posted at the entrance making it perfectly clear that it was full, and that it was also only for use by people who had pre-booked. The only words missing were the ones telling you that you were an idiot for not realising this, and to bog off to the medium stay car park where you would be fleeced, even though you would be staying for the same amount of time. My feet were frantically working away on the floor of the car in an attempt to create a hole I could crawl into. I had never ever had this problem before, but had to confess that the last time I had used this airport had been 8 years previously. Obviously a few changes had taken place in the intervening period. Someone had come up with a way of making sure that they could reap in as much money as possible at the expense of holiday makers who may have no choice but to go ahead and pay the extortionate costs at the other car parks.

By now Steve was getting just a little stressed.

"Now what can we do?"

"I guess we have to go back to the other one then. Honest Steve, I have never had this problem before!"

"I said we should consider booking first."

This then made ME stressed.

"Yes, but it was your choice hun. I didn't say not to. You know I left it with you."  
"Yes, but you didn't say we definitely had to, so I assumed you knew what you were doing."

This I felt was somewhat unfair. However, I bit the bullet and assumed responsibility for the mess we had found ourselves in. If the other car park was also full, we were well and truly in the brown smelly stuff.

Luckily, it wasn't but it was going to cost us £11 a day to park there. As we trundled across to where the bus stop was situated I was making a mental note to never use this airport again. Before we had even got as far as checking in, the experience had cost us £132. Even establishing how to use the car park was stressful. We are both used to having a ticket issued that we then guard with our lives, making a note on it of exactly where the car was. (How many people have not done this, convincing themselves they will remember in two weeks time, only to spend another three days searching for their car). No such thing here. Oh no. Steve had to insert his credit card into the slot, and then use the same credit card as we leave the area. This would register somewhere, and would credit his account with the required amount. So why did the notice at the barrier say, "please take ticket"? There was no damned ticket! We waited ages for it to appear but no such luck. Even parking the car was turning out to be a totally confusing experience. I was becoming more and more convinced that someone somewhere was having a laugh at our expense. I felt more than a little sorry for foreign visitors. If there is one thing that will put them off ever using Luton airport again, it is the parking system.

Fortunately checking in was stress free, and we found ourselves with plenty of spare time in which to have a look around before finding something to eat.

Once we had passed through passport controls, we headed for the shops and the food court. There was the usual offering of burgers, KFC and pizza. Not the healthiest of offerings, but heck we were going to be pigging out for the next 12 days so decided to make an early start on our fat intake. The pizza had seen better days though and we rued the fact we hadn't gone for a KFC (Steve's favourite meal of all time). However, it was going to be a good few hours before we ate again, so we gamefully continued, aware that every mouthful had to be chewed at least 20 times before it had a chance of being digested properly.

The flight itself was fairly uneventful. The take off is always my favourite part, closely followed by landing. We were only going to be in the air for a total of 50 minutes, which meant the whole experience should be fairly enjoyable. Ironically the seats were the most comfortable I had ever come across on an aircraft. Bearing in mind it was only a short haul flight I felt we were being more than a little pampered. I also had to take my hat off to the attendants on the flight. Serving up duty free wares, and food to all of us in the space of 40 minutes was no mean feat. Although this was my first experience with Ryan Air, I had to say it was quite a positive one, and more than made up for the fiasco at the car park three hours earlier. The seats were spacious, the head rest area moulded to the shape of the head so that rest came relatively easy, and ample enough leg room.

In the blink of an eye, the flight was over and we had landed at Dublin airport. Surprisingly, the airport was huge and dwarfed the one we had left behind at Luton. From this point onwards, I was truly on holiday, and planned on putting all the previous experiences behind me. We still had no idea where we were going to be heading for once we had picked up the car. Steve had gone with the same rental company as the one we had used in Canada. They had proved to be very professional and it wasn't long before he had the keys to a rental car in his hand. Although they were one of the more reputable companies, they also had the furthest lot from the main terminal building. Steve was sweating buckets as he hauled the suitcase along the pathway taking us away from the airport. However, it had all been worth it. The care was huge and housed ample enough space in the boot for the case and rucksacks. A nice touch was in the fact that there were some useful booklets housed inside the passenger side door well. These showed where some of the bed and breakfasts were situated, along with details of some of Ireland's main tourist sites.

"So where do you want to go then?" I asked Steve, guessing he would not have a clue.

"Don't know. You choose."

"Okay," I replied looking at the main map I had bought with me from England.

"How about heading around Dublin and heading south on the coast road to Wicklow. We want to be there tomorrow anyway for the mountains."

"Sounds good to me. What about Dublin though?"

This did not seem a good idea. We were in a strange country and I thought it would be better to get used to the car on some quiet roads, before trying to negotiate the capital. We could always do this area on the way back to the airport. Steve was in agreement, so we trundled along the main road out of Dublin. Although they have a motorway system, it's not quite the same as ours. A lot of the main roads are in fact dual carriageways, with only the occasional stretches where three lanes are used. The actual volume and speed of the traffic also reflects this. The overall population of Ireland is small compared to most places in England. Some of their large towns would be classed as villages over here, and their villages would not even warrant a mention on our OS maps. Steve got into his stride quickly and appeared to be handling the car very well indeed. Just as well, because we had signed up to say that we were liable for the first 750 euro's worth of damage. Around £500 sterling. He is a very good driver though, and I knew I would not have any worries on that score. No matter what conditions he is presented with, he has always coped and adapted very well. Heck if he could drive in Florida or Toronto, I had no doubt that he would find Ireland easy to negotiate.

It was around 4pm when we left Dublin, plenty of time in which to get out of the town area, and avoid the rush hour traffic. The ring road took us around the city centre, so we didn't even get to see any of the famous landmarks as we headed south. Due to the fact we were going to go round Ireland in a clockwise direction, it meant it would be another 11 days before this opportunity was to present itself again.

Three hours later we were in the small town of Wicklow itself, which is on the east coast, with the famous Wicklow Mountains to the west of the town. The town itself was fairly colourful, with bunting hanging across the narrow streets, adding colours and movement to the skyline. It was 5.30pm and we decided a good cause of action would be to find a bed and breakfast. There followed our first lesson. The car was left in a relatively empty open car park whilst we headed into the town itself. Size wise it was probably no bigger than a semi-rural town in Lincolnshire, and the shops appeared to sell pretty much the same as ours. Heck knows what I was expecting: leprechauns hanging from the doorways maybe? Men on stools outside doorways playing the accordion? Driving through on our initial information gathering exercise, I had seen the sign for a B & B at what appeared to be the main town centre pub. The downside was the fact there was no obvious place to park the car, which would have to be either left in the car park overnight (not something I liked the idea of), or left crammed into whatever space we could find nearby. Another unfavoured option as the streets were very narrow, and I had visions of the car being clipped if parked in a blind spot. I tentatively led the way, not actually too sure what to ask as for.

"Good evening, how can I help you's?" was the immediate greeting as we approached the counter. The young lady appeared to be in her mid 20's and had an amenable air about her. We must have had tourist written all over us, what with Steve's backpack and my overnight bag.

"We've just arrived today in Ireland, and we are looking to see if there is a room available for the night." I offered.

"I think we do have, if you want to follow me."

A fairly positive start to the night, or so we thought.

We followed her down some steps into an area where the accommodation was situated. There appeared to be some confusion as to what room was actually available, as the booking details didn't actually tally with what rooms were empty. After a long period of head scratching, and input from the owner, it turned out that they only had the one room available at a cost of 80 Euros. I thought that this was a little steep, but we were still finding our feet, and would have taken it just to get through that first night. However, as soon as the door was opened, I knew I would rather sleep in the car instead. It was a smoking room. Although there was no grey swirling mist to give this away, the smell was overpowering. I could almost feel my lungs clogging up with each breath. This was certainly a timely reminder that smoking is almost classed as a past time in Ireland, and the irony was apparent. Smoking is now banned in public places in Ireland, and yet the first place we had chanced upon had not really caught up with this fact yet.

I was tasked with turning her down, as Steve was actually prepared to stay the night. He is more relaxed about money than I am, and hadn't battered an eyelid at the thought of spending nearly £60 on a room for the night.

"I am so sorry," I blustered. "I am allergic to cigarette smoke, and wouldn't be able to stay here." I expected her to then change in her approach to us, but she accepted this with an easy smile and the wave of a hand.

"Oh, no problem there."

"Is there anywhere else you can recommend we try?"

This may have come across as a bit cheeky really, taking into account I had just turned down her offer of hospitality.

"Oh aye, loads around here. You have to aim out of town and up the hill."

With a drink purchased out of guilt, and the directions fresh in our mind we headed off, with eyes peeled for anything that may have resembled a B &B. This is where I really do take my hat off to the Irish. Rather than put drivers in the position of squinting at houses as they hurtle past in an attempt to see any references to a B & B, all of the ones we came across had a lovely signpost by the front wall or gate, displaying the shamrock and name of the premises. I am sure this approach has led to a drastic reduction in the amount of accidents caused by drivers trying to eye up establishments instead of eyeing up the road ahead.

Another big advantage was the fact there were so many of them. After counting at least five in a short distance I began to relax in the knowledge that at least one of them was bound to have a spare room. All of the buildings looked like something out of magazine. Invariably they were white bungalows, all with beautifully kept gardens. In the space of a few minutes I had gone from thinking that I was going to have to contend with a gear stick as well as Steve, to truly believing we were going to find a bed for the night.

One was chosen at random, whereby Steve was tasked with making the enquiry. He is a really cute looking guy who could charm the birds out of a tree, and would have more luck at convincing the proprietor that we were worthy of staying at their house. His hidden charm has got us out of a few situations whilst in Canada.

After a few seconds the door was opened by an elderly lady on crutches.

"HI there. I don't suppose you have a double room for the night do you?" Steve asked, his head tilted, and a smile on his face. If I hadn't already been going out with him, I would have fallen for him there and then. Damn it he was sexy when he wanted to be.

A smile appeared on the lady's face, and a twinkle ignited in her eye.

"Well, actually yes I do. Would you like to see it?"

We followed her inside, as she showed us the room. The room was immaculate and well presented, but the main feature was the bed itself. It was the biggest bed I had ever seen. If we wanted to talk to each other during the night, we would have to shout. It really was that big.

"It looks really nice," he said. "How much is it for the night?"

"60 euros."

"We'll take it!"

With that, our new hostess shook us both by the hand and introduced herself as Rita.

We were given keys to the side door and bedroom door, with directions of where we could park our car for our convenience. Breakfast was also arranged for 8.30am, with both of us opting for the full Irish. We weren't too sure what it would include but sounded better than the continental version, which usually is made up of bread and jam, and bugger all else.

"So, are you both looking for somewhere to eat tonight? I can recommend a few places in town if you like, and it will only take you five minutes to walk there."

This was Steve's first experience of the Irish friendliness, and I could see he was totally bowled over by it. I had already developed a soft spot for Rita, and it would turn out that she would be my favourite landlady for the whole holiday. In fact, I jokingly told her that we wanted to put her and her bungalow on casters, and take it around with us. The bed was amazingly comfortable, the food in town was out of this world, and the feel we had for Ireland was already a good one. We only saw Rita a couple of times that evening in passing, but each time she stopped for a chat, and had a twinkle in her eye throughout. Her recommendations were taken on board, and what followed was the best Chinese meal I have ever had. Throwing caution to the wind I tried a dish I had never had before and loved every bit of it. Having never seen this particular dish on our menus in Peterborough, I doubted if I would ever have the pleasure of trying it again. As we walked back, we eyed up the houses in the estate agent windows, and realised that we could never ever afford to live in this part of Ireland. The country has become quite prosperous, and the prices reflected this. One house totally astounded us, in as much as it was the first house I had ever seen advertised outside of London which had six 0's as part of the price. Even taking into account the exchange rate this was well out of our league. How and when had this massive rise in prices taken place? Last time I had been here I could have bought a farmhouse for something like £28,000.

We spent the evening in the bedroom watching TV. (Yes that is the honest truth of what we got up to!) I don't know what it is about hotels and such like, but there is always a curious search through the TV channels to see how differ to ours. Each country is unique, albeit they all seem to have CNN somewhere on the list.

The programme we spent an hour watching followed a lone dolphin and you were just hoping it was going to be okay. There were warnings that if it stayed solo too long it would starve and die. No!! That couldn't be allowed to happen surely? Apparently they are even more amazing than I had first thought. Most people are aware of how clever and intelligent they are, the fact they communicate etc. Not only are they very sociable animals, but they will also adopt another dolphin of a different species and treat it as one of their own, to the extent they will even mate with it. Almost enough to bring a tear to the eye. If only humankind could display the same level of compassion and tolerance. Dolphins don't see the differences in another species, and this particular chap was immediately taken under the wing of the bottle nosed dolphins and given a right royal welcome. Another fairytale ending to what had started out as a very sad story. What a lovely way to end our first day in Ireland. Lying on the bed, I looked back at our first 12 hours.

I had experienced a lovely smooth flight, a wonderful welcome at the B &B, a bed the size of County Cork, and a heart-warming story of an adopted dolphin. Could things actually get any better? Actually yes they could. I forgot to mention that I had come across my favourite chocolate bar of all time, and one that is no longer readily available in England. The Star Bar!

How many of you remember them eh?

Well, I've bought three and scoffed one already. Someone tell me I have died and gone to heaven! I can almost taste those nuts as I type....

Top tips:

1. If you hire a car, make sure it is of the size you require for your stay. If boot space is important, because you are going to be touring consider upsizing so that you can hide any cases away adequately.

2. Don't panic if you think you are going to be without somewhere to stay for the night. There are B & B's coming out of your ears in Eire.

3. Make sure you have enough by way of Euros before you visit. You will be amazed at what you may want to buy at airports etc where credit card is not practical. Also, not all B & B's will accept them.

4. Invest in a reasonably sized and up to date AA style road map of Ireland. It will be worth its weight in gold, even if you only use it to drive from the airport to your destination.

## Chapter 3 – Wicklow Mountain Area.

After a reasonable night's sleep we awoke ready to face the day and the Irish breakfast. The Irish breakfast consisted of bacon, sausage, toast, egg and tomato, so didn't really appear that different to the typical English breakfast. I had half expected to find black or white pudding but it was not to be. Steve was yet to experience that particular delight.

Following on from breakfast we were delighted to meet the host, Rita's husband. He also had a twinkle in his eye, and a laid back attitude. I don't know what the Irish have in their water to make them so easy going, but I would have happily piped it to my house back in the Midlands. However, his car caused a brief spell of confusion, as it was the same make, model and colour as our hire car, and was parked directly next to ours in the parking area the side of the bungalow.

The main difference was shown by the amount of wheel hubs present. Ours had full quota of 4, whilst his had a few missing.

"What happened?" Steve asked.

"Ah well, while we were at the hospital someone took them."

"You are kidding!"

"No, bit of a shame really," was the amiable response.

I felt as though I had my balloon burst. I had been singing the virtues of Ireland to Steve, highlighting the fact that crime seemed to be minimal compared to what we are used to in certain parts of England. Yet here, after being in the country for less than 24 hours we were hearing how some thieves had nicked some wheel hubs from a car whilst the owner was in hospital. I was totally gob smacked, and just didn't know what to say. The owner seemed fairly philosophical about it, and we parted having shared a joke about checking our wheel hubs in case he had felt the urge to replace them! It certainly made me realise why my wheel hubs were held on with plastic ties. Not only did they possible have a role to play in holding the car together, but hopefully would deter unarmed would be thieves stealing them. Although you would have to be a really sad individual if you wanted to steal from a Suzuki Swift in the first place.

Whilst I had been watching the programme about the dolphins the previous evening, Steve had been quietly going through the guidebook and without my realising, had actually chosen our first destination.

This going to be something of a mystery tour for me, but I was more than happy with that fact. Armed with guidebooks, waterproofs, chocolate and water, we headed off to an area of beauty called Glendalouch, deep in the heart of the Wicklow mountains. As we drove through the countryside, marvelling at the different shades of green around us, a thought popped into my head.

"Question for you babes," I said.

"Go on," was the reply, with the sort of intonation that suggested he knew it was going to be one of the hypotheticals I often throw at him.

"Don't say it like that, all I was wondering was, what is the difference between a hill and a mountain."

With that he gave me the 'look' that often accompanies one of my weird and wonderful musings.

"Well, what is the difference? Where is the cut off point? When does a hill stop being a hill and become a mountain. How is it decided?"

This floored him, and he stayed silent for a while before admitting he didn't know the answer.

I thought it was a valid point. There are mountains all over Ireland but to be very fair here, they are not in the league of Everest or Fuji. So, this did beg the question of what is classed as a hill, and what qualifies for a true mountain? Has it got something to do with the amount of snow on the top? I knew this would eat him up to the extent he would have to try and find out the answer through an Internet search at some stage. Not being able to do so whilst he was driving would drive him silently mad, so I took the cue to shut up for a while.

The morning's weather was looking good. The sun was out, some fluffy white clouds were slowly floating by, and the day promised to be a good one, with the heat being more than bearable. The perfect weather for taking part in some low-impact exercise such as walking.

The area Steve had highlighted was well indicated on my road map, giving the impression that it was one of the most popular tourist areas within the Wicklow Mountain range.

Bearing this in mind, it was therefore surprising to see that we were only the third car to arrive in the car park, even though it was 10.00am. Either it was not as well known as we assumed it would be, or the Irish tend to take things easier than even I had anticipated. A lone backpacker was doing a sterling job trying to get his massive bag onto his back. Either he was incredibly fit and would no doubt end up overtaking us at some stage, or he would just buckle under the weight of the thing.

As we neared the visitor's centre, armed with full waterproofs, water and chocolate (always considered to be an essential item) I spotted a labyrinth nearby. It was quite small, and there was absolutely no indication as to why it was there. I had learned through previous readings that there is a major difference between a labyrinth and a maze. Labyrinths only have one route to follow and tend to have a symmetrical or geometrical design to them. Basically you walk into it, and following the same path, you walk out of it again. Mazes are more in the way of puzzles whereby the user has to make choices on what route to take. Followers of meditation or trance also claim that following the path can alter the state of consciousness to allow for better clairvoyant or spiritual connection. This sounded good to me, so Steve had to wait patiently whilst I walked the path as it spiralled in and out of itself.

"Won't be long I shouted," as I set off.

The whole labyrinth appeared to only be about 15 feet across. Obviously my special awareness is not good because I had not taken into account the meandering pathway meant the actual distance walked was going to be a lot further.

A few minutes later, I was still nowhere near the centre spot.

"Just a few more minutes," I shouted out, aware now that Steve had decided to just sit this one out for the duration. I could always just call it quits and leave half way round, but this would have been such a shame. I may never come across another labyrinth again, and would regret it if I quit when so close to finishing.

Eventually I found myself in the centre circle. I had done it! Did I feel particularly spiritual, or hear voices of that nature? Alas no. This then begged the question of whether to repeat the circuit in advance, or to just call it quits. Taking into account we had actually come here to see some scenery, I decided to take the shortest route back to where Steve was waiting with some patience.

"Did you enjoy that?" he asked.

"Yeah I did actually," I replied whilst wrestling with my camera.

If I were to be asked why I actually walked this pathway, the only possible answer would be "because it was there."

A bit like the response mountaineers give when asked why they risk life and limb tackling Everest. Not something that would impress friends back at home, but it was a personal achievement.

Within a few minutes we were inside the visitors centre, which seems to be fashioned in the same way of most visitors centres at such scenic venues. It was incredibly spacious inside, with many displays around the walls of the geology and history of the area.

As with Algonquin Park in Canada a few walks were on offer with varying degrees of difficulty and duration. We had to take into account two things when deciding which one to go for:

Our level of fitness left a lot to be desired, so any walk which was either more than three miles in total, or had a hill climb involved would be difficult.

We were also conscious of the fact we would only be able to spend the one day here, so we had to choose the walk which would offer most of what we wanted to witness.

Naturally this decision was down to me.

The guy manning the desk was incredibly helpful though, and indicated the two walks that were short in distance, but which also offered some interesting sights.

With this information at the ready, we headed off on the "Green Road Walk" which was to take us to the path leading to a waterfall. The area was still yet to be invaded by tourists and we were pleasantly surprised to see that only a handful of people were out walking with us.

Our first port of call was to the monastic ruins to the East of the Lower Lake.

The presence of the ruins is heralded by the site of the tall circular tower as it rises majestically above the tree line.

The below text is taken from the Internet site: www.Glendalouch.connect.ie

The recorded history of the wooded valley dates from the 6th century - the dawn of Christianity in Ireland. For 500 years it was one of Irelands great ecclesiastical foundations and schools of learning. The establishment was attacked, burned and plundered by the Danes, who were based in the stronghold of Dublin, a shortish distance away, and making it an easy target.

Glendalough, despite extensive fire damage in 1163 A.D. prospered until the early 13th century. In 1163, Laurence O'Toole, Abbot of Glendalough, who later became Irelands first canonised saint, was appointed Archbishop of Dublin.

The arrival of the Normans in Ireland sealed the fate of Glendalough, as in 1214 the monastery was destroyed by the invaders and the Diocese of Glendalough was united with the Sea of Dublin. After that, Glendalough declined as a monastic establishment and gradually it became deserted.

The buildings fell into decay and more than 6 hundred years elapsed before a reconstruction program was started in 1878. Further work was carried out in the 20th century Today the valley of Glendalough is extensively wooded and a comprehensive network of walk ways have been completed and continually improved, which provides good access for the visitor and researcher to wonder the valley.

Considering the fact a lot of the building work had originally been carried out in the 10th century, the ruins were remarkably well preserved. The walls were incredibly thick, and I had to take my hat off to the architects of the day. Appreciating the fact I have no real idea of measurements, (remember my underestimation of the labyrinth), I would guess that some of the walls were two feet in thickness in some places. Ironically this had been built to stand the test of time, but hadn't taken into account the fact that some people would have an interest in seeing its eventual destruction. The actual cemetery area was quite modern in as much as it appeared to still be in use. The main design of the headstones was that of the Celtic cross - a stark reminder that we were in the heart of Ireland where traditions and beliefs were still strongly adhered to. Surprisingly there appeared to be many family plots where over the years and decades, other family members were added. This was also to account for the sheer size of the headstones. Room had to be made for subsequent entries. One unfortunate individual had not been accounted for, and there had been no room left for their inscription. A simple plaque had been added with their details shown. This did beg the question of just how long this could go on for? Surely space would be taken up to the extent the grave would have to be built upwards instead of downwards? I also wondered if there was a limit as to how far back they would go before starting a new family plot. This was certainly a stark difference to the graves I have become used to in England. Occasionally a family plot will be seen in a churchyard, but invariably it usually only extends to partners and their offspring. These ones seem to show the extended family members, going on for more than two generations. Although many of the burial sites were in a state of disrepair, it was obvious that this churchyard was still valued and used. I tried to treat the area with the respect it deserved, particularly when it came to the taking of photographs. Steve was also of the same mind, and we kept them to a minimum, aiming in the main to capture the beauty of the buildings against the skyline and tree laden background. On one occasion a large rock caught me unawares and I nearly tripped over, cursing in the process. Remembering where I was, I sent out an immediate apology to the unseen spirits in the area. I wonder what they thought of the fact that every day, possibly a hundred people would traipse around, taking photographs and generally being unaware of how the original inhabitants would have lived on a daily basis? The two cultures could have hardly been more different. Would any of our buildings of today stand the same test of time, whereby in 1200 years a whole new generation would be visiting, totally unaware of what the building actually had represented? How different would the culture be in 1200 years time? We spent quite a while in this area, soaking in the aura of solitude and peace that had surrounded us. Normally, I just don't get any vibe or atmosphere from old ruins, but this one had really weaved its spell on me.

We eventually carried on, taking a short trek to the lower lakeside area. The water was amazingly clear and still. This particular lake was roughly a quarter of the size of the larger one to the west of us. We would eventually walk alongside this one also, but for now Steve was on a mission to find the waterfall.

We could actually hear it a long time before we saw it, and the sound was incredibly soothing and relaxing. However, there was nothing relaxing about the climb to see it. My geography was not what it had used to be, and I had forgotten that in order for there to be a waterfall, it has to come from a higher level. This higher level was reached through a series of numerous and rough steps. I was only carrying a small bag, but my fitness level caught up with me within minutes. In addition, the heat had increased gradually, and although the area was relatively well shaded by the tree canopy, the air was hot and sticky. A perfect place for wee midges to gather ready for any unsuspecting victim. On this occasion I reckon word had gone out that I was visiting. Trust me, animals do have a very honed 6th sense, and this extends to the insect kingdom. For days they had been travelling from far flung fields: aunties, cousins, friends and such like. The word had gone out that some really juicy flesh was on its way, and it was a good time for a family get together. They were now hovering in waiting, ready for a feast. This was going to be the equivalent of an insect BBQ gathering, but without the need to cook me first. (The sun had already started to do that). As long as they didn't mind their meat cooked rare, it was going to be perfect. Their presence, combined with the fact I was totally knackered led me to stay looking up at the waterfall where I had an escape route ready should the insects become unbearable. Steve took off at a rate of knots, barely breaking out in a sweat to see the waterfall from above.

Within a couple of minutes I saw movement on some of the steps below me. The backpacker had decided to take in the sight of the waterfall, and was gamefully and slowly, making his way towards me. I didn't know what to say him as he brushed past, so just gave him what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. He really could not be enjoying himself that much, the strain and sweat on his face giving that much away.

Eventually I gave up the fight against the insects and started to make my way back down to where a seating area had been thoughtfully provided. Steve wasn't far behind, having seen the source of the waterfall.

The next port of call was to be the larger lake. The slope leading into the water was gentle and smooth. This was being taken advantage of by a dog and his owner. A stick would be thrown, with the dog then swimming out to retrieve it. I've been down that road myself before and knew that the dog would do this for hours at a time without tiring. True to form it was the owner that gave in first, but it had given us a few minutes of free entertainment. With a final shake of the tail, (did you know dogs always shake their tail last when drying off) they left, leaving just myself and Steve to soak in the stillness around us.

In all we had spent only 90 minutes on the Green Walk, which meant we could fit another one with ease, providing it wasn't going to take more than two hours or so. A drive was planned to take us towards Cork, and I had aimed to be there for around 7.00pm.

"Any preferences darl?" I asked.

"No not really. Are there any that don't have big climbs involved?"

Aha! He had been feeling the pace, and was human after all. Being a guy though, he couldn't show this, but I now knew better.

The most obvious choice was the trail leading us around the other side of the lake to the old miners village. In the space of 5 km it climbed only 20 metres and would take us around an hour to complete. If there had ever been a trail aimed at wimps and lightweights, this was the one. It all but had our name written on the signpost.

As we turned to head west along the shore side path, we chanced upon three American ladies involved in what appeared to be a heated exchange.

"No, I am telling you, it is this way."

"No, it's not, I reckon it's that path over there."

As the conversation made its way towards our ears, it was apparent that each of them was pointing in a different direction. The easiest thing to do would be to go in each direction, and see who got there first.

"Shall we give them a hand?" I whispered to Steve.

"Good idea," he grinned back.

As I had control and ownership of the map at this stage, I led the way.

"Afternoon ladies, are you a little lost?"

"Hi there. Yes we want to find the white trail."

"Have you not got a map they gave out at the visitors centre?"

"Eh, no we don't".

This was followed by one of them muttering something under their breath. Hazarding a guess, they had wanted to get one and the others had brushed them aside.

"Well, you are actually on the right trail here. It seems that yours is next to ours and runs parallel up until the miners' village. You then carry on and walk further along, before crossing over somewhere, before heading back on the opposite shore line. It's quite a walk though, and will take you a while."

"Oh that's fine really it is."

This made me want to giggle. They looked as though they were heading out for a picnic or shopping trip. Instead they were intent on walking through and across a quarry area, with a climb of 380 metres involved. Thank goodness the path didn't have any junctions involved. They would be lost without a shadow of a doubt.

"Thank you so much for letting us look at your map. No doubt we will see you again at the miners village," one of them said as they waved us off.

"I somehow doubt it," Steve whispered under his breath. "What's the odds that we see them on the way back?"

"Don't," I laughed. "They might make it, you never know".

"Trust me, we'll pass them on the way back, or they will call it quits and turn back before then. Besides which you gave them duff directions. Their path and ours are the same until we reach the village. You have just sent them off on a path below us that is not really a path."

Oh no. What had I done! These ladies were wearing nice shoe wear, and I had sent them off on a path that may disappear on them at any stage, resulting in them scrabbling up the bank. With this in mind, I was hoping that they would just turn back so as to save my blushes.

The walk to the miner's village was deceptively long but it did give us a terrific view across the lake area. The scenery changed very subtly from green trees and shimmering water, to white stone and brickwork. Initially there was no indication that there was any type of building or village, but as we turned a right hand bend, the area opened up in front of us. The white walls and cliffs seemed to open up, rising majestically from the basin. At the foot of the cliffs were a handful of what appeared to be derelict and very ruined buildings. They were very small, and from a distance looked nothing more than shaped dark coloured rocks against the backdrop of white. By now I was starting to wilt under the sun, and the distance we had walked was starting to catch up on me. Whilst Steve walked a few more yards towards the remains of the village, I perched on a rock and had a long drink of the by now warm water. A chocolate fix was also needed, and being gracious offered Steve half of my valued Star Bar. Even though he hates nuts, he accepted it, leaving me with a forlorn two mouthfuls. Forget giving someone your last rolo; a true test of love is if you are willing to share your last Star Bar.

The walk back seemed a little easier, maybe because we had refuelled along with the fact it was slightly downhill. We were both delighted to come across the three American ladies again. They were still on the lower pseudo path, and had progressed no more than half the distance. At this rate they would take them 9 hours to cover their planned route. I couldn't really bring myself to face them so scuttled off whilst Steve took a photograph of them. Amazingly they still seemed to be arguing. Just goes to show that talking and walking don't always go hand in hand.

The final resting point was the café in the car park to the east of the large lake. Although I had travelled to Ireland with good intentions about eating healthily, taking regular exercise etc, that had already gone out of the window with the cooked breakfasts and Star Bars. Might as well carry on in the same vein really. Therefore a burger and chips were cheerfully scoffed before we headed back along the Green Walk towards the visitor's centre. The contrast on the return journey was very apparent. During the two hours or so we had been inside the national park area, the car park had filled up and the area was teeming with tourists of all different nationalities.

We found ourselves behind what appeared to be a school of Latin/American students, of an unknown nationality. All the girls were in one group, giggling away and no doubt discussing what most 15 year old girls do when they get together in a gaggle. The lads were in another separate group, doing their best to distance themselves from the girls. Evidence of how girl power has taken over many parts of the world now. These poor lads looked totally intimidated and were hoping that they could put enough distance between them and the girls so that they could relax and talk about the things 15 year old boys talk about: football, Manchester United, football and..... more football.

Overall the day had been very enjoyable. We had an occasion to test out our waterproofs when the rain decided to pay a brief visit, and had seen some amazing scenery. Although the area was not on anywhere near the same scale as the park at Algonquin in Canada, we could have easily spent another day taking part in other walks which had been indicated to us through the map. The visitor's centre was well equipped with exhibits, and I was rather glad that we had been on the walks before seeing the exhibits. It made them come alive for us, and we had a reference point with which to place them. However, one thing had become apparent. As we looked around the exhibits of animals and such like a realisation set in. We had not seen any birds, animals or flowers anywhere on the trails. Trees were aplenty, as were other forms of green foliage. It was now, as we looked back at the day's events we realised that although we had heard the odd bird, we had not seen any living creature. (The students didn't count).

All that was ahead of us now was a long drive south, with Cork being our next stopping point. Once again we had underestimated the distances involved, because we were not due to hit Cork until the next day.

Hot tips:

1. Make sure that you have plenty of batteries for your camera. I had dead ones, resulting in about three photographs only. The scenery is spectacular, and you will kick yourself if you have to rely on postcards purchased from the visitors centre.

2. Take waterproofs, even if the sun is blazing down at the start of the journey. Ireland is not called the Emerald Isle for nothing. It will rain – guaranteed

3. Also take insect repellent. They will also be lying in wait for you at some of the more humid spots.

4. Take food and water with you. There is only one café in the park itself, which could mean a long wait before you have the chance to re-fuel.

## Chapter 4 – Cork

Our initial plan had been to hole up for the night in Cork, so that we could head into town nice and early. However, the distances involved were vast, and we found ourselves in Waterford for the rush hour traffic. I have never understood why vehicles travelling at a snail's pace is called rush hour traffic, but there you go. We were well and truly caught up in it, with the main godsend being the GPS mapping system. I knew we had to cross the river at some point, which helped us no end. With only two bridges to choose from there was no room for error – not if we wanted to avoid crawling round yet again, adding near to an hour to our journey. The town was huge, and resembled something like the centre of Liverpool.

We had decided on having 6.00pm as our cut off point. This meant that we would try and find a B & B no matter where we were at this time. However, it was later than this when we pulled into Dunvargan, about half an hour to the east of Cork.

Finding a B & B proved to be stress free, due to the amount that were available to choose from. The host was very polite and friendly, albeit they didn't quite have the twinkle Rita had back at Wicklow. I really did have a soft spot for her, and had only been half joking about putting her B & B on castors and taking it around with us. However, we were given a lot of useful information, the most important one being where to eat in the town.

The town map had been somewhat confusing so custody had been granted to Steve who seemed to be able to follow it okay. The rain had now decided to set in, and the town appeared to be fairly deserted. It was still quite early, so the local hostelries were still in the process of getting ready for the nights events. Passing one pub door, I was caught by the poster stuck in full view.

"Feck em all!" was the proud heading, followed by a photograph of the drunken priest from the Father Ted series.

"VOTE FATHER JACK" was the finishing touch. A simple but yet effective poster, which could only bring a smile to your face. It made me silently wonder what the Conservatives or Labour advertisers could do to attract more attention to their campaigns. Somehow, whatever was used as a slogan, it would be hard pushed to have the same impact as this one. Having said that, they could certainly learn something from it. This slogan had summed up in three words the gist of the matter. No need to drone on with double negatives, and words of five syllables. Compare to our politicians who will happily used 500 words where 5 will do, and will end up confusing us totally as to what the issue really is. Most of us have at some stage echoed the sentiments with a "Feck em all" of our own. Mr. Blair, take note.

By 8.00pm we were both ready to eat for England and eventually decided on the restaurant that had been recommended by the B & B owner. The inside was incredibly tiny, but the illusion of vastness had been created by the clever use of a large mirror on the far wall. Therefore the image was that of a restaurant twice the actual size. Within a few minutes we were shown a table, just before the place was invaded by all the locals. We had narrowly avoided not just a lengthy wait, but of actually being turned away.

I was a little concerned at the fact that there appeared to be only two waitresses responsible for taking orders, seating customers and bringing the food. They would have to work at lightning speed in order to keep up. This was compounded by the fact that our particular waitress, lovely lass, had a streaming head cold. Without making it obvious, I turned my head away from her whenever she was leaning over us. The last thing I wanted was to have a cold for the last week of the holiday. I am a right miserable cow if I get a cold, mainly due to the frustration it brings of not being able to sleep, and of having a sore nose. The cold itself is not the issue – it is the fact I feel like a bear with a sore head if I get less than 7 hours kip each night.

The food was out of this world, and arrived in very good time considering the amount of staff that appeared to be on duty. Following my intent to eat healthily, I had a pint, pizza and chips.

It wasn't long before we were chatting away with the couple sitting next to us.

"So where are you guys from?"

I am always greeted with this as an opening question, and quite often don't know what to say. To someone from Europe it is sufficient to say that we live 2 hours north of London. However, the Irish will have a better knowledge of our geography, and that answer would appear as too vague. I had nothing to hide, and it was nice to be able to really talk with someone from this area.

"South Lincolnshire, in the Midlands."

"Oh right. So you here on holiday then?"

"Yeah. We are looking to tour the coast before heading to Banbridge for a wedding."

As soon as I had said this I wondered if I had said something I shouldn't have done. We were in Eire, and were indicating that we had ties with the North. How was this going to go down? It turned out that my fears were groundless. There is a great deal more tolerance and acceptance now, and everyone we subsequently spoke to in Ireland had absolutely no issue with the fact we were more tied with Northern Ireland.

"Aye, we are from up that way too, and are on holiday. So where are you heading tomorrow then?"

The discussion then turned to our intentions for Cork.

"Aye, but you don't want to leave it to do the Blarney stone during the day now. Get there early or do it late at night."

"So it gets crowded then?"

The husband took over the main mantle at this point and went into great detail of the waiting time. It made the queues at some of the rides at Alton Towers sound totally insignificant in comparison. Apparently it is not uncommon for the voice to shout down from the top that there is a two-hour wait to get to where they are! Two hours wait just to have the chance of nearly breaking your back whilst you kiss a piece of rock that has been kissed thousands of times by others. I was already mentally starting to re-plan the day, quite willing to totally bypass Blarney if we were running short of time. I knew Steve had no intention of putting his lips to something that had other's drool on it, so was more than prepared to give it a miss. Somehow I knew deep down I would not be gifted with anything through kissing it anyway.

The conversation then turned to house prices. When I had been in Ireland a few years earlier, prices were fairly reasonable. I had in fact even attempted to buy a house in Banbridge, which at the time was on the market for £36,000.

Oh how things have changed in a few short years. Ireland had now attracted visitors and had shown it had a lot to offer by way of settlement. We had already seen a house with a price ticket of seven figures in Wicklow.

"They are all too expensive here. If you want to find a nice house, plenty of land to go with it, you have to go to County Claire."

"And why are they so cheap there then?" I asked.

"People are moving out of Dublin and are selling up, making huge profits. They then buy in Claire and commute each day. It takes them around 2 and half hours to get to work, but they see it as being worth it."

Interesting. I was weighing up the pros and cons of this, and was already deciding that I would not enjoy what could turn out to be a 13-hour day for most of the week. The house would have to be pretty spectacular to make that worthwhile. However, this had been too attractive for a lot of Irish to resist.

In all we chatted for around 20 minutes with the couple, who were delightful company. Their advice and friendliness had really enhanced the night for us. What really topped it though was their description of visit they had recently made to a pub. They had wanted to savour a typical Irish pub, with typical Irish music by way of entertainment. No doubt a glass of Guinness would form part of the experience. They were advised to visit one particular pub (I forget where it was), where they would not only get a room for the night, but there was guaranteed original Irish entertainment. Either the Irish have a strange idea of what is classed as 'original' or they were conned. Either way, they saw the funny side of it. The entertainment was in the form of a vertically challenged guy who had been booked as an Elvis impersonator. Apparently he was awful. To top it all, he had even put his wig on back to front. In addition to totally crucifying some classic hits, he then went on to do impressions of Roy Orbison. No doubt he wanted to get his money's worth out of the wig. They must have been gutted at the time though. Instead of humming along to the sounds of Danny Boy or Wild Rover, they were greeted with a Stars In Your Eyes reject singing about hound dogs whilst trying to adjust his wig. I had to wonder what the American visitors and tourists would have made of it. Their basis of what is typically Irish up until then would have been based on Sean Connery's performance in the film 'Untouchables'. Talk about bursting their bubble.

Following a sound night's sleep we woke fresh and alert, and looking forward to our day in Cork. The town centre was hailed as being worthy of a visit in both books I had read, so that was to be our first port of call. The map I had purchased a few years previously, actually had a large-scale street map of Cork, which made finding a car park a whole lot easier. Even though we had set off quite early, one or two of the car parks were already full, so we had to park on the outskirts of the city, with a few minutes walk to the actual town centre. Having read about the town, I was expecting something akin to Cambridge or Nottingham. In that respect it was a little disappointing. The town itself is quite small, and we had covered most of it in the space of an hour or so. Nor had there been any shops that could have been classed as individual or unique. In fairness we didn't cover every nook and cranny, so there may have been hidden streets that did offer that surprise. Suffice to say, the main town area was a little disappointing. We had chanced upon an outdoor shop that gave Steve the chance to try on a few rucksacks in anticipation for our winter holiday. The woman, although very friendly and amenable, was a little over zealous and the term 'hard selling' didn't adequately cover her approach. She was so keen for Steve to try on every single rucksack in the shop, on more than one occasion he was close to wearing two at a time. By the time we left, he was totally shattered and was sweating for England. I had been firm from the outset, indicating I already had mine lined up for purchase back in England. There had been one that had caught his eye, but he wanted to read up about it, and see what the reviews said before actually taking the plunge so to speak. The saleswoman would have been gutted though. She had thrown everything at us in that half an hour, and had sold just a poncho and rucksack bag at a cost of about 10 euros. I had shown willing by trying a couple on, just to make her feel better, but had absolutely no intention of buying one.

True to form, I was the only one to actually buy anything. By chance we came across a type of 'New Age' shop selling a variety of gemstones and crystals, along with tarot cards, candles and other paraphernalia. I am a sucker for the tarot and oracle cards, even though I have at least 10 sets at home. However, a new set had been released by one of my favourite authors, which immediately elevated it to my 'must have' list. Taking into account the exchange rate, they were horrendously expensive, but Steve was still happy to treat me to them. The shop also offered a variety of workshops, but these seemed to knock spots off the ones offered back in England. Most of them offer classes in meditation and such like, whereas this one took things to a different level by offering tuition in fire walking. Excellent! I would have been up for that but wasn't sure Steve would want to give it a try. He would no doubt not see the point in spending 90 Euros, just for the pleasure of having 2nd degree burns on the soles of his feet.

Having covered the town in record time, we had to decide what to do next. The options were either Cork City Gaol or the Blarney castle.

As we were already in Cork we decided on the gaol, which according to the map was approximately 10 minutes from the town centre, that being walking time. The car was left in the car park, as we set off across the river, leaving the shops and crowds behind. The air was still, and the heat was gradually increasing.

Once over the river, the road became steep, with quite a climb ahead of us. Not a problem though – we had already been walking for 5 minutes so the gaol should just be around the next corner.

I showed the map to Steve so that we could get our bearings, and have an idea of where on the road we should be looking.

"See that Church there on the left? The gaol is virtually dead opposite."

"Easy enough," was the reply and off we trotted. Once again, both guidebooks had mentioned the gaol, and my cousin's wife-to-be had also recommended it to us. It was highlighted as being one of Cork's main attractions, which was good enough for us.

Ten minutes later we were still climbing, and were getting more than a little breathless. We had slowed considerably as the sun gradually upped the tempo.

"Give me that map again hun," he asked after we had come to a joint decision that the building on our left may not be the church indicated.

"Well, we are here where we should be, so the gaol should be here too."

"So where's the sign for it then?" I asked.

"Not here that's for sure."

We continued our walk, getting more and more concerned at the fact we may have either missed the gaol, been on the wrong road all along, or it had been moved. The thought that it may even be closed once we did find it, did not bear thinking about.

I was becoming more and more frustrated, and was prepared to just turn round and give up. Just at that moment, we came across a guy working from his open garage.

"Excuse me, but we are looking for the city gaol. Can you tell us where to find it please?"

"Oh aye, you just carry on up this road. When you get to the pub you turn right. It's up the hill from there, and you can't miss it."

Reassuring, but the mention of yet another hill was a little concerning. My thighs were already protesting at the unexpected exercise they had been put through getting this far. A mental note was also made to cut back on the Irish breakfasts. The less weight I needed to lug around the better.

Another five minutes went by, with no sign of the pub or gaol. By now Steve was also getting a little ratty. Eventually he stopped and just looked at me.

"What do you want to do?"

"How do you mean? I wasn't sure I totally understood what he was getting at.

"We could go back or carry on. Your call."

"Carry on. I am not coming this far and not seeing the damn place. If it's closed we break in. Anyway, let's stop and ask at this butcher's."

The butcher's shop had offered the only sign of life we had seen since asking the guy at the garage. The town had been left well and truly behind us.

Once again we were told to turn right at the pub.

Once again the map was consulted. By not it was obvious that it had not been drawn to plan. If it had have been, we would have been in a different county by now. Within a few minutes we saw the pub. At long bloody last! If we had any sense we would have dived in and had a swift pint to replenish the fluids we had lost through sweat and tears. However, we gamefully ploughed on, taking in the second, steeper hill leading to the gaol. And there it stood, in all its glory. Before going in, we both knocked back most of our water we had been carrying. I know for a fact mine didn't even touch the sides as it made its way down my throat. This was followed by a Star Bar. Finally I was ready to see the sights of Cork City Gaol.

Surprisingly the gaol housed two attractions within the walls. In addition to the gaol, there was a radio museum. The second surprise was the fact Steve didn't want to see it. For an electronics engineer, who designs radios for a living I was somewhat surprised by this, but didn't pressure him.

I was here for the gaol only anyway, so was happy to go along with his choice of tour. The prison was surprisingly modern, having been built in 1824 by Sir Thomas Deane. The shape of the prison resembled the capital letter of 'H' (now used by the infamous Maize prison system), and resembled a castle more than a prison. The initial thought had been to build the prison elsewhere, which turned out to be a natural flood plain. Once this had been highlighted, the other extreme had been implemented, thus the fact it was on a hill. If this prison had flooded, believe me most of Ireland would have flooded. It was so high up, I'm surprised my nose hadn't bled on the walk to it.

The man giving out the headphones, and taking payment was an Englishman. It then struck me that we had been in Ireland for three days, and this was the first English person we had come across. Steve showed him the map to explain the hike we had taken.

He glanced at it for a whole nanosecond and laughed, before declaring the fact the scale was wrong. Talk about stating the obvious. As he gave us the headphones a Swedish tourist asked if there was a way into the town. He was directed down the hill, (apparently a 15 minute walk if going that way) as no buses ran on a Saturday. Why the heck not!! Surely Saturday would be the busiest day for people visiting the town? It registered very quickly in my mind that we would have to repeat the journey we had just made. Instead of the thigh muscles aching, a new set would be bought into play. Steve was going to have to owe me a massage at some stage, although he would probably make the same request, once we had holed up for the night at our next stop. This part of our holiday was certainly going to be memorable, but for all the wrong reasons. Being really honest here, we had only walked for about half an hour, but it had highlighted one obvious fact: I was horrendously unfit.

The actual tour of Cork City gaol is self-guided. Each visitor is given a set of headphones, and a cassette player, with a tape included in the required language. We were directed through a doorway where we were to press 'play' on the recorder. True to form, mine didn't work. Someone had forgotten to rewind it. Steve waited patiently whilst I tried to mime to him the problem. It was either that or shout at him, but miming seemed to be more fun. He got the gist of what I was 'saying' and waited patiently whilst I corrected things. The quickest course of action would have been to have returned the tape and exchanged it for one that was ready to play. However, that didn't occur to me until after we had finished the tour. The sun and hike had truly screwed my head up, and turned my brain to mush.

Eventually we were both ready, and set our machines up to play the narration which was to escort us for the tour.

The prison had held both male and female prisoners during its time. It actually closed as a prison approximately 100 years after first opening, its final inmates being those from the Civil war.

There were details of the diets, work schedules, and timetables for the inmates. The diet was horrendous to say the least. There were different classes of prisoner that corresponded to the ages of those interred.

Here is the typical daily menu for an adult in 1856:

Breakfast -14oz of bread and a pint of milk.

Dinner - an Indian meal, 2 oz of rice and a pint of milk.

Can you imagine having that every single day of your life? It almost makes the Slim Plan diet look appealing. I love a good curry, but had serious doubts about the type of Indian meal they were provided with. Somehow I doubted if they were served with a vindaloo or korma each day. Can you imagine what the effects would have been, of having 4 people farting having eaten that amount of curry? I was surprised that no-one had been shown as dying from methane poisoning.

Things did change a little as the years went by. This is the daily menu for 1868:

Breakfast - 8oz Indian meal & ½ pint of milk.

Dinner - 14oz brown bread & pint of milk.

Supper - soft brown bread & ½ pint of milk.

Another meal had been added. With all that milk supped, I would hope their bones were as strong as they could ever be.

Prisoners in general were woken up at 5.45am with periods of work and exercise before returning to cells with lights being turned out at 8.30pm. A lay in was allowed on Sundays where they were then woken by the bell at 7.00am. The labour was intensive, with the tread wheel playing a big part throughout the years. Women were also expected to do their bit, and quite often could be found washing, cleaning and sewing in addition to having spells on the tread wheel.

As we toured the prison, it was heartbreaking to see how many children had been inside the walls. The vicious circle was there for all to see, but it appears that the powers to be were blind to this at the time. Once someone had been sent to prison they become unemployable. Thus on their return to the outside world, they would have no choice but to re-offend in order to survive. When caught, another spell inside was undertaken, before the process would start all over again. The rehabilitation of offenders obviously never entered the minds of those who were in charge of the legal system, and some of the offences were pitifully minor. Compare to the modern day system, where sometimes hardened burglars or car thieves will be given alternatives to custodial sentences. In addition, disease and illness was rife compounded by the overcrowding. The cells were small with the bedding being made up of wooden slats on the floor with either hessian or straw made bedding to offer a form of padding and support. In all, the building was an impressive example of architecture and structure. However, it was hard not to be emotionally effected by the conditions faced by the prisoners, many who had not done anything other than try to survive in a harsh world. As we toured each cell, many stories were told to us regarding some of the notable prisoners. Unfortunately we couldn't take a tape away with us, so it is not easy for me to describe any in detail, but this approach made for a very good tour indeed. Even the graffiti on the walls left by those from the Civil war conflicts made an impression.

Overall, a very moving, interesting and enlightening experience, and one I would recommend for anyone visiting Cork. It is somewhat out of the way, but well worth a visit.

The journey back into town, and to the car park was a lot quicker than the uphill journey had been. My legs wobbled a couple of times due to the steep decline of the hill, but we made it and still had half a day ahead of us.

The Blarney castle had been struck off the list, so we decided to head on to our next stop, which was to be Kilarney.

The journey didn't take long, but it gave me the chance to tune in to a local radio station. I hadn't bought any local newspapers as yet, and was keen to get a feel of what was happening in the area. Two stories caught my ear as it were. Pope John Paul was hoping to visit Ireland in the near future, with a stop being pencilled in for Armagh. This would go down in history, as I understood from the news report that no Pope had ever visited Northern Ireland before. I am guessing that this would have been unheard of for many years, and would have been a security nightmare. I just hoped for his sake, and that of the Irish people that the visit could take place sooner rather than later. His age and frailty are evident, and I doubt very much if he would be able to consider such visits for much longer. I'm not a Catholic, but I do like this man. He was quite a go-getter in his younger days, and had a wicked (oops will get struck down for that one I guess) sense of humour. If he did make it to Armagh he would be welcomed with open arms for sure.

The other story was to do with their education system.

The education minister, Noel Dempsey was looking to introduce standardised testing in the primary schools, whereby all 7 and 11 year olds would be tested. The opposition to the plans were astounding, and argued on many levels. I found the opposition to be a little too rigid in their views. If done correctly, surely the parents would appreciate knowing where their child was in relation to others in the same age group? We have had testing in England for years now, and ironically there are groups who want to see it banned. There are good arguments from both sides, and I find myself sitting on a fence where this is concerned. If I had children of my own, no doubt my views would alter accordingly. I find it ironic that Ireland is looking to implement a system that has been running here for years. Surely they are in a golden situation to learn from our mistakes? If so, their system when implemented should be knocking socks off of ours.

No doubt this would go on for a long time, but would probably be implemented no matter what opposition there was to the scheme. Feelings were running high on the matter and it would not be a decision taken lightly.

The roads themselves provided the other form of entertainment for us.

Most of the roads have large hard shoulder type areas running down each carriageway. These in effect are used as crawler lanes. Whenever we came across a slow moving vehicle, it dutifully moved over to let us pass. What a great idea! And these roads were in the majority. We could never implement this in England, as the outcry would be overwhelming. We have mass protests each time a scheme is introduced to widen a motorway by a lane. If all A roads and some B roads were to be widened in the same way, the cost involved would be astronomical, and the environmentalists would go ballistic. Quite rightly too. Again, the irony was not lost on me. Ireland has a small population, thus the roads are never that busy. The chances of being held up in a traffic jam are relatively small. Yet they have a road system that allows for free movement of traffic at all times. We are bursting at the seams, have roads that are groaning under the weight and volume of traffic trundling past each day, but can't do a thing about it. The two countries are separated by the smallest of seas, but might as well be on opposite sides of the world with their outlook and approach to logistical issues.

Having sung the virtues of their crawler lanes, I was then gob smacked by what I read on one of the road signs.

"Strictly no humping" was the bold proclamation as we sped past. Unfortunately we had no way of turning round, otherwise I would have had the camera at the ready. We had absolutely no idea what it was referring to, but I would hazard a guess it was banning the equivalent of our fly tipping. The lay by had not been particularly secluded, so there was no way it was going to relate to carnal activities. My quest for the remainder of the trip was to espy further signs of this nature, but alas this was the only one we saw for the entire trip. I had to wonder in the end if it had been to do with fly tipping after all.

We found ourselves on the outskirts of Kilarney by 4.00pm, which gave us plenty of time in which to find a B & B and to go exploring. Kilarney had been a favourite of mine on a previous visit, with the Ring of Kerry being the main attraction. Steve, having never been before was in for a real treat.

Hot tips:

1. If you plan on a shopping trip in Cork, go early so as to find adequate parking. The car parks are all marked as full by about 10.30am.

2. Obtain decent road or street maps if possible. There is a lot more to Cork than meets the eye, but it is not necessarily well heralded.

3. If you want to visit the gaol, either take the car, or be prepared for the hike up a hill. Be aware of how frequently the public transport is in use to this attraction.

## Chapter 5 – Kilarney

The B & B we opted for was once again a lovely white house, this time on two storeys but located in wonderfully spacious gardens. It was on the outskirts of Kilarney, on the road heading towards Castleisland. We would be on the ring of Kerry within minutes of leaving after breakfast, so in that respect we had chosen the ideal location. The town of Kilarney could be totally avoided. The evening was still young, and we had made good time. I did wonder if we could have fitted in the Blarney Castle after all, but that would have been pushing things. Taking into account just the Blarney stone could have added 2 hours to the day, I think we had made a wise decision. Instead, we had time to head into Castleisland and to the area where the Crag Caves were located. I had been aware of them on my previous stay in Ireland, but hadn't been able to pay them a visit. I had only ever seen one cave before, and that had been deep inside the Brecon Beacons in South Wales. They had proved to be majestic and beautiful, offering my first images of stalactites and stalagmites. If this one lived up to the same promise, the trip would be more than worth it. We arrived just after 5.00pm to be told that the tour of the caves was a guided tour of half an hour. We had to kill 20 minutes inside the gift shop, which we did, finding time for a cuppa in the process. (The owners are rather canny in this respect, as they know people will be forced to look around out of sheer boredom).

Eventually we made our way to the main door where we were met by our guide for the day. Julie was a lovely lass, and very chatty. We only had 7 in our party, and by the sounds of it, we were the only English speaking tourists on that particular tour. This was going to make things a little difficult for her, as her accent was also quite broad.

The cave hadn't been discovered until 1981, and it was a further 2 years before a Welsh diver discovered a further 1670 metres. Yet more of the cave was discovered in 1984, before the cave was opened to the public in 1989. With this in mind, I was expecting a tour of nearly a mile or so underground.

As the tour was only to last half an hour, I should have realised that this was somewhat of an unrealistic expectation. Having read up a little on the history of the caves, and their initial discovery, I could only imagine what had gone through the minds of those first divers. They must have been in total awe of the chambers and waterways, as they had named some of the areas after place names from the Lord Of The Rings books. The Hall of Gondor, Forest of Fanghorn and the White Tower do actually exist after all! I had to wonder if they would have renamed them if they had seen the films of the same books prior to discovering the wonders deep underground. My feeling is that the films were a little violent and over the top in places, whereas the books did keep a sense of the mythical. As with the caves within the Brecon Beacons, these were caused by the presence of rain and movement of water within the limestone. As this particular rock is porous, water was able to enter whereby it ran in streams or rivers whenever it found a space in which to flow. This then caused the subsequent erosion, bringing about the caves and chambers, along with the various tunnels. The stalactites grow incredibly slowly, forming as the water drips through the ceiling, taken small particles of limestone with it, which then build up. As the water drips land, further formations grow, but in an upwards direction. These stalagmites are more rounded, and eventually if left undisturbed within these consistent conditions would grow to meet the stalactite source. This is then called a pillar. How long does it take to actually grow? According to the experts, approximately 4cm every 1000 years.

Julie, our guide did an excellent job of explaining how it was all formed, so as we could all understand what she was saying. Even though she must have said the same thing hundreds of times, she still managed to sound enthusiastic about the cave, and the formations. I have to also take my hat off to the imagination of the Irish, who decided to name some of the formations. One particular area had been nicknamed the kitchen, because it was felt that some of the calcite and limestone shapes resembled items found in a kitchen. We were invited to examine the wine bottle, glasses, carrot and parsnip. No matter how long and hard I looked, the resemblance was just not there for me. This was going to take more than just a little lateral thinking, but nevertheless, they were still striking. Anything that had taken thousands of years to grow, which was still untouched or untainted by human hand had to hold a sense of wonder. Even if I couldn't see how it looked like a carrot.

There were various aspects of the cave that left me feeling thrilled and tingling. One particular area housed the most stalactites I had ever seen. Thousands of them lined the ceiling, all resembling drinking straws due to the fact they were hollow. Many had fallen due to the effects of gravity on their own weight, and these littered the area around us. Part of me wanted to pick one up and ask if I could have it as a souvenir. I would guess the answer would be no, but the urge to hold something that old and wonderful was very strong. However, my other instinct was to leave everything exactly where it was. After all, if nature intended for us to take them as souvenirs they would have fallen directly on the path area. Instead they were away from our reach, which to me spoke volumes. I would have to do what everyone else did, and appreciate them from afar. Somehow touching them would have taken away some of the magic.

At one stage, Julie asked if she could turn the lights out. She wanted us to experience what the first divers had experienced when exploring the area. For a few seconds, the whole of the cave was plunged into total darkness, the likes of which I had never experienced before. The darkness could only be described as totally black. If someone had waved their hand within an inch of my eyes, nothing would have registered. This was the only true darkness ever experienced, and it left me feeling a little disorientated, proving how much we need our eyes and ears to work in unison in order to maintain a sense of balance.

Just as we were really getting into the swing of things, the tour was deemed to be over, and we were led back up to ground level. In total we had only covered around 300 metres. This was more than a little disappointing, especially taking into account this was classed as Ireland's showcase cave. If I had driven for hours just to witness the spectacle, I would have felt very let down. As we had only been a few miles away, the disappointment was lessened, but I still felt a little cheated. Julie was very understanding and explained that the reason we couldn't see any further is because the caves are actually under privately owned land. The owners had graciously granted the public access to the parts we had seen, but the rest was still withheld from public viewing. I hope one day the owners realise that this sort of spectacular should be open to the public, as it is not every day such a natural wonder can be experienced.

Although the tour was brief, I was glad we had actually taken the time to visit. While the cave was short in distance, the actual stalactites and stalagmites were more impressive and numerous than those I saw in Wales. The fact the tour is guided also adds to the experience, and Julie had done a wonderful job in weaving a fairy story around some of the chambers and displays. Children would have been captivated, and no doubt would have seen the carrot and parsnip where I hadn't. Oh to turn the clock back and have a vivid imagination once again.

Castleisland played host to us as we stopped for the final meal of the day. Making a token gesture of eating healthily, I opted for a chicken breast in pita bread, almost convincing myself that the pounds would subsequently drop off my waist. If there was any justice in the world, my hips would also be a couple of inches narrower the following morning.

The night was still young, which gave Steve a few ideas for a photo shoot.

"Do you fancy going to Inch?" he asked.

I knew that this was a good 50 minutes away from where we were staying, and wasn't sure if we had enough sunlight left.

"We won't get there until around 8.30pm," I warned. "You might not have much time in which to get some decent photos."

"Doesn't matter. You wanted to go there, and we won't have time tomorrow."

"Okay, okay point taken. But only if you let me drive."

I expected him to protest at this thought, but he was more than up for it.

I had not dared take the control of the wheel so far, but at this time of night the roads were bound to be quiet, and it would be a good opportunity with which to get used to the car. I had offered to drive round the Ring of Kerry the following day, so that Steve could experience the beauty of the route. In fairness I had done this a few years earlier, and it was only right that he should be given the same opportunity. The driver would miss so much, as the roads could get a little narrow and scary in places.

The car was a fair sized one, and certainly bigger than any I had owned or driven of my own. However, it wasn't long before I had sussed out the controls and did well to only activate the window wipers a couple of times when indicating. The drive to Inch was interesting, bearing in mind Steve was now having to navigate. He realised how difficult it had been for me, as the GPS system told us exactly where we wanted to be, but couldn't tell us how to get there. We were relying on a mixture of the computer aided system, and well marked sign posts, which seemed to conveniently disappear just when you needed them the most. If we'd been in England we could have plotted a route in a few seconds, but there are no detailed road maps for Ireland. Apparently this is due to the fact the Irish powers-to-be wanted more than a few pennies before allowing this to happen. The end result is you could probably plot a route for Outer Mongolia, but have no chance of doing the same in Ireland. The ambient light was definitely changing around us, but on a very subtle level. Hazarding a guess, we should have around 40 minutes of playtime once we had arrived. Hopefully the changing light, and the shadows and effects created would make for some interesting photographs. Steve had a million different gadgets and settings on the camera, so this variable light really shouldn't cause a problem for it.

The coastal road opened up to reveal amazing scenery and backdrops as we neared our destination. Although the peninsula was visible from the road, there were no obvious access points. I knew from memory that Inch was a small place, and just hoped that the access road to the beach was easily visible. We would not have enough time to sail past it, and then have to find our way back.

As it turned out, the area was well signposted, and exactly 45 minutes after leaving our B & B we were in the car park. The place was virtually deserted, save for a couple of people walking along the shoreline. To our left we had what appeared to be miles of beach stretching out towards the twinkling lights of the coastline opposite on the other side of the water. To our right we had some craggy hillsides, disappearing slowly into shadows as the sun set majestically behind them. The only change was to the little café that had been there on my previous visit. It looked as though it had been razed to the ground, and a new building was sprouting up in its place. The sea was lapping so gently against the soft sand, this being too much of a pull for us. We started to walk along the edge, taking in the stillness and silence around us. This had been my favourite beach on my previous visit, and I was quickly reminding myself as to why. Steve wanted to walk a lot further than I did, so I chose to go back to fetch the car. We had seen one other car on the hard packed sand, and wanted to take part in this experience of actually driving on a beach. I have never come across any other stretch before where you are allowed to do this, and didn't want to turn down a golden opportunity. The tyre tracks in the sand showed that many cars had done this very same thing, so it must be safe, with next to no chance of being stuck in the ever moving surface. It was with some trepidation I steered onto the sand though. What gear do you use? How much acceleration can you apply without digging a ruddy great hole for yourself? By the time I had gotten comfortable with the experience, Steve was some way in the distance. The natural instinct was to floor the accelerator so that he could be caught up, but I really did not want to beach myself. I just knew the hire company would be furious if they had to call for a recovery vehicle due to my stupidity. In the end, I followed the previously laid tracks, eventually enjoying the entire experience, and growing with confidence with each turn of the wheels. The sand was packed solid, and it became very apparent that unless I did something very stupid, I would be able to make good progress, with little or no danger of mishap. Steve was in a very 'arty' mood and it wasn't long before I was posing inside the car, outside the car and on the car. Heck knows what the other visitors to the area were thinking. David Bailey Steve was not. Having said that I was hardly Kate Moss. The only pose missing was that of me looking under the bonnet, but I guess that would have been taking things too far. I was photographed looking wistfully across the water, shielding my eyes from the sun, and lounging on the open car door. Each pose led to the relevant facial expression. I now had an idea of how those photo stories are created in the national newspapers. Maybe a future career in the making... although on second thoughts no: the women invariably end up being shown in just bra and knickers at some stage of the story. It wouldn't be fair to any Sun reader to force that vision on them. (Although if they really do get a buzz out of reading those photo stories in the first place, it would show they certainly should be getting out more often). To be totally honest, with a couple of the poses I did feel a right prat, but when they were viewed later that evening, I did look rather good. It's amazing how many lumps, bumps, and crow lines can be hidden when photographed in fading light.

Having seen the fun I had driving out to meet him, Steve decided he wanted to drive back.

"Okay, but no donuts, or silly moves okay?"

"Don't know what you mean," he said as he eyed up the stretch ahead of him.

"Oh yes you do," I whined.

"You are in a hire car, it's not yours and you are going to razz it."

"No I won't don't worry. It's because it's not mine I'll be careful."

I just couldn't quite believe him. He had that twinkle in his eye and knew he would not be able to resist doing a hand brake turn.

As it turns out I was right. He aimed a little towards the water where the sand was totally smooth and threw a small swerve in.

"I knew you would," I grinned.

"Sorry, but I had to do it."

This seemed to satisfy him and we made our way back out onto the road and back to the B & B. In fairness he had behaved very well and I couldn't really scold him. My previous job had been that of a policewoman, and I have to say he behaved more maturely than most policemen behave when presented with a play ground for their cars. We don't have the winters we used to have, (yes I am showing my age again) whereby snow was guaranteed for a few weeks of the year. This was the cue for the night shift to have a little fun on their patch, assuming it was all quiet. Trust me, catching criminals was always their priority, so this only happened if the whole world was hibernating. An empty car park would be sought, thus leading the way for their own version of winter sports, mainly in the form of hand brake turns. Boys will be boys I guess. No harm was ever done, but I bet the owners were puzzled each morning as to what had caused the patterns in the snow. How no panda car was trashed doing this is beyond me, but they always seemed to get away with it. Sergeants used to turn a blind eye, because they had done exactly the same when they had been younger.

The sun eventually did set on us, and once the light faded, it didn't take long before it gave way to total darkness. We had timed our visit to perfection, with the sun's position in relation to the clouds, sky and sea creating some marvellous images. Once again I had fallen in love with this tiny place called Inch. And once again, it was the type of beach that is rarely visited. Never would it resemble Skegness whereby it would house hundreds of bodies per square inch. (Excuse the pun there). This was destined to remain pure and unspoiled. In that respect, I felt guilty that I had taken a car across the sand, but would have done the same again if given a repeat opportunity.

That night we both slept incredibly well. The tour around the Ring of Kerry was going to be a great experience, with the weather having to play it's part for us. Luckily, the sky was blue and the sun was shining when we woke. Being a Sunday, there was a fair chance that the area would be busy, but being Ireland, it wouldn't be overly busy.

Ten minutes after leaving our B & B we were on the road we wanted to be on. The Ring of Kerry is the name given to a route around the northern area of the County, affording some of the most scenic views of the whole of Ireland. Depending on which book you read, the entire circuit takes in a distance of approximately 100 miles. This can be extended if a visit is made off shore to Valencia Island. Every guidebook I have ever read has advised visitors not to consider leaving the country without first travelling the Ring of Kerry. You are deemed not to have seen true Ireland until you have taken in the sights of this quaint county on the far South Western coast. My previous visit to Ireland had been around 6 years earlier, whereby I had partaken in a Wallace Arnold coaching holiday. Now, before you start wondering, I am not that old okay? At the time I was in my early 30's but was living alone. There was no way I was going to lose out on a holiday of sorts, just because I was single, but by the same token I didn't want to go away anywhere, whereby the fact I was single stood out like a sore thumb. It would have been reckless to consider going abroad on my own, so my options were limited. I was going to have to stay in the UK. This was no hardship, as we have plenty to see on our own doorstep, a fact that is often overlooked. The ideal scenario would be to have someone pick me up from my bus station, take me to my destination, and then take me to all the sites I wanted to visit. No hassle. No stress. And most importantly, no driving. Wallace Arnold offered exactly that. However, it wasn't until I had booked my first holiday with them I realised that the average age of the holidaymaker was in the region of 75 years, and that the only reason there were single people on the tour was because they had in all likelihood been widowed for some time. However, this didn't faze me one bit. One or two of the old folks thought it was great that I had decided on the holiday, and I was sort of 'adopted' by at least 6 couples. Rather than tell the truth that I was a policewoman, I vaguely referred to the fact I did typing for a living. Sort of a half lie, as I did type all my own reports. I just could not bear the thought of them telling me about their experiences with crime, or family members who had been in the police 30 years earlier. Trust me, you will be amazed at how many people have relatives/friends/neighbours/dogs in the police service. I was on holiday, and wanted to totally forget about work for the entire week. My age must have been a little confusing though. One or two wondered if I was still at college or lived with my parents. Another couple even asked if I could drive a car yet. Oh bless their cotton wee socks. I did put them right a few times, but most still assumed I had just left school. If only that could be bottled and sold. I am pushing 40 now, and can still look a lot younger, but back then I looked positively youthful. Amazing what a marriage split can do for your confidence, once you've decided to get out of a damaging or bad situation. The trip had been fun, and I had to take my hat off at the way the old folks really went for it. My favourite part of the trip, and the bit that had provided the best memory had been the trip to Inch. A rainbow had arched its way across the sands and it was then I regretted not having a decent camera with me. Funnily enough the Ring of Kerry had been a little hazy, mainly because we had stopped at so many places they seemed to blur into one. However, one overriding memory had been the visit to Bog Village. I had absolutely no idea where it had been but it had been fascinating. The village was small and manmade, having been built as a tourist attraction to show how the peat farmers and other trades people had lived in the 1700's. The smell of the peat had been unforgettable, and I had more than a slight pang of envy for all the locals who could curl up around a fire in the middle of winter, with the aroma of the peat sending them into a blissful sleep. Our coal fires are cosy, but there is something indescribable about the peat. Maybe there is a feeling of romance and nostalgia when you realise it has been cut from nearby fields where it has been growing quietly and slowly for thousands of years. I was astounded to learn that the peat is left by the roadside for approximately 6 weeks before being collected by the purchaser. In that time it has started to dry out and would be useable. Six weeks!! You can't leave a shopping trolley by the road in England for six minutes before some git has taken the wheels. (And then sold them back to Tesco's no doubt which explains why the wheels on the trolleys you use when shopping never ever all want to go in the same direction, at the same time). If a fuel source had been left by the roadside where I live, it would have had even the most law-abiding citizen eyeing it up each day. I dread to think how much would be left after six hours let six weeks.

I had tried to describe the village to Steve, but had made a complete hash of it. The only way he was going to have half a chance of understanding my enthusiasm was to witness the set up for himself. With this in mind we set off on adventure, ready to spend the next 6 hours or so soaking up the sights along the way. Our first attempt at finding a picturesque lake was nothing short of disaster. It was highlighted on the road map so must have been a fair size. However, the roads leading to the shoreline were next to non-existent. This was so damn frustrating. We knew it was to our left and was probably only a few hundred metres away hidden from view. No matter which road we took, we could not find it. Eventually I threw my teddy in the corner and drove on towards Denbeigh where we paused in order to get our bearings. This was Steve's first impression of Kerry, and he appeared to be less than impressed. Luckily the best was yet to come. In total we had driven no more than around 20 miles and already my stress levels were rising. This was aggravated by the fact the Bog Village was supposed to be in this immediate area. The road map had hinted at this, but there was absolutely no mention of it on the roadside tourist information board. The town of Denbeigh is tiny, and there was no way they would have just forgotten to mention it. Last time I had visited, it had been teeming with tourists, to the extent the car park had been big enough to take coaches. Something was not quite right, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I knew we hadn't passed it on the way in, as I had been doing no more than 40 mph the whole way. All I could do was carry on through to the other side of Denbeigh and hope that we came across it somewhere ahead of us. I was starting to wonder though if the whole set up had just been done away with. None of the tourist guides had made as much as a passing reference to it. If that was the case I was going to feel very cheated indeed. It was only when I was writing this book that I did a few searches on the Internet. There were loads of references to the place, which in fact is in Denbeigh. Where though? I racked my brain to see if it had been sticking out like a sore thumb, but for the life of me I can't remember passing anything that resembled a set of cottages with peat piled up outside. If the computer hadn't have been so heavy, and belonged to me instead of Steve I would have kicked the thing out of frustration. I was even thinking of calling the tourist information centre in Denbeigh (assuming there is one) and telling them to get their act together. This place deserved a ruddy great sign, with markers a mile apart warning people where to go. You've seen the type I mean surely. They have loads of them in America, usually warning people out on the highways that they are 220 miles form a McDonalds or similar. The next sign would show that you had actually gotten nearer, and now only had another 210 miles to go before you could sink your teeth into a completely tasteless burger, but by then you would have eaten the counter out of sheer desperation for anything edible. So, Denbeigh had been visited, and then passed through. Very quickly in fact. For the life of me I'm still trying to work out why I hadn't asked for directions whilst we were walking around the village. Shy and retiring are not the terms usually applied to me, but I guess there is a karmic reason behind it all. By now we had been on the Ring of Kerry for an hour or so, and still hadn't seen any real scenery. A small beach was signposted, and come hell and high water we were going to see it. I made a few voice notes on the recorder as it really did warrant a mention. I had listed it in my top three favourite beaches, with only Inch and Rossili being above it in the league table. It was going to take something very special to knock these two off the top spot. Once again, the sand seemed to stretch for miles, with mountains and hills forming the backdrop. The water looked icy cold, not inviting as much as a big toe to test it out. The temptation to just close my eyes and lose myself in the sound of silence was very strong. Steve was unusually quiet but I wasn't sure if that was because he was bored, brassed off, or soaking up the atmosphere. The one thing I didn't do was say the name of the beach on the voice over. Instead I was to refer to the map once I was back home. I am sitting here with the said map, and guess what? It isn't shown. This day was getting worse by the minute. For anyone who wants to visit the place, (and it is worth a visit believe me) drive from Kilarney directly to Glenbeigh. Do not pass Go and do not collect £200. Less than 2 miles out you will see a brown signpost pointing to the beach down to your right. Take the turning (don't miss it because there is only one) trying to avoid all backpackers leaving the hostel with hangovers. They are pretty easy to spot, and I would guess they are going to be in the majority come a Sunday morning. The really brave ones had taken to cycling, but every bump in the road would have felt like Mount Everest to their delicate brains. The really annoying thing is the fact the beach itself is marked in yellow on my map, and it does stretch over quite a distance. So why the heck hasn't it been named? Anyway just follow these directions. Trust me you can't go wrong. I am a female who can map read and give directions. Ask Steve, he will confirm this.

Eventually we decided to continue our tour, realising we still had loads to see. As we continued along the main road, I was amazed at how often and how quickly the scenery around us was changing. One minute we were 'oohing' and 'aahing' at the green and lush mountains, only for it to change to a glistening golden bay. Two minutes later the sands would be replaced by huge craggy rocks, all a different shade of brown and beige as the sun caught the different angles of the crags. Another mile or two and the scenery would change once again, this time to be replaced by flat fields stretching away into the distance. Each turn of scenery being very different to the last, but no less beautiful. If this area had been created by the hand of God, I would guess he hadn't too sure what to go for, so decided to put a bit of everything in instead. And they say it's normally the female of the species that has a regular change of mind. This area could be likened to a patchwork quilt. Each segment offering something different and unique, dependant on the imagination of the creator.

Eventually we found ourselves on the farthest point west, with the signs becoming prevalent for Valentia Island. The literature points this out as being one of the most westerly places in Europe. If you kept going eventually you would reach Newfoundland in Canada. I really wanted to visit this area, but time was going to be against us. Although it is quite small (approximately 6 miles by 2 miles) getting across was not easy. There is one road that can be used by car, otherwise it is the case of waiting for the ferry which doesn't run that regularly. The guidebooks all recommended a visit, and there did appear to be a lot on offer:

**The Tetrapod Trackway "** Within the splash zone of the slabs of siltstone are found sets of footprints of an amphibious tetrapod, a newt-like creature which wandered across the tidal mud about 370 million years ago. Living before the era of dinosaurs it was one of the first animals to evolve from fish and develop four limbs."

Amazing eh? Even back then, you would find something had left a paw print or footprint in wet cement. This phenomenon was not just a modern day occurrence after all. At least they couldn't write inane comments along the lines of "I was 'ere 2004" which was something I suppose. That would have buggered up the theories of the Swiss geology students who discovered the footprints. On a more serious note, these footprints are deemed to be among the oldest found anywhere on earth.

**The Altazamuth Stone** "Site of the position of the Altazamuth instrument used in the determination of the longitude of Valentia in 1862. The Arc was measured by the triangulation from the spot to a point in the Ural Mountains of Russia and certain astronomical observations were made at the two ends. From such arcs as this measured both East and West and North and South, the size and figures of the earth have been determined."

Sorry, but my brain has just had a meltdown reading this. Surely it could not have just relied on a guy in Valentia and another guy in Russia pointing something towards each other? We are after all, talking about technology in 1862. This has got to be worth a more detailed read because I find the whole thing totally mind boggling. Steve did try to explain it to me, but it was akin to explaining nuclear physics to a five year old. It is one of those things that can get you wondering at all sorts of weird stuff. As an example of what can get my brain going into freefall, how did they come up with the weight of the world? At the end of the day, it is not exactly possible to just stick a set of kitchen scales underneath it, and take a reading. And yet it has been done. Once again Steve patiently explained how it was done, but by then I had lost the will to live. By the looks of it, a visit to Valentia Island could have been a serious eye opener, and educational at the same time. A shame therefore, we had run out of time.

We continued our journey, heading towards Waterville. Frustratingly there were indications that we were in the area where the peat was cut from fields, as the terrain had once again changed, this time reflecting the flat lands as we approached sea level. There was a slight hint of the aroma of the peat as it worked its way through the air vents of the car, but it was barely distinguishable. As we neared Waterville, the smell of the peat disappeared entirely, to be replaced by the salt in the air. Not only had our eyes been bombarded with many sights, our nasal senses were also coming into play.

Waterville was a surprisingly large village, but we had chosen the wrong time of day to visit. There is still a great tradition in Ireland of going to Church on a Sunday. This meant the narrow roads were crammed with cars, approximately eight for every square inch of road space. I actually found myself looking to see if can openers were on sale anywhere, because there was no way people would be able to get their cars out of the gaps they had parked. I doubt if I could have got my credit card between the bumpers of the parked vehicles, they were that close to each other. Heck knows how they had got there in the first place. There was no crane in sight to show they had been dropped into place. Rather than run the risk of bowling some old biddy over, I left the car in second gear and edged my way forward slightly faster than that of a snail. The pace of life is very slow in Ireland at the best of times, but it seems that they drop another gear on a Sunday. Nobody appeared to be in a hurry, and many conversations were taking place at the roadside or even in the road itself. And yet there was no sign of any road rage. Not one care horn was tooted. Mind you, it would have taken a brave tourist to have done that: I reckon it would have led to a mass sit in across the white line. Cows are more likely to move out of your way than a gaggle of ladies who have just been to church. I must have held my breath the whole time, and audibly let it go once we had passed the last of the stragglers. This was real evidence that the church service is just as much a social event as it is a religious event, and that passing traffic is just non-existent.

The next obstacle was to be presented almost immediately. This convinced me that cats are not the only animals with nine lives. As we rounded a particularly sharp bend we were met with the sight of sheep on the road. Again, totally oblivious to the fact ruddy great hunks of metal are going to be bearing down on them. Has the farmer never told them it is safer to walk facing the oncoming traffic? Now this is where tourists show themselves up, and we were no exception. At home the sight of a sheep or two doesn't even warrant as much as a second glance. However, taking out of that setting and put in a holiday scene, each and every one of us acts the same. Steve was immediately reaching for the camera as I looked for a suitable parking spot that would not lead to use being wiped out. Not easy when you are now on what could be considered a winding single lane mountain road. Somehow Steve managed to get a couple of shots of their backsides before I ran over his foot as I tried to pull over into the gap a little more. This tour of Kerry was not one he was going to forget in a hurry.

Catherdaniel is the most southerly point of the Ring of Kerry, and it was here we took our longest stop. By this stage, we had covered approximately half of the route, and the wait was definitely worthwhile. The area was teeming with tourists, with the car park being virtually filled with coaches and cars. There was an elderly gentleman sitting at the entrance to the car park with an array of animals running loose around him. The kitten got everyone going 'aaahhh' but I was more astounded by the rabbit and guinea pig. Neither was caged, and was able to roam freely. How they resisted the urge to leg it into the undergrowth and total freedom was beyond me. I had to take my hat off to his ingenious plan for making some money. He knew that tourists are suckers for having photographs taken with animals, and had realised his kids rabbit and guinea pig could earn him some easy money. Suffice to say, he was never short of company, which is probably why the furry ones didn't make a break for it – they never had the opportunity to do so.

The parking area was quite a height above sea level, allowing a wonderful view of the Scariff Islands in the distance. Lady Luck had smiled on us today, because the weather was as good as it could get. The sky was blue, the sea was twinkling, and I was feeling totally relaxed, in spite of the fact I was driving. Behind us was a hill which was too inviting to Steve, so I let him trundle off whilst I watched a local artist at work. He was painting the view from the hillside, deep in thought and totally oblivious of the noise and movement around him. Examples of his work were on sale, his talent and ability on show for all to see. I wanted desperately to watch him from close up, but this would have been both intrusive and rude. If I had intended to buy one of the paintings I would have willingly engaged him in conversation but as this was not going to happen I contented myself with admiring his work from afar instead.

Another guy was playing away on an accordion, with the notes of Wild Rover rolling over the car park. This was the first traditional Irish music I had heard since landing at Dublin. All of the locals looked as though they were thoroughly enjoying themselves and who could blame them. It was a glorious Sunday afternoon, with nothing present to cause stress or sadness. If I could have stopped time for a few hours, I would have done so right there and then. With Steve away for a few minutes I had time to soak in all the sights and sounds, and even meditated briefly, letting everything soak right into me on a soul and spiritual level.

Eventually I returned my gaze to the small animals at the roadside, but I began to feel a little sorry for them. There was water on hand for them, but shade was virtually non-existent. Nor could they just curl up and have a siesta. The poor lamb in particular was being passed around like a pass the parcel game, and I did start to wonder if they were actually that happy with what was going on around them. They were not being mistreated in any way, but were they really being treated with dignity? Maybe I was missing the point here, and looking too deeply at the issue but my heart was being torn in two directions. One part was looking at the welfare of the animals, the other part was taking into account the smiles on the faces of the children as they played with the kittens or stroked the rabbit.

Even now, as I am writing this mind is right back in that car park, wondering if the same entertainers and locals are there. Even if they aren't the golden sands below will be, along with the small yachts floating around the inlets. I can even picture where the artist was sitting, and the types of homemade jewellery being sold from a rickety stand. Memories like this often fade over time, so this one will be cherished for some time to come.

Steve eventually returned from his trip up the hill, and decided he was hungry. In fairness we had been on the road for some time, and a pit stop for food was well overdue. By chance we came across a little cove off of the main road. The pathway and track leading down towards the beach could have easily been missed, but when Steve gets hungry he can spot a chip from a hundred yards away. The beach was small but very clean and the water was beautifully still and calm. The full car park was an indication that we were not the only ones who had felt the hunger pangs. The experience was enhanced by the fact the sun chose that particular moment in which to make an appearance, and for the first time on the holiday we were running the risk of actually getting a little sunburnt. Steve always reverts to being a five year old when he sees the sea, and within minutes he had changed into his shorts and was wading out to sea. I did the typically English thing of just rolling my trousers up so that I could make a token gesture of going out for a paddle. The sun may have come out but the water was still incredibly cold on the surface, and was only a few degrees above being unbearable. How Steve had managed to brave this I don't know – his 'meat and two veg' must have been so far pulled up I was thinking of checking to see if they had repositioned themselves under his armpits. Even though I had only ventured out a few inches, I managed to get cramp in my calf muscles, so that put paid to that little adventure. The final leg of the journey didn't afford as much by way of picturesque views, but was interesting to drive nevertheless. The road tightened up as it became windier, and on the odd occasion I was rueing the fact we had such a large car. A few stray cyclists were still in evidence, which meant I had to try and develop the gift of second sight at each and every bend we encountered.

The whole tour had taken six hours to complete. This really took me by surprise, as we had not stopped at every place recommended, nor had we dawdled. If someone asked how long to dedicate to this particular part of Kerry, I would have to say that it would need at least six hours in which to do it justice, possibly ten hours if Valentia Island was included.

The trip through Kilarney town centre stressed Steve more than it did me. He hates being wrong or going wrong when driving. We knew we wanted to head north along the coastal road, so there was no real need to go through the actual centre of Kilarney. However, true to form, I took a wrong turning, which meant we went straight through the town. The traffic was incredibly heavy, but as it is the main tourist town in the area, this wasn't entirely surprising. The area had really grown since my last visit, with every other building being either a hotel or Bed & Breakfast establishment. In a way, I was glad that we had stayed on the outskirts where it was a little quieter and more picturesque. The town looked as though it could be very lively at night, particularly at a weekend. Eventually we found the road leading out of town, which meant Steve could relax a little. He hates being a passenger, but he had done enough driving for the week, and needed the break. However, his stress levels peaked once again when we saw the road we needed was closed. And no, there were no detour signs. The reason soon became apparent. One of the national sports in Ireland is Gaelic football, and it has a huge following. It has the same status as our soccer has, and many houses will sport flags outside showing the team they support or follow. I had caught sight of a few of the games on the television news, and couldn't make head nor tail of what was going on. Yes, I am one of those smug females who can quote the offside rule in soccer, and even the old four steps rule for goalkeepers. However, there didn't really seem to be any rules in this game, but the crowds were huge, rivalling those seen in most of the premiership games we have. Suffice to say there was a major game being held in the area, which led to roads being closed. Eventually we found one which was heading north and decided to take a chance with it. The stadium must have been nearby because on both sides of the road, a queue of cars snaked off into the distance. Both queues went on for about three miles, which meant someone had one heck of a walk before they even got to the arena. Last time I had seen traffic like this had been at Woburn Abbey when Tina Turner had concerted there. Woburn is a tiny village, totally unable to cope with the level of traffic that had descended. In desperation people had just dumped their cars at the roadside leading to the estate, banking on the fact that a traffic warden would not be able to ticket everyone. A savvy farmer had seized the opportunity to make a few quid, and had opened a field for parking, charging £5 a time. 300 cars later, he was looking forward to a very nice holiday indeed courtesy of Ms Turner. If this footie match was a weekly event, my sympathies were with the residents in the area. Any foolish enough to head out shopping were likely to find something else parked on the drive way on their return.

By now I had been driving for over six hours, but managed another 90 minutes before I had to admit defeat and hand over to Steve. In that time I had been stuck behind someone who had forgotten what their right foot was for, because most of this leg of the journey had been driven at around 40mph. The hire car had absolutely no poke to it, and there was little chance of overtaking. In fairness most of the locals do pull over to let you through, but this particular vehicle was quite obviously a foreign vehicle from Germany. The driver was not aware of the gentleman's rules, and was intent on driving like a girlie for as long as possible. The initial plan had been to stop at Limerick, but Steve was feeling incredibly refreshed having slept in the car. With this in mind we decided to push further along the coast road, with a new intention of making it as far as Donegal. Once again the road we wanted was closed, but this time there was a humungous flashing detour sign to redirect us. No little yellow board with vague black writing. This was so bright the after burn was on my eyes for ages afterwards. Each time a junction was presented, a new sign was placed reminding us where to go. This meant we were back on the main road in next to no time, with the blood pressure remaining static. Oh, I really do love the Irish. They seem to have their road systems better sorted than we do by far.

Donegal proved to be just too big a distance, so we settled for the area where the Cliffs of Moher are located. Once again, this particular area of beauty is shown as being a 'must see' in all the guidebooks, and Steve had the idea of seeing it at dusk. By now I was totally shattered, but was willing to go along with this. The chances of ever coming back to this area were remote and it was only fair that he be able to see what he wanted to see, when he wanted to see it. If they were as good as the literature had suggested, the views would be breathtaking, and the resulting photographs worth the wait.

The area around the cliffs was not that built up, and there were not that many Bed & Breakfasts in the area. Eventually a small sign showed that the cliffs were only a kilometre away. I was expecting to see them within a couple of minutes, but this one kilometre actually turned out to be nearer seven. The car park was virtually empty, and checking my watch showed why. It was now 7.00pm. There was still plenty of sunlight though, which seemed to add even more to Steve's energy level. I just wanted to collapse in a heap and sleep, but somehow managed to drag myself out of the car. He knew I was tired, and therefore quiet, and was happy to just let me be. The cliff face itself was a total revelation. Although the guidebooks had indicated that they were breathtaking, you do find yourself expecting something similar to what you can find at any coastline in the UK. However, the descriptions didn't really do these particular cliffs any justice. They were much larger than what I had expected, and even more beautiful. In all, they stretch for 8 kilometres, and on a good day visitors can catch sight of the nearby Aran Islands. Maybe I was being caught up in the atmosphere, with the sun setting over the sea etc, but they were stunning and soothing in equal measures. I was tired and crotchety, but the sights and sounds around me eroded my bad temper. The recommended path way took you higher over the cliffs but you didn't really get a good feel for how sheer they were. Warning signs advised against crossing over the safety walls but that was akin to a red rag to a bull, both to Steve and every other tourist in the area. I eventually followed and made my way to the platform of rock leading directly to the overhang. We had disobeyed every notice get this far, but the risk had been worth it. Due to the fact I was not feeling 100%, the thought of standing right at the edge and looking down didn't appear to be a good one. Normally heights don't bother me, but there was no guarantee my sense of balance was going to be as it should be. Steve, being the ever-eternal mountain goat bounded off in different directions in order to take the 'must get' photograph. I decided to just lie on my stomach and peer over the edge, knowing that I was not ever going to fall from this position. As it turned out, this had been the best cause of action to take. The movement of the sea below was incredibly hypnotic, and I felt myself swaying inside my body. The colours changed as they mingled in the breaking waves, changing from azure to emerald, with another dozen shades in between. The literature cites the cliffs as climbing 200 metres above sea level, and having seen them from close up, had no problem in believing this. Amazingly a young woman was sitting with her legs over the edge, just a few yards from me. Steve had been watching her for some time, and I was further amazed when he told me he had seen her roll and smoke a joint. Talk about taking a risk. I have never taken illicit drugs before, and nor do I want to. However, I know enough about them to realise that she was putting herself at risk. Maybe that had been part of the attraction for her, or maybe she just was so chilled out, the spliff seemed a good accompaniment to the experience. Whatever the reason, she too was caught up in her own world of dreams. I would guess that every single one of us in the area would have had different images and thoughts at that moment in time. This was one of the best places I had visited, whereby a meditation session would have been very rewarding. When you are face down on a cliff edge, looking at the rock face it is amazing what you start to think about. The crevices were filled with gulls and birds, too many types for me to even consider identifying. However, this did get me wondering about the colouring of the rock. In places it looked as though it had white streaks or layers running through it. Was this as a result of thousands of years of formation and pressure, or was it due to the fact for hundreds of years birds had been defecating in the area? (A polite word used there, in lieu of the fact younger more innocent eyes will be reading this book, but I am sure they have made a ready translation). They were so close to us, but confident in the fact that no human would ever be able to invade on their territory. I have to say I was caught up in a romantic moment, which was immediately shattered on the walk back towards the car park. There were still a few people heading out to the cliffs, including a few locals. Just as I was thinking how nice it was that the locals still felt the pull of the cliffs, a young Irishman with fire red hair passed us. As he drew level, I heard him mumbling away to his mate.

"Jeez, I don't know why people are bothering. After all it's only a bunch of fecking rocks."

What a real party pooper. If it was only a 'pile of rocks', I dread to think how he would have described something like the Grand Canyon. Yes, they are poles apart, and the scale is somewhat different, but I just had the feeling nothing was going to impress him. And as for Stonehenge, forget it. Because let's be honest here, they do resemble a bunch of rocks. I've seen them once and they did look quite tiny compared to the pictures you see in books etc. Still worth a visit though, even though you can't touch them any more. Ironically they have been there for thousands of years, but are now roped off to the general public so that we don't damage them by touching them.

Which then begged the question, of why he was actually making the effort to visit the cliffs? This was probably a good example of not appreciating what was on your own doorstep so to speak. It was apparent that some people had travelled across continents to witness this spectacle, and each one of them had been awed by the beauty and serenity. This redheaded lad was in serious need of a kick up the backside, followed by a reality check. Either way, I felt like Cinderella had at midnight. Prior this comment I had been feeling so spiritual and in tune with the elements. He had bought me crashing back down to earth with just a few negative comments. I have no idea what he did for a living, but I just hoped he was never asked be Santa Claus. In fact, taking this one stage further, I hope he never has children. They would be the only ones in the world who would be told at birth that the guy in the white beard doesn't exist, nor does the tooth fairy, so if they have any ideas of getting presence or cash every time they lose a tooth, to forget it. In fact, I'm glad we are not living in the Victorian era any more. His kids would in all likelihood be the first ones to be shoved up a chimney with a warning of "don't come back until you've cleaned every inch of it!"

Eventually we headed back to the car park. Due to the lateness of the hour the attendant had decided to call it a night, which meant we hadn't had to pay for the privilege of using the car park. A saving of 3 Euros. We now had to find somewhere to spend the night, which did concern me a little – we hadn't passed that many bed & breakfast establishments on the way to the cliffs. The nearest town was miles away, and to be honest, I did not want to be driving any longer. We headed back into the village area, approximately 2 miles from the cliffs and came across a nice looking Bed & Breakfast next to a corner type shop. Lady Luck was smiling down on us once again, because not only did she have a room for the night, we were met with tea and biscuits. A lovely end to a filled but tiring day. The shop came in handy as I stocked up on the Star Bar stash, adding a couple of bottles of wine in the process. Utilising the toothbrush glasses, these were downed in record time before I slept for England. The Cliffs of Moher could have come crashing down around me, without even causing me to turn over. The holiday so far had been all I had expected and more, but the pace was starting to catch up a little.

Hot tips:

1. Allow at least a whole day for the Ring of Kerry if you want to do it justice. If you can, take in the Island of Valentia. It will be an educational as well as cultural experience.

2. Be prepared to leave the main road and go hunting down some of the minor roads. You will be amazed at some of the hidden jewels, which are not always highlighted on the main guidebooks or maps.

3. Don't miss the Bog Village. I am still sulking even now about the fact I hadn't found it.

4. Take sun cream even if you don't think you will need it. Weather changes incredibly quickly in Ireland, and you may be caught out, particularly if you want to go swimming.

5. Take a swimsuit with you. There are opportunities for swimming in the area, and you may regret not being prepared.

6. If you visit the Cliffs of Moher, be aware that the best sights are found outside the recommended boundaries. However, this is risky so also be aware of the dangers if you do decide to go directly to the cliff edges.

7. If you have time, allow for a jaunty car ride in Kilarney National Park. We had to forgo this treat, but I have done it before on a previous visit. Not only do you get to see the national park in all its glory, but you will also have great fun listening to the banter of the drivers. Most are young lads who really do have the gift of the gab. I reckon instead of kissing the Blarney stone, they must have snogged it tongues and all.

## Chapter 6 – The Road to Donegal

The night's sleep was just the tonic we needed, and it was with a spring in our step we headed off along the coast towards Donegal, where we hoped to spend the next night. Breakfast had been a revelation, in as much it was the first time we had been offered both black and white pudding alongside the mandatory sausages, egg and tomato. I knew what was in both, and made the mistake of telling Steve. This was a sure fire way of guaranteeing he wouldn't eat either. Having tried both varieties he did have my sympathies. Both are a very acquired tasted, only rivalled by the larva bread I had tried in South Wales. This was also put up as being a highly valued local dish, but boiled seaweed just did not do it for me. Any resemblance to bread by the way was purely non-existent: it looked, smelled and tasted like nothing describable. Even the colour was no shade of green I had ever come across before. I had to secretly wonder if it had been a Welsh invention just to put one over the unsuspecting English tourists daft enough to fall for it. I had been recommended to try it with toast. However, there was nothing that could make it taste even remotely edible.

Eventually we found ourselves in the area known as the Barrens. The landscape here was very unique, but alas we didn't have enough time to stop and truly appreciate the area. We managed to catch the odd glimpse of rock formations along the hillsides, but that was the closest we would come to actually seeing anything in detail. All the guidebooks recommended the area, so in a way I was able to tick it off as a place we had visited, albeit at a speed of around 50mph. As I looked at the map, I couldn't help but look at the distance to Dublin. We were now in County Clare, and I cast my mind back to the conversation we had with the couple back in Cork area. It was from here a lot of people were choosing to commute from on a daily basis, in order to take advantage of the cheap housing. Having now become more familiar with the road system, I really had a hard job believing they could cover the distance in just two and half hours. The houses were indeed quite remote, with acres of land surrounding each dwelling. However, I wasn't sure that they were any better than the ones we had seen elsewhere. No doubt the prices in the area would also begin to creep up as demand outstripped the supply. The contrast to the hustle and bustle of Killarney was very stark. This was no doubt the place to root yourself if you wanted the ultimate experience in peace and solitude.

Taking the advice of the landlady of the Bed & Breakfast back at the Cliffs, we tried to stick to the coast road. However, this did present a problem when we were caught up in a huge traffic jam. The road had narrowed very quickly, and became very twisty as it made its way around the mountainous region. For the first in since we had arrived, we actually found ourselves sat in stationary traffic. Many people in front of us decided to get out of their vehicles to go for a wander in the hope of finding the cause. A bit risky though. It is always going to be sod's law that the minute you have walked more than 50 yards ahead, the traffic will start to move, leaving you with a sprint back to your car so that you can join the now moving traffic. Many a motorist has then had to run a gauntlet of traffic passing them in both directions, as they try to make it back without being bowled over by cars overtaking their vehicle which is in serious danger of causing yet another traffic jam. There were a few shrugs of shoulders when the wanderers returned indicating that the cause was either not obvious, or they were just totally confused by the whole issue. Every now and then the whole line would move forward a few feet before coming to another halt. This is not new to us in England, particularly for regular users of the M25, but one or two of the foreign drivers were very unsure as to what to do. As they continued to get out for the occasional look, we just sat back enjoying the music from the car radio. Eventually the cause did become apparent, and I have to say it was something that should never have been allowed to happen. The road was very narrow and very 'bendy'. The last thing that should have been on the road was a 52-seater coach. However, a foreign driver had decided to take this road, no doubt ignoring the advice of the signs in advance of this. Each bend he came across meant he had to manoeuvre the vehicle at a near impossible angle, and each time this happened all oncoming traffic had to stop to let him through. Not only did the length of his vehicle cause a problem, but the width was also an issue. There were a few camper vans ahead of us, and I could almost see the inhabitants breathing in, with the attempt of causing a vacuum and thus reducing the size of their vehicles. We witnessed at least two incidents where a stalemate was reached: the coach couldn't move forward, and neither could the camper van on our side of the road. As the coach inched its way towards us, I could see the sweat pouring off the driver. He must have realised he was somewhere he should never have been, but could do absolutely nothing about it. Ironically he was trying to wave all of us out of his way in order to let him through. A totally futile exercise on his part, because there was nowhere to actually move to. How he had not been assaulted by any of the passengers was beyond me. Most of them were trying to cower down in the seats in order to remain anonymous.

Worse, however was to follow. As he eventually inched his way past us, we saw a Garda police vehicle following him. The two police officers inside were totally relaxed and appeared to be enjoying the spectacle. Why on earth hadn't they made their way past him, and halted all traffic further back, allowing him the chance to find a decent spot in which to either pull over, or to turn around? I appreciate everyone is fairly laid back in Ireland, but that was taking things a little too far. In all we must have lost nearly an hour of time, all because of the lack of foresight by a touring coach driver.

However, some good did come from this hold up. We had time to flick through the radio stations and compare the styles. One station seemed to be dedicated to topical stories of the day. One in particular caught our ear, whereby we had to wonder at whether the Irish powers-to-be lose the plot more than is really necessary. Apparently the Garda had been asked to check people when travelling between Dublin and the UK. The checks were fairly low key, and nothing too intrusive. Although border controls are non-existent, it had been recognised that this could be abused by non Irish or British Nationals, so it had been deemed necessary to check people where necessary to ensure that illegal immigrants were not being waved through due to the relax in laws. I personally could not see a problem with this. It had been made perfectly clear as to why this was happening, and it was there to protect both countries. However, some politicians had jumped on this and had taken it as an affront to the Irish that the Garda were pandering to the UK authorities. They were accusing them of stopping Irish citizens and questioning them. No matter how much the interviewer tried to throw the light of reason on the discussion, it had no effect whatsoever. This particular politician was not going to be swayed from his viewpoint. All he could see was the fact that Irish citizens were being stopped and questioned, and unfairly so. Would you believe it, he even objected to them being 'looked at'. This discussion went on for some time, and the longer it went on, the more he made himself look stupid. However it did show one thing. Although the Irish people in the main are wonderfully tolerant, there is still some animosity in the world of politics between Ireland and the UK. It was obvious that the request for the checks had been made initially in the UK, and this was the crux of the matter. I had to take my hat off to the interviewer. He had realised that the politician was getting his knickers twisted unnecessarily, and had tried to turn the conversation around, but unfortunately, the said politician had no intention of getting off his soap box. The other radio station we tuned in to became our favourite, and was a total contrast in style, humour and content. Today FM provided many highlights from this point onwards, and I found myself mentally kicking my own backside for not having discovered it a lot sooner.

The very first thing we heard was a sort of phone in, whereby listeners could call in with any old drivel or comment.

One tourist had called in to say that they had been in Ireland since the 5th of June, and that it had rained every day. The response to this was just peachy.

"Of course it's raining. You're in Ireland. If it ain't raining, it's good weather so fecking stop complaining."

We both howled at this and realised this may be a station worth listening in to. I just hoped they had an Agony Aunt type section each day. If the advice were this blunt, it would be worth moving to Ireland for. Political correctness had obviously not made its way across the Irish Sea yet, thank goodness. A politically correct Irishman would feel as though his tongue had been pulled out. Bless them but they were probably still coming to terms with the fact that they couldn't smoke in public any more. Curbing their humour would have been a very cruel thing to do indeed, somewhere up there with badger baiting or fox hunting.

Once again the day passed all too quickly, whereby we were forced to stop for a long break in order to refuel ourselves. Sligo looked as though it was a town with plenty to offer, not the least being an easy to find car park near to the town centre. The traffic leading into the town had been virtually solid, and I had to pinch myself in order to come out of the feeling that we were back home in England on a typical Friday afternoon. The Abbey looked to be a wonderful place to visit, with a lot of history to call on. However, it didn't seem to have the luck that escorted most of the Irish, having been a victim of a few disasters. It had been founded in 1253, and had subsequently been damaged by fire, (1414) gutted during a war (1595) and attacked (1641). Suffice to say there was still a fair bit of the structure remaining, but even though the walls were incredibly thick, it had taken more than its fair share of knocks over the years. Apparently a candle that had been left burning unattended had caused the fire. I bet that monk had been struck off everyone's Christmas card list after that particular gaffe. I wasn't too put off though by the fact that there were massive gaps within the building. This meant I had to use my imagination to picture how the monks would have lived over the centuries. Being rather fertile in that department, I visualised all sorts, but nothing that could have been described as being vaguely accurate. The Americans would have taken this a little further if this had been an attraction back in the States. In addition to the usual merchandise, (which in this case may have been a little more than tacky) they would have had a movie show indicating how it was believed to have looked before a rogue candle caused havoc. This would have been advantageous, as not everyone would be able to read the literature, which although detailed was a little heavy going. The remaining shell gave a rough idea of where all the rooms had been situated, along with the thickness of the stonework. However, stonemasons had everyone's admiration when you took into account how the walls were actually built. This was a 3D jigsaw on a massive scale, and would have taken years to complete. We take for granted the use of scaffolding, but this would have been non-existent in the 1200's. Instead, small gaps were left in the walls at regular intervals, leaving space for wooden supports to be included. These were used as scaffolding, and allowed the builders to reach amazing heights. Steve had tried his best to describe all of this to me at the time, but it went totally over my head. There was more chance of him juggling with soot than there was of making me understand the logistics of 11th Century construction. In addition, they would not have had access to our fired bricks. Instead, they had to make do with quarried stone of various shapes and sizes, making this 3D jigsaw even more difficult.

There were many gravestones dotted around the site, dating back centuries. One in particular had caught our eye, and had been mentioned on the tourist information leaflet. The only recognisable feature was the name of James. Every other mark had been etched over, thus removing any fact or figure that could have perhaps identified him, including the details of his mother. To be honest nobody really knows why this was done, but a few theories were voiced. One thought was the fact he may have been exhumed and reburied elsewhere. Another view was the fact that he and his mother may have somehow bought shame on the family, with him possibly being born out of wedlock. Either way, there had been the requirement to totally obliterate any reference to him, thus making any identification impossible. Another quirk of this particular headstone was the fact the word body had been misspelt. Apparently the stonemasons of the day were not that literate, so misspellings were fairly common. What a bummer. Can you imagine spending hours and days labouring over a headstone, only for someone to say 'you spelled that wrong' when you present your final piece of work. You would be virtually suicidal. The only saving grace would be the fact that not many people would have been able to read what you had engraved in the first place. We have all heard of tattooists who have been a little dyslexic, but this was up there to match that. Both have a certain element of permanency about them. I have to wonder if that has accounted for some of the Olde English texts. Have the experts made a mistake here in assuming it was how we used to write? Or was it the fact someone had made a wee mistake there, with it being immortalised forever?

We spent quite a while at the Abbey, as the whole experience was really making a mark on Steve. He not only looked at it all through the eyes of a tourist, but also as an engineer. Suffice to say he was more than impressed. I preferred the quirky aspects, such as James' headstone.

The visitors' book was the next thing to catch our eye. As usual, you are invited to sign the book and leave a suitable and sensible comment. I'm sure most of us want to be a little devilish and leave some childish comment, but common sense usually kicks in at the last minute. As I searched for the next blank space a couple popped into my head before I had time to push them away.

"Could do with a visit by Linda Barker" was the first.

"A bit breezy in the vestibules" closely followed.

I always read through the visitors' book in the vain hope of finding someone who has actually had a sense of humour at this point, but usually end up losing the will to live by the time I have read through the first page. Once someone has started with a simple and sensible comment, we all act like sheep and follow on accordingly.

I therefore followed suit and left something more appropriate.

"Very nice, and worth a visit."

How boring can you get?

However, it was apparent that this corner of the world had not been visited by many English people. The book indicated that there had been tourists from all parts of the world including Spain, America, Italy, Canada, New Zealand, Holland and France. I had to turn back a few pages before I actually came across another signature from a fellow Englishman. Why was this? What had attracted visitors from thousands of miles away, but had not done the same for people living a few hundred miles away? It also hit home the fact that in all the time we had been in Ireland (5 days) we had only heard one other English accent, and that particular one had belonged to the guy issuing the personal stereos back at Cork City Gaol. I have no idea why, but I found this totally amazing. Was it yet another example of the English not realising what sights and experiences were available, virtually on their own doorstep?

I knew there had been some valid reasons in the past for not visiting the north of Ireland, but surely this could not be the same reason given for not visiting Eire?

Eventually we had to say goodbye to Sligo, and to be honest I wasn't disappointed. The town didn't have any of the romance about it, as had Wicklow, but this had been made up for by the tour of the Abbey. A few half-hearted attempts at bunting had been made, but the main banners had been placed in reference to a local celebrity. One of the residents was actually involved in the Tour de France cycle race, and the whole town was intent on celebrating his achievements. Naturally this caught my interest, to the extent whenever the sports headlines were broadcast on the radio, I found myself listening avidly to find out how Mark Scanlon was doing. I'm not sure where he finished, but he was doing well and was hovering around 90th position, at some stage during the race. He had every right to be proud of himself, being only the eighth Irish rider to take part in this event. I had no idea who he was, or what he looked like, but found myself cheering him on nevertheless. If you ever read this Mark, I was rooting for you mate.

Heading north to Donegal, we drove through a town called Drumcliff that had been marked on the maps due to presence of a highly visible tower and cross. Unfortunately there had been no other mention of the tower, or mention of its significance. It is only subsequent research that has shown that it is very, very old, possibly dating from 900AD. This really did sum up Ireland. Every now and then, something would come out and surprise you, but leave you wanting to know more. Naturally we didn't have constant access to the internet, and had to contend ourselves with fleeting glimpses as we drove past, with more and more mental notes being made to find out more in due course. The whole country is one large gem, with other smaller facets being found where ever you go. I was fast falling in love with the place, and was ruing the fact we had only arranged to be there for 12 days. Already we had missed out on various places of interest due to the fact we were having to stick rigidly to a tight schedule. This is not how the Irish live, and I felt like an alien species in that respect. We were having to hurry around the coastline at breakneck speed, whilst the locals were operating at half the pace. This must have been the nearest thing I have experienced to being in a type of time warp.

However, as we sped towards our next overnight stop off, there was one small thing that made a huge impact on both of us. The speed camera. As we neared Donegal, we came across our first roadside speed camera. A quick glance at the odometer showed this was the first one we had seen in 800 miles since leaving Dublin. 800 miles! How cool is that! You can't go 800 yards in England without seeing at least one of the damn things. Surely this puts paid to the argument that they are there for community safety. The drivers in Ireland are somewhat mad at times, and their antics do leave a lot to be desired. The main past times whilst driving include, talking to yourself, talking on a mobile, talking to the animal in the back seat, or generally talking through hand gestures. All of these had been witnessed, and yet the drivers had skilfully remained in control at all times. Well, most of the time anyway. Notice the common denominator of talking. Real proof that the Irish are very amenable indeed, and will happily hold conversations with themselves in the absence of a companion. They obviously don't feel the need to hurtle around at any great speed, so there wasn't any real need for speed cameras. Which begged the question why they had put one on this particular road. Once again, I was never to know the answer, but it got me wondering for ages. The warning boards at the roadside also suggested that speeding penalties hadn't been around that long either. Every time I think about this, I am totally bemused by the fact that there does not seem to be the same issue of speeding in Ireland as there is in the UK. Ironically the roads are less busy, which really lends itself to the fact you can put your foot down more often. A different way of life, and different pace of life really does tell in many ways. The Irish are totally unhurried in everything they do. I would love to compare the average blood pressures to see how they rate against ours. I just picture a type A Irishman. Surely they just don't exist? Ironically although the signs warned of the presence of speed cameras, we didn't see any. There are more than a few signs warning that you are driving along an accident black spot area, but the authorities are either not attributing these to speeding drivers, or they are not being particularly proactive. As a guess, I would put a few down to the fact that there would be foreign drivers on the road, who may occasionally forget that we drive on the left hand side. Heck, we've done it once or twice in America, even though we had been there for a few days by the time we had our first near miss. The worst time had been when we turned left into the oncoming traffic leaving the interstate. I was so scared, my voice froze when I tried to scream. Weird feeling for sure. Not to be recommended either. Although the throat muscles had chosen to contract, another second or two would have led to another body muscle relaxing instead, leading to a very unpleasant accident of a different kind.

The trip to Donegal was once again made pleasant for us, as we tuned in to Today FM. As our mood was lightened by the banter on the radio station, I could not help but fall in love with Donegal. This county is the furthest one north in Eire, and borders the west side of Northern Ireland. The two guidebooks I had purchased just did not do this area any justice. The scenery was breathtaking, and I have to say I think it rivalled that of Kerry. And yet it was giving just a passing mention in the guidebooks.

Whereas the pace of life had seemed quite slow elsewhere, it had almost come to a complete stop in Donegal. The sands of time seemed to slip by very slowly, and whereas I had been very relaxed up until this point, I felt myself almost falling into a stupor. The literature given to us at the tourist information centre had indicated that this area of coastline boasted some amazing beaches, again to rival those we had seen in the Kerry and Dingle area. Yet again, there was a castle open to the public, and we made a mental note to visit the following morning. I have actually forgotten to mention this very pertinent point. Ireland is crammed with castles in various states of repair or ruin. The saying of "every man's home is his castle" really did apply in historic Ireland. We had passed so many sites where castles had stood or were standing; they must have been the equivalent of our detached houses. In fact there were so many, every family must have had their own castle at one stage, whether you were gentry or a pauper. The countryside would have been littered with them at one time, and would have made for a very impressive sight indeed. The one at Donegal didn't look that big, and in fairness there wasn't much left of it. However, we had only visited Sligo Abbey up until this point, and it would be a shame to leave Ireland having not seen any of the castles.

Either way, we had every intention of visiting the National Park before heading over the boarder for our final few days of the holiday. We had started our holiday by walking some of the trails at Wicklow's National Park. A fitting finale would be to do the same in Donegal. Besides which, we had been on the road for a few days now, and I was getting a little fed up with just seeing miles and miles of road stretching ahead of us through the car windscreen. I needed to stretch my legs, and to walk off the weight I had put on courtesy of the Irish breakfasts. (Once home, tea and toast for breakfast would once again become the norm).

Once again, we found a wonderful Bed & Breakfast, overlooking the channel leading out to sea. This area was aptly titled 'Donegal Bay' and formed part of the river Eske. Anticipation and excitement levels were heightened by the fact the landlady had seen some seals playing, virtually on her doorstep. They were obviously in the bay at the time, but I'm sure you get my meaning. Apparently this was a rare sighting so we were hoping that they decided to stay for a while, ready to put in a repeat appearance. Unfortunately we couldn't access the shoreline from path running alongside the bungalows. All the landowners had private right of way, so we were directed back into town, with a recommendation that we did take in the nearby abbey ruins before walking along the opposite shoreline. I have no idea what she was thinking, but she made a point of referring to this part as being very romantic. This also perked Steve up a little, even though by now the heavens had decided to open on us. In addition to the chance of a private snog or two, he could have a go at being a cross between David Attenborough and David Bailey. Any ruins will offer some interest by way of either a wholesome history or a few quirky stories. At the very least, he would be able to get some artistic photographs. With waterproofs at the ready we headed off to walk along the shoreline. My eyes were well and truly peeled for any signs of basking seals, but alas we saw nothing that could have even remotely resembled a seal. Personally, I would have painted the bobbing buoys black, and put them far enough out to sea that you couldn't really tell what they were. With the natural gift of the gab the Irish have got, most of the tourists could have easily been fooled on that one. The pathway taking us around the other side of the lake was heavily lined with trees, which on occasions formed a wonderful canopy. I have to agree with the landlady on this one – it was fairly romantic. Unfortunately it also acted as a home to thousands of midges and other biting insects. Eventually I had to call it quits, and decided to stop at one of the picnic seats, where there was an opening leading to a wonderful view along the stretch of water as it made contact with the sea. We were now in the far north of Ireland, and I had a feeling that the winters here would be very different to those at Kerry, where the residents will always feel the benefits of the warm Gulf streams. Making the most of the midgie free zone, I closed my eyes for a few minutes and drifted off into my own world of dreams. Steve continued gamefully onwards and upwards, camera at the ready. Bless his wee cotton socks: he really was worried about leaving me on my own, but I felt as safe as I had ever done in my life. Occasionally I opened my eyes, more in the vain hope of seeing a seal or two romping away on the surface. However, 15 minutes later I was of the conclusion we had more chance of knitting with fog than seeing a marine mammal. Even the sight of a fish would have elicited screams of excitement, but even they were conspicuous by their absence.

A similar experience had been offered on our previous holiday in Gran Canaria. We were assured that the area was teeming with dolphins and whales, and we would kick ourselves from here to eternity if we didn't take one of the many boat trips on offer. The fact it was December did not deter us, although I did feel we were perhaps being a little misled. Of course all the literature showed scenes of smiling children, leaning over a boat to espy the school of dolphins diving through the bow waves. The one common theme running through all the photographs was the presence of at least three dolphins. You were drawn in to believe that they were queuing up to escort you on the trip. The boat keeper was a very chirpy Englishman (go figure that one out) who could have easily been a politician in a previous life.

"So will we see a dolphin today then?" was the common theme to every question put to him.

I have to give to him he was very good. Eye contact was maintained, with his voice remaining strong and steady throughout.

"There is a very strong chance of that today. Apparently some of the fishermen have reported seeing a school out there just two hours ago."

The fact the fishermen were probably off the coast of Bermuda at the time was conveniently ignored.

Now this was a big trip for virtually all of us, and was not exactly cheap. At the very least I expected to see a whole school including the statutory new- born swimming alongside Mum. A whale or two would be a bonus but hey, I didn't want to appear greedy here.

The trip lasted for about three hours in total. We had caught the early trip on the advice of the tour rep, so had been awake since the crack of dawn. Wrapped up like swaddled babies we braved the winds, tears streaming down or faces due to the coldness of the air.

In that three hours I saw two flying fish. Very interesting and entertaining, but dolphins they weren't. Apparently the boat guide did get excited at one stage and stopped the vessel as they pointed to a stretch of water approximately 70 yards ahead of us. Apparently a whale back had been spotted but I really had my doubts. All I could see were a few wave variations on that particular stretch of water. We waited and waited in the vain hope it would reappear (assuming it had been a whale in the first place), but nothing happened. We returned to shore feeling rather dejected and let down. There was already a queue by the quayside, ready to take the next trip. They were all asking the same question we had asked, and were met with some exciting answers by the boat owner.

"Yes, yes, it was a good trip. Apparently they saw a whale on this one!"

Suffice to say we had a few quiet words as we walked pass the queue, along the lines of "to be honest there was naff all out there."

So there you have it. If you ever go to the Gran Canaria, choose your trips carefully and don't fall for the hype about the dolphins. Get something in writing to say that you will definitely see a dolphin, then sue the ass off the tour guide if all you see is a fish. One or two experiences like this, and who knows – they may start to think about honesty being the best policy.

Getting back to Ireland, Steve eventually made his way back to where I had semi-dozed off, having run off another load of photographs of the sun setting over the waterline. We did make a brief visit to the ruins of the nearby Abbey, which had been in existence since the 1400's. The ruins were built on the bank of the river Esker, and once again there was an air of mysticism and romance about the remaining brickwork. As with the previous gravesites we had seen, this one appeared to have been in use for a very long time, with numerous family plots being in evidence.

The sun was setting and appeared to be at a perfect position for the taking of some very soulful photographs. Even though we had only been here for a few hours, I had already fallen in love with Donegal over and above any other area we had visited. It is so hard to describe, but it seemed to be in its own time and space in the universe. I would imagine that this was a very spiritual experience for many visitors and I could understand why. I made a mental note to consider forming a meditation and healing retreat in the area, should my lottery numbers ever come up. Having said that, there is more chance of seeing a swimming dolphin in Gran Canaria then there is of me ever winning the lottery. A nice dream to have though.

Eventually we returned to the Bed & Breakfast where we slept soundly, the muffled sound of the rain rocking us to sleep with its rhythmic lullaby.

The following morning greeted us, but not with the blue skies and brilliant sunshine we had expected. The rain had stayed throughout the night, and was promising to stay for some time to come.

Once again, a stark reminder as to why this wonderful country had been nicknamed the 'Emerald Isle'. We were greeted with some bad news as we made our way downstairs. The landlady who had greeted us the previous evening had been taken to hospital with high blood pressure. Bless her. We both wished her well, and hoped it hadn't been anything we had done to cause her unnecessary stress. The man of the house, who really wasn't too experienced at producing such cuisine, therefore cooked the breakfast. I can knock together a grill up for two people in no time, using 6 different food items. The thought of doing this scares Steve to death. In fairness the process does require a serious amount of multi tasking, which women have honed into a fine art. I really felt for the chef of the morning, as it was apparent from the sounds coming from the kitchen that he was struggling with the expectation. We hadn't really helped him by having chosen different menu items the previous night. I reckon half the grumblings we heard were to do with the fact he wished we were European where he could have got away with just serving us with bread and jam, whilst calling it a 'continental breakfast'. At one stage I was close to offering to cook it for him, but this may have been taken the wrong way. The last thing I wanted to do was insult our host or hurt his feelings, but at the same time I realised he was in desperate need of help. In the meantime the waitress in the form of his 6-year-old daughter entertained us. She did a stirling job of bringing out copious amounts of toast, and was a polite and delightful little girl. No doubt in years to come she would have every young suitor in the area wrapped around each and every one of her fingers, not just the little finger.

All the notes for this book had been recorded on a type of Dictaphone, but one which is all singing and dancing. Steve had made a contribution to this part of the holiday, by leaving an 8 second piece of commentary along the lines of "it's now Tuesday and it's pissing it down." Why use 500 words when 5 will do eh? In all honesty this really was an accurate summary, but we were not about to let the weather spoil our day at all. We were armed with waterproofs and were ready for anything the heavens decided to throw at us. Although we had previously wanted to visit the castle, we were a little disappointed to hear that it did not open until 10.00am, and that the tours had to be booked with visitors being allocated a time slot. This meant we could have been forced to hang around the town for the whole morning, which would have been a waste of half a day. This is no reflection at all of Donegal town, which is a wonderful place to visit. We had so much we wanted to do before heading over to a wedding in County Down, which meant we had to use our remaining time wisely. This did not include wandering around aimlessly whilst we filled some empty hours waiting for a castle to open its doors to us. With a plan B now in operation, we bade our hosts a fond farewell, with a special wave to our 6-year-old hostess. I reckon as we left, Dad was wondering how long he would have to wait before he could pass the cooking responsibilities on to her. Or how much it would cost by way of bribes for this to happen.

As we headed off towards the National Park, we were heartened by the weather forecast coming through the radio. Apparently the weather was to take a turn in the afternoon, with the rain moving away. There was a little sign of this happening already, with the sky appearing to be a lighter shade of grey than it had been earlier that morning. Apparently we are able to distinguish more shades of grey than any other colour. I'm not too sure if this is entirely true, but it is one of those really stupid and pointless facts you read about, which then sticks in your memory with no real use or purpose. I'm sure we have all got similar silly facts we remember, which never add any value or worth to our daily lives. My other favourite pointless 'fact', is that experts believe they have found that goldfish have a memory span of just 15 seconds. How they have discovered this is beyond me, and the whole point of this also escapes me. The fact it probably cost thousands of pounds to 'discover' this 'fact' though is beyond any doubt. Another one is the 'fact' that experts have found out why penguins fall over so often in the Antarctic region. Apparently when the military helicopters etc fly over, the look up to the sky to see what it is, lean backwards as it fly's past, and then fall over. Amazing eh? This snippet of information had even made it onto the national news. Now why they had to find this out heaven knows. I would guess the penguins had eventually righted themselves so no long-term damage would have been caused to their health or well-being. At least there is one good thing to come from these stories – it provides some great material for the panellists on 'Have I Got News For You'. Can you imagine having to explain what you are doing to earn you wages for that week? Can you just hear how the conversations must have gone in pubs up and down the country?

"So what line of work are you in then?"

"Erm.... I work for the Government, doing research and studies of natural phenomenon."

"Oh right. So what are you working on at the moment then?"

Now at this stage, the person could be honest and set himself up for years of ridicule, or he could fall back on the most famous get out clause there is.

"Sorry, I can't say at the moment as it is classified. You may read about it soon though."

By which time, when the story of the penguin hits the headlines, he has moved to Outer Mongolia where he will hopefully be safe from such searching questions from boozed up cynics. Having said that, I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when these poor sods were asked to study the goldfish. They must have seriously upset the hierarchy in some way to be lumbered with that soul-sapping task. Having said that the fly on the wall would have probably been the victim of a subsequent pointless study, costing yet more money to discover something equally as useless. Perhaps the scientists would have found that each time they clean their front legs, they always cross the left leg over the right. (Apologies if this study has already been done by the way).

The journey to the National Park once again provided us with some entertainment. I had come to the conclusion that the warnings of speed cameras were pointless because:

We hadn't seen any cameras.

No one drives very fast.

However, that is not to say that the Irish are not mad drivers. I have already made mention of the fact they will have heated conversations with themselves whilst behind the wheel of a car, which will include some serious arm waving. It wouldn't be so bad if they just used one arm at a time, but we had seen a driver actually conduct a whole damned orchestra on one occasion, whilst on a particularly dodgy stretch of road where full control of the car would have had its advantages.

The road through Ardara once again provided us with the sight of another driver who had obviously never ever heard the term MOT before. The car looked as though it was being held together with sticky tape. Either the brake lights had both failed, or the car just didn't have working brakes any more. The only time this car had ever seen a garage had been when the driver filled it with petrol. Either way we kept our distance, but were mesmerised by the way it managed to negotiate a fairly steep hill without once rolling back into us. In order to reach the top of the hill, it had truly defied the laws of gravity. Isaac Newton would have been left scratching his head for sure if he had witnessed this amazing phenomenon. Science lessons at school would have been totally re-written. The car was carrying what looked like mesh netting which bounced alarmingly each time they encountered a bump in the road. Even driving over an ant would have sent everything into a state of animation, which made me wonder if the car had any memory of what a shock absorber looked and felt like. This car should have been scrapped years ago, but somehow it was gamefully fighting on, helped by the fact that the owner had total faith and belief in its ability to basically keep going. I had to wonder what had more holes in it: the mesh netting or the car's bodywork. Suffice to say I had no intention of getting close enough to find out.

Eventually we were able to overtake this excuse of a car, whereby we both sighed with relief at the same time. If it had been a seaside donkey, it would have been put out to pasture years earlier, if not put down entirely. Throughout our stay behind it, Steve's foot had never been more than an inch away from the brake pedal. At the same time, he had been rehearsing an escape route in his mind just in case it was needed at short notice. Even I was getting a little twitchy, ready to grab the steering wheel if needed.

Once the driver had taken a different turn to the one we were taken we were forced to look elsewhere for entertainment. Whilst Steve looked out for other maniacs on the our stretch of the road, I skimmed through the radio stations in a vain attempt to find the one that had provided so much entertainment on previous journeys.

Eventually I found the right one and settled back ready for the topic of the day. Rather impressively the radio station had managed to secure and interview with Ice T. Now I am no fan of rap, but even I had to be impressed at the way such a small radio station had managed this feat. I wonder if he had been under the impression he was broadcasting the whole of the UK, as opposed to a few thousand inhabitants of an island whereby there was a chance 90% had never heard of him. The interviewer even put him on the spot with an impromptu quiz of Irish history or customs. My heart really had to go out to the bloke, but this was just the warm up for the real event of the day.

What followed could only really happen in Ireland. A whole afternoon was dedicated to a discussion and debate on what constitutes the best biscuit.

The mind really does boggle. This subject would surely run its course in the space of maybe a nanosecond, but no I was proved wrong. This subject bought out some very deep emotions in people, and it wasn't long before the airwaves were filled with variations of what made up the ideal biscuit.

Amazingly an Australian biscuit was coming out as the one most likely to elicit a type of orgasm. One or two people had strange ideas of what combinations made up for a good biscuit, but in the main they sounded disgusting. It put an image in my head of that batty woman from the Vicar of Dibley who used to mix together ingredients that should never have been in the same cupboard let alone the same recipe. However, the overriding favourite seemed to be the Tim Tam from Down Under. How the average Irishman had come across this heck knows, but I would have been willing to swap it for a Star Bar if it was indeed that good. Subsequent research on the Internet produced an interesting comparison. It does indeed appear that biscuits are discussed with great seriousness in some circles. The below extract taken from http://www.nicecupofteaandasitdown.com/biscuits/ I think proves the point very well indeed:

"Travellers returning from the antipodes have spoken of a biscuit, the Tim Tam, remarkably similar to the Penguin and yet somehow different. Australian visitors, and cultural ambassadors to our shores have also poured scorn upon our humble Penguin, whilst performing questionable and lurid tea drinking acts with it. As we are all aware, the average Australian is a modest type, not in the habit of making overblown claims. However, they all seem confident in one thing, that the Tim Tam is a work of perfection, and not to have eaten one, is not to have truly lived. We were obviously quite keen to get hold of some. Well at long last we have a pack, a gift from the lovely Michelle from Perth, also known as Freshlegs (Michelle that is not Perth).

Ok nice enough preamble, get on with it. Smaller than the Penguin proportionally lighter as well the Tim Tam feels unfamiliar. Biting in to it we were met by a very light biscuit, the Wife is reminded of the Honeycomb centre of a Cadbury's Crunchie. It certainly doesn't have the gritty texture of the Penguin. The whole colour of the Tim Tam is a warm bronze to the Penguins almost slate grey chocolate and biscuit. And now to the flavour, well we were very impressed. The Tim Tam has a buttery richness to its chocolate and chocolate cream, I was put in mind of Galaxy chocolate.

So the verdict? Well the Tim Tam is a classy little biscuit, it tastes great and its insubstantial nature affords the sucking of tea and coffee through it by Australian songstresses, the infamous Tim Tam Slam. However, the mighty Penguin offers a more of a satisfying mouthful and its greater bulk elevates it from treat to a snack. We would suggest that there is something to learn from both biscuits and if haven't tried one or the other then seek it out. If you've tried neither then you're probably American and there we shall leave it."

So there you have it. The best reason to spend 23 hours in an aeroplane is to experience the mighty Tim Tam. Forget Uluru or the Barrier Reef. They can always be seen through other mediums. The Tim Tam can only be experienced for real by the actual ingestion of it. I really do feel as though I have never lived with the knowledge I had gleamed from listening to an Irish radio station.

However, I have to say this topic did not quite match the one aired the previous day. The topic of the day had been, "What sort of things have you and your partner argued about, and subsequently split up over." Naturally they wanted to hear the quirky things that would have been ridiculous if they hadn't been true.

Normally I would not really want to see examples of sadness broadcast in this way, but like everyone else listening, I had been totally hooked.

Steve heard one whilst I was visiting the restroom at a petrol station, which had him howling out loud, to the extent he then had to make a similar visit before he ended up wetting himself. Apparently a couple had been together for quite a while, before deciding to partake in a game of Connect 4. The ensuing argument had been so severe, they had actually split up. Over a game of connect 4 for goodness sake! I can't see how you can even cheat at that game to the extent you end up virtually coming to blows.

I was waiting to see if anyone had actually split up over not being able to decide on what biscuit was the best. (Naturally any of our Australian cousins would automatically assume they would have been in the right with that particular argument).

Believe me, this radio station was addictive. I had initially wanted to learn a little about the country, and what made the home folk tick. We had initially tuned in to some of the news stations, but had quickly lost the will to live. I was just glad we had happened upon Today FM by chance. Two days earlier, someone had called in asking for advice on how to tell their girlfriend they thought she needed to lose weight, but without offending them. As the Irish are naturally helpful and supportive of each other, the caller was inundated with well meant advice. The one he seemed to like the idea of was where he was advised to invite her out on numerous romantic walks. The thought being that she would end up exercising more than normal, and thus lose weight.

Not a bad idea to be honest. Naturally Steve was told to lose any ideas he had along these lines, that is if he wanted to keep his meat and two veg intact.

However, this did cause a few problems for others who had tuned in. One guy had wanted to take his girlfriend out for a romantic walk in order to propose to her. He now had to scrap that idea in case she thought he was trying to drop a hint that she resembled an elephant, and was left scratching his head wondering how he was now going to pop the question to her.

I had really come to the conclusion that each Irishman is a natural Agony Aunt, just waiting for the opportunity to burst forth with help and advice wherever it is needed.

I was also impressed with the way they could discuss an apparently inane topic for an entire afternoon without once running out of steam.

Another advantage of the local radio station is the fact that you will hear musical acts you would never otherwise come across. However, this can also be a huge disadvantage. We had already been told of the typical Irish music experience back in Cork, which had in fact turned out to be a cringingly bad Elvis impersonator. We were now about to come across something equally as bad in the form of the Bogmen. Now I have nothing against these guys on a personal level. I am sure they are lovely people, who are the pillar of society. However, they should be banned from every doing another cover version of a well-known classic. Part of me wants to even see them banned from ever singing in public again, but I am aware that is being a tad too cruel. Even now, as I am typing, my teeth are grinding in memory of the way they totally destroyed the classic Aerosmith track of Walk This Way. Irish Folk music is lovely to listen to, and perhaps to even get drunk to. However, it should stay within its area of speciality, and never ever venture out into the wild world of pop or rock. They do not have any business being combined in the same melody. Trust me. If you had heard the Bogmen covering this Aerosmith classic you would be in total agreement. If they had tried to get through the first round of auditions on Pop Idol with this approach they would have been stopped before getting through the first bar or chord. It was excruciatingly painful to listen to, but once again I was hooked and could not bring myself to change to a different channel or frequency. It was as if I was purposefully punishing myself for all sins committed, and all sins to come. However, it was obvious they were going down a storm, as we were warned to tune in later for their rendition of "Rock around the Clock", made famous by Bill Haley back in the 1960's. This was almost too much. Part of me wanted to turn over to another channel – any channel in fact, but another small part intent on self-harm wanted to listen in. Steve was loving every minute of it, the cringe factor not having quite the same effect on him. I would rather listen to someone running their nails down a blackboard in all honesty, but whatever it was that was keeping me hooked I have no idea. Either way I knew I would have to listen to this rendition, or regret it for the rest of my life.

This then bought about another sense of amazement. Bearing in mind my views on the Irish driving standards, mainly in relation to dotty old men driving motorised wheelbarrows, I was astounded to hear that on average 50% of the population pass their driving test at the first attempt. Now I have no idea what the pass rate is back in England, but I had to be suitably impressed with these statistics. Perhaps I had been doing the folks a disservice all this time. Having said that the image of the old guy in the rust bucket defying gravity was still too fresh in my mind for me to yield too much. Still, 50% was mighty impressive. This had culminated in a long drawn out story on Today FM of a young lass who had failed the test 6 times. Now I don't think this is particularly newsworthy, and they had obviously never met our Maureen from the Driving School series. Nevertheless, this lass was the talking point of the morning, with the whole country now rallying behind her (from a great distance obviously) with moral support for her next attempt. A couple of experts were introduced who were to work with her over the next few weeks in order to get her through at the seventh attempt. One was seriously looking at the mental aspect, explaining how they were going to erase the past, and use positive re-enforcement for the next hurdle. He was going to get her to believe that this was in fact her first attempt, and that everything in the past had simply not happened. A few bottles of wine would have the same effect no less, as backed up on many a weekend. Believe me, these guys were taking it seriously. It was as if a national campaign and crusade had been launched in support of someone who at the end of the day had a few problems driving. Amazing really. One of the experts was even going to change her diet in order to eliminate stress-inducing foods. I had to wonder if having a change of diet would bring about a different kind of stress, but in fairness, these guys were going to look at the issue holistically. Naturally her progress was going to be followed, which I think was going to put even more pressure on her to pass. At the end of the day, the whole of Ireland would want to know how she got on. Bless her wee cotton socks. As the interview progressed, the doubt in her voice became more and more apparent, whereby I expected her to suddenly bolt from the studio never to be seen again.

The news channel also produced an item of interest. Amazingly, a licensee in Donegal had been the first to be prosecuted for allowing smoking in his pub. Smoking in public places had been banned a few months earlier, whereby most of the population had abided by the new legislation. The Irish are so relaxed and accommodating to any changes. In England, a similar ban would have been met with total anarchy. Not so in Ireland. It had been a pleasure to walk into a restaurant or pub, knowing we would be able to breathe natural sweet air the whole time. The smoky environments in England have been the main reason we don't venture out too often at a weekend. However, this landlord must have had the most militant customers around, because one old guy had point blank refused to take his cigarettes outside. The end result? A 1200 Euro fine for the licensee, plus an extra 500 Euros towards the costs of the case. Now, I do have to add at this point, I am in total support of the law. I hate smoking with a vengeance, and hate even more having to inhale smoke that has already done a few laps around someone else's lungs. However, even I could see that this fine was fairly harsh to say the least. Heck, in the UK you could get away with a £50 for belting someone. Either the courts in Ireland are particularly strict (which may account for the apparent lack of street crime), or they were looking to make an example of him. Either way, this guy had my sympathies. I just hoped the offending smokers had a conscience, offering to make a contribution towards the payment of the fine. Steve surprised me by just shrugging this off. His attitude was that it would only be the equivalent of a week's takings. Either way, I thought it was a little harsh. This poor guy was going to go down in history as the first person to be persecuted – sorry I mean prosecuted, under the new law. The luck of the Irish had certainly gone against him on this occasion. Listening to the events as they unfolded on the radio, it seemed to be that he had been initially caught by an off duty enforcer, who had seen some cigarette butts on the floor. They went back in an official capacity and caught three guys smoking. There was no real defence to this other than the fact the landlord claimed he could not stop them. I think refusing a drink may have helped but at the end of the day, these people still have to make a living.

Eventually we found ourselves in the car park of the Glenveagh National Park. Ignore any previous references to the sky changing shade, thus the indication of less rain. Yes, this applies whilst you are in the car. However, the second you step outside the heavens open dumping more rain than we had seen all holiday. Therefore the shade of grey has absolutely no relevance on the amount of water that is likely to be unleashed. However, we remained upbeat. After all, we had come prepared with a set of waterproofs. We were not about to let the weather spoil our day. Steve was a bit subdued at the fact he wouldn't be able to take photographs whilst outside, whereas I wasn't too bothered by this.

As was the case at the previous National park we were amongst the first visitors to arrive. This meant we could wrestle into our waterproof leggings without being observed by curious tourists, wondering if we were partaking in a national custom of frog hopping as we tried to get the leggings on without actually falling over. It took ages to get the damned things on, and once we were trussed up like kinky turkeys dressed in green, we made our way to the visitors centre, only to find it was about 25 yards away from where we had parked, whereby we had to then undress before going inside. Suffice to say we both felt like total donkeys. Once again we had provided some early morning entertainment for the desk staff who were tittering away amongst themselves as we walked in, with not a drop of rain evident anywhere on our jackets. I was feeling a little peeved by now, supported by the fact we had missed the Bogmen on the radio. I would never again have the chance of hearing a 60's classic crucified in a way never heard before. Darius' version of the Britney Spears track would pale into insignificance by comparison. And yet this opportunity had been missed. Oh yes, I was getting a little ansty now. The Bogmen were bearing the brunt of my anger, which in hindsight I will admit is slightly unfair. At the end of the day they had never done anything that could be classed as personal but for some reason they seemed a fair target with which to vent my frustration.

Once again the reception staff were polite and helpful, if a little bemused. As with the previous National Park, there were various walks available, each of a different length and degree of difficulty. Due to the fact we were dressed head to toe in plastic, we decided to cut our losses and do a short one, preferably where shelter was offered at some stage along the route.

One of the trails took us along the shoreline of the lake, leading to what appeared to be a castle. Now in fairness we had been in Ireland for nearly a week, and had still to visit a castle. This looked like it was going to be the one, so of we trotted, dismissing the offer of a bus service. We intended to spend the morning at the Park, and wanted to appreciate some of the sights and sounds along the way, not listen to some old biddies talking about Daniel O'Donnell during a 5-minute bus journey. This is no way an insult to Daniel by the way. He is a great singer, kind of cute if you are over 40 years old yourself, and a guy my mum would have left my dad for. That is, assuming David Essex was otherwise engaged. If both of them were to be offered to her on a plate, I wouldn't fancy my Dad's chances any more. Come to that I wouldn't fancy the chances of Daniel or David either. I have to cringe with embarrassment at the memory of the David Essex calendar she had in her hallway for a whole year. A lasting memory of her final concert, bless her. I just hope she hadn't taken knickers to throw on stage – even my dad looks away when they are on the washing line.

With this in mind, we waved merrily to the minibus as it passed us on its way up to the castle, a mere 3 kilometres away. The map showed the route to be fairly straight forward, with no climbing involved.

The rain was fairly persistent, but not too heavy. I had total faith in my waterproofs, not even minding the fact I looked like a smurf with my hood pulled down over my head.

The best consolation was the fact that Steve looked even more ridiculous. For some reason his head is the wrong shape and size for a hat, particularly one that is pulled down around the forehead. It had been pulled down so low, his eyebrows looked as though they were forming part of the hood lining.

The walk itself to the castle was incredibly deceptive. We had allowed ourselves in the region of 45 minutes to make the 3km journey, but this was perhaps a little over optimistic. The route itself was incredibly serene and beautiful, even though the skies were grey, and the mountains were clouded over in some parts. I have never been a believer of the myth that you need to have clear blue skies and emerald green grass to make for wonderful scenery. We were experiencing other sights of beauty, which would not have been witnessed if it hadn't been for the heavy showers that had followed us for the last two days. The mountains had numerous tiny waterfalls where the rain had found a route down to the lake itself. There is no way these would have been present on a clear dry day, which in Donegal would have been a rarity indeed.

The bushes to our left, which bordered the path way also yielded some amazing sights and sounds. The gurgling water followed us for the whole way, and occasionally we would chance upon a break in the foliage whereby a small stream had formed. It was the colour though that had amazed me the most. I have no idea of the makeup of the rocks in this area, but whatever it was, the water was a golden yellow, almost like that of citrine quartz. Unfortunately Steve wasn't able to take any photographs due to the fact his camera could be easily damaged if it got wet. This meant I had to rely on memory and my voice notes when writing about this walk, but amazingly everything seems to still fresh in my mind. Even the sound of the rain on our hoods is ringing in my ears when I think about that particular day.

One or two of the minibus drivers waved to us as they drove past at 10-minute intervals. All the occupants must have thought we were barking mad, but they all waved and smiled anyway. They had absolutely no idea what they were missing by being cooped up inside a steamed up minibus, but in fairness they probably weren't kitted out in the right way to handle such a long walk in heavy rain. One driver though did take things a little too far and decided to drive through a puddle (rather unnecessarily I thought) thus drenching us even further.

I was now grateful for the fact that my waterproofs were actually waterproof and not just shower proof. In addition I had taken a spare of shoes to change into. Unfortunately Steve hadn't fared so well. His waterproof jacket, which had cost an arm and a leg back in England, had let in a load of water, soaking the shirt he was wearing underneath. In addition his trainers had let in bucket falls of the wet stuff, making for very squidgy feet indeed.

As we neared the castle, we were able to see more of the lake itself, and the numerous craggy rocks that littered the surface. A small boat made its way past us, with one end of it virtually underwater. As it neared us we could see a couple of people inside, with the woman frantically baling out water. I'm not sure if this was because they had sprung a leak, or if it was because of the heavy rainfall. Either way I hoped they were going to make it back to base okay. Either way they looked very grumpy indeed which is hardly surprising.

This got me wondering as to whether there were any rescue facilities in this area. The lake was not small, but I couldn't recall seeing any life saving devices anywhere. For the remainder of the walk I had my fingers crossed for them.

The castle itself turned out to be a glorified house but was still worth the visit. The tour lasted in total for 45 minutes, during which time we were regaled with some wonderful tales regarding the occupants over the years. It had been built in 1873 complete with battlemented ramparts, turrets and a round tower. There hadn't been that many owners in that time, but one of them had mysteriously disappeared in 1933. No doubt the rumour factory had gone into overtime with that one, but he had never been found so it is unclear as to whether he died, or did a runner. Many of the rooms of the castle were still decorated in the original colours and furnishings, which made for a real mish mash of colours and styles. Normally stripes and patterns would have to be separated by at least three rooms, but they didn't seem to look out of place in this particular house. Although it wasn't a real castle, it was the closest we got all holiday to actually seeing one, so we both went away rather happy.

Interestingly, Queen Victoria had links with the building. We were shown a beautifully ornate table, which had not always been in the current state. Apparently when Queen Victoria was in mourning for her beloved Albert, she had the table painted black. It was down to painstaking restoration we were able to see the true beauty of the furniture. Bless her cotton socks. She must have been in such deep depression to decimate such an item of beauty in that way. Visiting the castle gave us the chance to dry out before once again braving the elements. Having said that, as we had already done our bit by walking the outward journey, we both decided to call it quits and take the mini bus back to the visitors centre. In fairness time was running against us, which meant we couldn't really fit in another walk. This was a real shame, as one of the walks indicated that it went across the bog field areas. I was desperate to make up for the fact I had missed the Bog Village experience whilst in Kerry, but had to turn this chance down. We had almost completed our tour of Eire, and were now looking forward to experiencing the north of the country. The journey out of Donegal, towards Derry was breathtaking. We were the only travellers on the road, (or so it felt) and it felt as though Mother Nature had laid on the treat especially for us. The mountains stood proud against the clouds in the sky, whilst the fields gave off the unmistakable aroma of the peat. At long last I was able to see some that had been cut and left to dry by the roadside. This county signified all that Ireland had meant to me. If it hadn't been for the fact we had a wedding to attend, I would have willingly stayed in the area for another two days. The urge to spend time in the wilderness was incredibly strong, but I knew I would have to say a fond farewell to Donegal.

Top tips:

1. Try the variations of black and white pudding for breakfast. It tastes better than it sounds. (Although it is an acquired taste).

2. The further north you drive, the more time you should allow for driving. The Irish are even more laid back the further north you go, to the extent time is almost likely to stand still when you are in a hurry. If Einstein had visited this area before coming up with the Law of Relativity, he would have been left scratching his head.

3. If you are in a car, have a flick through the local radio stations. They are likely to provide hours of entertainment, in a way unrivalled by any of the radio stations in the UK.

4. If you have allowed plenty of time for travelling on your holiday, consider a visit to Donegal. It is not given the credit it deserves in some of the tourist books. However, be prepared to live in your waterproofs for the duration of your visit: it will more than likely be raining no matter what time of the year you decide to visit.

## Chapter 7 – Crossing the Border

Crossing the border was actually quite exciting. Years ago, we would have been given the impression that each road would have been manned by armed soldiers, ready to check cars and people at random. However, I knew from my previous visit that all the border controls had been removed. In fact, you would drive over the border and not even be aware of this fact. There are no large signs saying "Welcome To Derry" or vice versa, depending on which way you are travelling at the time. Not a soldier in sight, nor any evidence of road blacks.

The change is incredibly subtle.

The only indication you are likely to come across is the fact that the road markings on the verges change from yellow in the South of the country, to while in the North. The road signs themselves also change and will look identical to those back in England.

I pointed this out to Steve, who was driving at the time. For some unknown reason, I find this really exciting, and was keen to experience the feeling of going from one country into another.

"Keep an eye on the GPS system," Steve advised. "That should tell you when we get close."

It was actually quite sad to be leaving Eire behind. I had fallen totally in love with everything about the country. Even the manic drivers who had somehow bypassed the need to take a test, had found a snuggly place in my heart. For the next few miles, I went off into a fantasyland, whereby I had bought the castle at Glenveagh. Just as I was about to step into a steaming bath, with a butler on hand to bring the warm towels, I was bought crashing back into reality.

"So, true to form, you missed it."

"Eh, what do you mean, missed what?" I said, staring around blindly.

"Where are we now?" Steve asked, his head shaking slightly in disbelief.

"Dunno, where are we?"

"What colours are the road markings?"

I glanced sideways and saw that they were a fetching shade of white.

"Oh, no! I don't believe it! I've missed the change over!"

I was just about to ask him to turn round and go back so that I could go through it again, but realised this might be met with a very short two-letter answer. If I could actually reach my own arse with my foot, I would have booted it. If there was a wall nearby, I would have head butted it. The only saving grace was the fact that we would have to go back into the south in order to catch the flight back from Dublin.

In the meantime, I had to make do with the knowledge that we were now in a different country. Our Euros would have to be tucked away in a wallet somewhere, as they would be of no use for the next few days. This was supported by the very first petrol station we passed, whereby the price of a litre was shown in pence.

Derry was an incredibly busy county, and resembled virtually any town found back in England. We had only travelled a few miles over the border, and yet everything had changed beyond recognition. There were a few cars displaying Irish index plates, but they were becoming fewer and fewer in number the further we drove. I was expecting a gradual change in scenery etc, but the difference was instant.

The previous summer had been spent in Ontario in Canada, whereby the change over into Quebec had been quite subtle. Ontario had shown street names etc in both French and English. The tours of the Parliament buildings were offered in both languages. Most of the residents were fluent in both languages. Therefore, when you crossed over into Quebec, you had some idea of what to expect, having experienced some sights and sounds in French. (Having said that though, nothing had prepared us for the fact that nobody was prepared to speak in English, once we had actually crossed over into Quebec – it appears the courtesy only goes one way).

This experience was very, very different and was a little unsettling. For a week now, we had become accustomed to different currency, and a different pace of life. Within a few miles, that illusion was broken. It was as if we had been teleported back into England, totally bypassing the need to actually take a return flight.

Even the houses had changed. Gone were the quaint white Bed & Breakfast establishments. They had been replaced by terraced houses in the same dull brickwork we have become accustomed to.

I had to feel sorry for those who fell asleep in Donegal, before waking up in Derry. They would be totally confused by the scenes around them. They would have felt more comfortable at the thought of being abducted by aliens during the night, only to wake up on a totally different planet.

Although I was feeling a little dejected at the wholesale changes around us, Steve perked up incredibly quickly, no doubt supported by the fact we saw our first sign for a KFC in over a week. If he could only live off of one type of food for the rest of his life, this would be his first and only choice.

All in all, he had suffered surprisingly few withdrawal symptoms up until this time, which meant I couldn't really begrudge him his first taste of a zinger meal in ages.

If we needed another reminder of the fact we had ventured into a new country it was there in the form of the ashtrays mounted up on the disposal unit. You were almost welcomed to smoke in this part of the world. In fact, as we looked around the serving area, I realised that any non-smokers were likely to be in the minority. The food itself was excellent, (if any representative from the KFC franchise is reading this, I am very partial to those chicken dipper meals you sell), but the service was very unemotional. I realised I was being very unfair here. I had only been over the border for a few minutes, and already I was trying to make a like for like comparison with everything and everybody we had encountered in Ireland. A very unfair thing to do, and I apologise now for having those thoughts to start with. I had been to both parts of Ireland before, so knew what to expect. I also knew that in time I would come to love and appreciate everything about this region as well, once I had got out of the negative way of thinking.

Within the last hour, I had become more and more morose. However, that was soon to change into out and out panic.

Whereas Bed & Breakfast accommodation was littered throughout every town and village in Ireland, they were as rare as dinosaur droppings in the north. We were hoping to visit the Giants Causeway the following day, which meant it made sense to head along the coast road, assuming we would come across a whole range of houses all fighting to offer lone travellers a bed and welcome for the night.

How wrong is it possible to be?

Colraine was one of the biggest towns in the area, so we decided to try our luck there, assuming it would have plenty on offer.

I was almost getting a headache through straining my neck and eyes in an attempt to find anywhere that looked as though it offered a bed for the night. Eventually we chanced upon what looked like a small hotel, well off of the main road. Steve began to sweat like sumo wrestler in a sauna as he tried valiantly to park the car in the only remaining space, hidden at the end of the driveway. Eventually, after he had managed to complete a 300-point turn, we were able to manoeuvre the car into the gap, narrowly avoiding the brick wall behind us. We were overlooked by the dining room area, which meant the guests had been provided with something of a cabaret act as they worked their way through the starters.

It was now quite late, and I was hoping against hope they had a room free. The cost would have been totally irrelevant. I would have even budged up with the dog in a kennel somewhere, we were that desperate.

As we entered the foyer, a lady who looked as though she had come straight from the Swiss Alps greeted us. Her costume looked more Scandinavian than Irish. Her look was even completed with long white plaited hair.

"How can I help you?" She asked, her accent confirming that she was in fact Irish.

"Do you have a room for the night?" I asked, crossing all toes and fingers at the same time.

"I'm sorry but we are all full here. You won't find anywhere with a room in this town because of the Milk Cup."

I had no idea what the milk race was, nor did I have the inclination to ask. Whatever it was, I hated it with a vengeance.

"Is there anywhere around here you can recommend?" I asked, the desperation creeping into my voice causing the words to come out an octave higher than normal.

"Not really. Now where are you heading for?"

"Causeway area eventually."

"Well, you could try the coast up there, but you might not get anywhere. Most places will be booked up because of the golf tournament."

With this, we walked back to the car in numbed silence. I had forgotten about the golf. Ireland was hosting the British Senior Masters tournament, in the exact same area where we were hoping to stay. Why on earth can't they spread their main sporting events throughout the year? Why do they have to hold everything at the same time? Heck even the British Open was being held over the next few days, further down in the south.

The prospect of having to sleep in the car was a very real one. I was already visualising the 'scissors rock paper' game that would ensue, in order to establish who was to have the gear stick to contend with.

Not only that, but it would mean I wouldn't be able to watch Holby City.

This was the most miserable I had felt so far during the holiday, the stress and strain back in Wicklow fading into just a distant memory. I was one more disaster away from yelling at Steve to turn the car round so that we could head back into Donegal.

Whilst Steve filled up with petrol, I began flicking through the accommodation guide, which we had been given when first hiring the car. Amazingly there were a few Bed & Breakfasts listed in Northern Ireland. They were certainly few and far between in comparison to the south, but there were some available. I pointed one out to him, which looked as though it was reasonably close to the Causeway, and wasn't too expensive.

I was tasked with calling them on the mobile phone, which was now back in working order as we were officially in the UK. When the guy at the other end said he had a room free, I was on the verge of kissing the phone, the car and anyone one who was walking by at the time. Steve took over the conversation when it came to giving directions. Apparently we were only 10 miles away, which meant Holby City could well be back on the cards.

Whilst making our way there, I had another look at the establishment. As with virtually every other Bed & Breakfast we had seen it was painted in white. The previous history of Ireland had probably been a major influence on the lack of places to stay once you were this side of the border. For years, nobody would have wanted to venture over for a holiday. Even though there had been a semblance of peace for a good few years, Northern Ireland was still years behind the south in establishing a tourist trade. This was such a shame, because the scenery and coastline around Antrim definitely rivals anything we had seen in the South. Something was needed to get the ball rolling in this area. What that should be I have no idea, but this area was crying out for tourists to pay more than just a passing visit. Whoever was going to be brave enough to set up a Bed & Breakfast would no doubt do a roaring trade, but at the moment, that would be a risky venture to undertake.

This was confirmed when we actually saw our Bed & Breakfast for the first time. The photograph in the brochure had shown a brilliant white building overlooking the sea. It had warranted a 3 star rating. However, in reality it looked tired and unkempt. The rating had obviously been reduced to 2 stars at some stage, as one of them had been scrubbed off of the sign outside. It was obvious that they did not have much in the way of competition, otherwise they would have been bypassed on a regular basis.

As for me, it could have resembled a glorified cardboard box – I was desperate for a bed for the night. The landlord was very friendly and welcoming, and was very sympathetic of our plight. I'm guessing he has received more than a few desperate phone calls over the years from people in a similar position to what we had found ourselves in. The foyer even sported a tiny bar for the use of guests. This was the first one we had come across in any of the establishments, but neither of us were in the right frame of mind to be sociable. The last week was starting to take its toll on us, and all we wanted to do was hole up for the night with a decent cup of tea.

It was just as well we had ignored the outside décor, as the room itself was roomy and clean. The only complaint I could really have was the fact that the bed sheets didn't quite fit the bed. They were pulled so tight I'm surprised we didn't bounce off the second we sat down. By the time we had slept for 8 hours, they looked as though they had been playing host to a humdinger of an orgy.

The morning that greeted us was made up of brilliant blue skies, a total contrast to the rain we had experienced 24 hours earlier in Donegal. Without realising it, we had timed our visit to the Causeway area with perfection. In addition to the Causeway we wanted to try out the rope bridge at Carrick-a-Rede. Once again the literature had described this as a 'must' see, and as it was just a few miles from the Causeway, we had no reason not to. I have never been on a rope bridge before, so this was going to be a possible once in a life time experience.

If we had been here just 24 hours earlier we would have been met with high winds and rain, whereby the rope bridge had been closed to the public. That would have been so gutting to the foreign tourists who had ventured this far north with the specific intent of walking across it.

Breakfast was to produce yet another surprise. This B & B was the closest thing I have seen to a TARDIS. There was only one floor or level to the place, and yet during the night it had played host to approximately 20 of us. All the tables were full of chatting tourists from many parts of the world. We had identified the American accents, but one or two others could have originated from anywhere within central Europe. True to form, the accent missing from this heady mixture was another English one. Why, oh why do we never appreciate the fact we have some amazing scenery and coastlines on our own doorstep? Why do we feel the need to cram up on a beach in Spain, ignoring the fact that there are unspoiled and expansive beaches within the UK? Having said that, they would become spoiled if they were treated as the next Skegness or Benidorm. There is something to be said for the feeling you get when you sense that you are the only person within a 400-metre radius of where you stand. Nope – Ireland had to maintain this sense of spirituality at all costs. The English would have to be turned back at Liverpool in the future, should they dare to pop over with a bucket and spade in the luggage. Children would also need to be banned along with any stag night parties. Dublin is more than welcome to host them, which it appears to do with great regularity.

Looking at the issue with a naïve English head here, I was a little saddened by the fact that there has been the history between the two countries. It is a shame that a border should divide this country, as no matter where you visit on the coastline there is a great sense of peace, tranquillity, beauty and wonder. To my mind, the whole of the island was Ireland. The people were terrific, the scenery was breathtaking, and the way and pace of life was unrivalled by anything I had experienced before. However, I know that is looking at the issue with rosy coloured spectacles. IF I had been born and bred in this area, and had family ties going back generations, I have no doubt my outlook would have been very different. Hopefully the forthcoming generations will be able to grow up with the history becoming more and more of a memory only, whereby true integration can be the norm. I guess only time will tell how or when events will change things, but here's hoping it can happen in my lifetime to a certain extent.

Before walking up to the Causeway, we popped into the small souvenir shop that had just opened as we arrived.

I have no idea what it is about these places, but I defy anyone to say they aren't drawn to them like a proverbial magnet. Even if the tour you have undertaken is as naff as it gets, there is something about the shop where you know you just have to pay it a visit. They are usually so cramped you have to pogo jump your way around, and I would guess that 90% of the time everyone leaves without having actually bought anything.

However this particular shop did give me one of the funniest moments of the holiday.

I am a sucker for gemstones and crystals, being a qualified therapist in this area.

I have owned one or two geodes over the years, but they have in the main been artificially coloured which has taken the edge off the enjoyment of them.

This shop had a tub full of geodes, which had not been broken open as yet. This would beg the question of how you would know it was a real geode if you couldn't see inside, but I was willing to overlook this point. They were on sale for something like 2 Euros so I was willing to take that chance.

Steve could see where I was heading for, and just shrugged his shoulders in disbelief.

Following a good rummage through the tub, I selected one that looked as though it was a decent geode. Bearing in mind you couldn't see inside, I have no idea what this was based on, but it had my name on it. The small label attached to the tub promised the new owner a leaflet explaining how to carefully break open this precious offering from Mother Earth.

The young lad serving took the geode from me to wrap in tissue paper.

"Could you let me have one of the leaflets that comes with it?" I asked.

"Yeah sure, but I'm not sure we have any left."

With that he turned to a middle-aged woman serving elsewhere behind the counter,

"Hey Maureen do we have any of the leaflets left for this lady?"

"No, we ran out a while ago. We've been promised new stock but it hasn't arrived yet."

"Oh". I answered. "I was going to need that so that I didn't damage it. I have no idea how to really get into it."

"Oh that's easy," the youth replied with a smile on his face. "You don't need the leaflet, I can tell you how to do that."

By now Steve had wombled back over and was also listening with keen anticipation.

"What you do is you put the geode in a sock, or wrap it in a towel or something."

I nodded as if I had understood the reasoning behind this.

"You then get a hammer or something similar, and beat the bejesus out of it."

I had to double check that I had heard right.

"So what you saying is that I just hit it hard?"

"Yep. That's all you have to do."

"And it won't damage the geode?"

"Well, it might but you should be fine."

So there you have it. All those wee geology picks that are sold in specialist shops are a waste of money. A claw hammer or mallet from B & Q is all that is needed – apparently. I have a hard job believing that was the advice on the leaflet but had to take his word for it. Suffice to say to this day the geode is still intact. Whether there or not there are any crystals inside is a mute point because I will never, ever know the answer. I cannot bear the thought of blasting it to smithereens just to find out.

With geode now purchased, we decided to head out to the Giant's Causeway. This was the only natural heritage site in the whole of Northern Ireland, and was possibly one of the most famous places of interest in the area.

It is thought the Causeway was initially formed 60 million years ago, as a result of volcanic eruptions. As the lava hardened it formed the layers of basalt rock that became the Causeway. I have no idea how they have managed to count the columns, but it is estimated there are approximately 40,000 in the area, mostly in the hexagonal forms evident to all visitors to this wonderful phenomena of nature.

There were two paths leading to the Causeway, or you could take the minibus trip. Once again we spurned the offer of motorised transport, intending instead to bask in the sunshine and scenery around us. Most of the visitors were taking the upper path, whereby they could see along the cliff line out to sea. We planned on taking this route for the return journey, so started off on the lower track taking us nearer to sea level. The walk was actually longer than anticipated, but we had increased our stamina levels over the preceding week, which meant we didn't feel unduly tired or out of breath.

The fact we had chosen to make this journey so early in the morning soon paid off for us.

The actual Causeway is not spread over a great distance, but already a few tourists had beaten us to the rocky hills. However, we were still able to climb around the amazing pillars, whereby Steve was able to take some pretty amazing photographs. The pillars had been formed over a period of time, with this being reflected in the definite difference within the Causeway. The rocks forming part of the shore line were very dark in colour, possibly influenced by the hundreds and thousands of tides that have come and gone across the surface. Within this area were many rock pools that had over a period of time, formed their own tiny, self supporting eco system. The plant life was an amazing shade of green, whereas the tiny waterborne creatures could barely be seen as they darted around amongst the vegetation. To be honest, these pools fascinated me as much as the actual rock formations themselves. Amazingly, Steve and myself were the only people to venture out to this area. It was only when we returned to the main pathway, we realised that people had been strongly advised against venturing that far out. Apparently rogue waves can come up without warning, whereby an unsuspecting tourist could either be drenched or taken out to sea. Even with this warning, we would have still taken the risk. The day was gloriously warm and bright, and the sea looked as though it was also having a day of lazing around. Heck, we had already braved the Cliffs of Moher, which in comparison had been a lot more dangerous. Some of the other visitors had given us a couple of strange looks, but I'm not sure if that had been borne out of disgust at our disregard for the safety information, or because they were envious of the fact we had seen an area they hadn't. Either way, I wasn't bothered. We hadn't caused any damage to the area, and if the chance was to present itself again in the future, I would happily take the same route, just to see those wee rock pools.

Steve was in his element in this particular area. He loves climbing and jumping over things that normally cause a problem for other mere mortals. Within minutes he had left me behind, and was leaping about over the tallest of columns, snapping away at anything and everything. Although I was incredibly impressed by the sights around me, I was less fit than I had originally thought. In the end, I decided to call it quits and set up camp at the top of the tallest set of columns. The climb upwards was quite steep, but the view offered had made this more than worthwhile. The other side had presented a very sheer drop of some enormity. I was joined by an Irish lass who was also of the same opinion – let the blokes do the manly thing of jumping around, whilst we stopped to actually take in the view and magnitude of the Causeway. Although the pillars had a semblance of symmetry to them, they varied in height and diameter. Some were as tall as 40 feet, whereas others were short and squat. It was as if the keepers of the sea had decided to do a 40,000 piece jigsaw all those years ago, with the pieces being 5, 6, 7 or 8 sided. Some people had called this the 8th wonder of the world, and having now seen it all for myself, I had to secretly agree with them. Who would have thought a quiet corner in the far north of Ireland would have played host to such a spectacle?

Eventually Steve decided he had seen enough, so we headed further along the coast to be met by another amazing scene. There were further pillars forming part of the clliffside, out of view of the main part of the Causeway. I had to wonder how many visitors had missed this spectacle. Certainly if we had used the main upper path favoured by the majority of the tourists, we would have rounded the corner to the Causeway, totally missing out on this particular attraction. There were apparently 60 columns in total, growing to a height of 12 metres. This formation was definitely off the beaten track, but was well worth a visit. Following the obligatory photograph, we made our way to the cliff path, not realising we were going to be in for some serious climbing and walking. By now the temperatures had increased and we were both sweating for England. We were the only idiots going uphill, thus making it clear to us why everyone else had been going down this path in order to reach the Causeway. I really had thought I had gotten to a reasonable level of fitness over the last few days, but this short climb really put me in my place. I cast my mind back to the back packer we had seen in Wicklow, whereby he was now earning a lot of respect for his achievement of climbing to the waterfall whilst wearing a huge, and obviously heavy, rucksack. Whereby he was carrying in the region of 12 kilogrammes, I was struggling with half a litre of water. It does sort of put things in a slightly different perspective.

Let's face it, I am totally unfit. Those experts who claim it takes 6 weeks of exercising to see a difference were obviously telling the truth. I thought it had been a ruse just to get us registered at gymnasiums and such like, but obviously not. A week of doing step aerobics in my living room was proving to be a less than satisfactory method of preparation.

I had to call it quits half way up, and sat on a conveniently placed wooden bench, taking the opportunity to take my trainers off. My feet were on the verge of giving off steam by now, but the slight breeze was doing a great job of cooling them down. Unfortunately a family of foreign visitors also decided to stop at this point, but were somewhat thrown by the sight of an Englishwoman airing her feet on the only available seat. I could see that they were dying to have a sit down themselves, but the sight of my steaming socks made them a little unsure as to what to do. The polite course of action would have been to move along the bench, whilst covering the offending digits. However, my needs were stronger than theirs so I stood my ground, mentally defying them to challenge me. Eventually they moved away, muttering amongst themselves. I know it is incredibly childish, but I couldn't have cared less to be honest. If my feet were not given the chance to cool down for the final leg of the journey, I would have caught fire before we had reached the visitors centre. I'm sure Steve was more than a little embarrassed by my actions but was too much of a gentleman to point this out. He was probably more than aware that it was more than his life was worth at this stage, and did the gentlemanly thing of keeping very quiet.

The drive to the rope bridge only lasted for a few minutes, but that precious time was used to calm my feet down courtesy of the cooling system. En route we stopped off at Whitepark Bay. The sign was barely visible at the roadside, but we were more than up for a visit to anything along this coastline. It was one of the premiere areas of Northern Ireland, which meant there were likely to be more than a few hidden gems. This one was no exception. The car park area was virtually none existent, but Steve espied a very narrow overgrown track leading down to the beach. It was incredibly overgrown, with the foliage growing to head height in places. I wasn't really wearing the right shoes for this trek – the thought of sand inside rubbing against sweaty feet was one which set off alarm bells, so I perched on a rock half way down whilst Steve continued down onto the beach itself. Once again, it went on for miles with the surrounding hills forming a backdrop. Once again, we were the only ones in the area, although I was passed at one stage by a mother and daughter posse. The mum must have been in her late 70's, if not older, but she was tackling the sandy decline as if it wasn't there. I really do have to take my hat off to the Irish lasses – heck do they make 'em strong. I bet the blokes really do quake in their shoes at times. It seems they are being outdone both physically and mentally by the fairer sex. I reckon in England we have still got some way to go before we are the totally dominant sex, but this appears to have been the norm for some time in Ireland. Girl Power at its finest eh?

The tourist information blurb at the top of the hill had made mention of the fact that the area was renowned for its natural fossils, these being visible on the beach at low tides. Early settlers had left their mark in the form of megalithic burial sites, hidden by the foliage around us. Yet another place of immense beauty, warranting hardly a mention in the literature. I had to wonder if there had been many other such sites we had missed because they were so remote, warranting just a small roadside directional sign? Hunstanton and Skegness were never going to be in the same league, so each and everyone we encountered we hoped to stop at.

The rope bridge was another popular attraction for this area, but not one I had heard of before. It seems that the Causeway has overshadowed it somewhat, but there were enough visitors to the area for us to realise this was a very popular site with tourists.

The literature once again portrayed this in its best light. As usual, with all scenic photographs the sun was shining, and the sea was a wonderful blue. The only thing missing from the picture was a school of basking dolphins. The rope bridge itself looked quite long, with a huge drop to the ocean below.

It was therefore a little disappointing to see that the bridge itself only spanned a distance of approximately 70 feet. Years ago it had been nothing more than a bit of string with some slats across the base, allowing the fisherman access to the island where they fished for salmon. In 2000 it had been re-enforced with steel and sturdy wood supports, thus making it totally safe for hoards of visitors to walk across each and every day the bridge was open. The drop to the water below was probably 100 feet, give or take, making for a huge belly flop should someone topple over.

In fairness to the literature, they had provided many photographs from different angles, so the sheer magnitude of the bridge was evident. It's just a shame that things always look larger in photographs for some reason.

Steve was once again in his element. This was a unique experience for both of us, and although it wasn't in the same league as maybe some rope bridges in Central America, it was the first one we had ever encountered.

There was surprisingly little movement as you walked along, possibly due to the amount of people using it at any one time, backed up by the steel supports within the rope.

Either way, the water below, gave an indication that it would not exactly welcome anyone with open arms should they decide to brave a jump from here. Although it was indeed a wonderful shade of aquamarine, it didn't look that deep, but the jagged rocks lurking below the surface looked incredibly sharp.

The view from the island was breathtaking. This small rock somehow felt more spiritual to me than the Causeway had. It was steeped in its own history, tied in with the fishermen who had been visiting for many, many years. I had to admire the fact that the cost of entry to both attractions had been quite reasonable. It seems the Irish are content to make a profit from their visitors without actually ripping them off. Once on the island, I sat quietly whilst Steve dashed around taking photographs from all angles. The sky had clouded over somewhat, although it was still relatively warm. I was just praying it wouldn't rain: I was wearing tie dyed blue trousers which would create for some amazing skin tones should the skies decide to even shed two drops of rain in my direction. They were a good idea at the time, but perhaps not the most practical item of clothing to wear in a country, which seems to have rain on a daily basis.

Whilst Steve scrambled over people to get the best photo opportunities, I browsed through the leaflets we had collected during the day. It struck me that we had visited quite a few Heritage Sites whilst in Ireland, whereby we may have been better off actually joining the organisation. Not only would it allow us entry into the ones we had seen in Ireland, but also there were more than a few back in England we could visit. A mental note was made to do this. Not only would it encourage us to go out more often and visit areas of beauty, instead of plumping for a shopping trip in Peterborough, it would also contribute towards the cost of maintaining these areas. Ironically there were loads of them dotted around England, with the exception of the Peterborough area, which resembled something akin to the Bermuda Triangle. There was nothing for miles within a radius of approximately 20 miles that had been classed as a Heritage Site. Luckily we didn't live too far from the Peak District which would make for a lovely weekend break, should we actually get our backsides into gear when we returned home.

There were hundreds of birds circling the area, but we had been warned well and truly to stay away from them. Apparently if they feel threatened they have a tendency to spit fish oil at the unsuspecting trespasser. In fairness, there was absolutely no chance of getting within metres of them, bearing in mind their nesting grounds were built into the cliff faces around us. If someone had managed to get close whereby they were then covered in fish oil, the least I would expect is a box of Milk Tray to be left behind. The area was supposedly populated by puffins amongst the numerous species mentioned. I thought I had seen a couple in the distance, but couldn't be sure. A notice had been placed at the entrance to the bridge stating a couple of dolphins had been seen. This obviously caused some excitement for those crossing the bridge, but in fairness there was no indication as to exactly when or where they had been seen. I didn't even bother looking – everything seems to be clear off when I'm in the area. Must be my aura or something. I've even taken to sniffing my armpits occasionally just in case I am giving off some sort of pheromone. I wanted to let people around me know this, but they seemed to be enjoying the thought that they might be able to see a dolphin or two in the distance. Why burst their bubble for them?

Another couple had sat on the grass near to me, and within a few minutes I decided to strike up a conversation with them. Once again, Steve was probably cringing with embarrassment but that didn't bother me. They appeared to have Australian accents, which meant they had travelled a considerable distance in order to sit on a rock. Nope, there had to be more than that to their story, and I was intrigued as to how they had made their way to this remote part of Ireland.

"Hi there. Great view isn't it?"

The female immediately responded, paving the way for an interesting discussion.

"Yeah it's lovely."

"I'm guessing you are from Australia. What has bought you to this end of the world then?"  
"We're backpacking around Europe for 7 months."

This immediately caught Steve's attention, as we were planning a 9-week holiday whereby we were going to be tacking rucksacks instead of suitcases.

The conversation was most enlightening, and helped us with our future plans. They had hated the part of Thailand they had visited, (Bankok being the main offender) but had loved Scotland. They had allowed themselves just a week in which to tour the coast of Ireland, using public transport the whole way. This was going to be a tough one for them to achieve. I have no idea about the infrastructure of public transport in Ireland, but I suspected it was not going to be that expansive or regular. There are two time zones from what I have gathered: slow and stop. If you also take into account the amount there is to see in the area, they would have to miss out on quite a few key areas in order to achieve their goal.

"So what would you say about the Youth Hostels then?" I asked, knowing we would be using more than a few on the forthcoming holiday.

"The ones over here are great, but the Scottish ones are a bit big."

"And how much have you packed for the holiday?"

This was a key question. Whatever they had packed for 7 months would probably be applicable for a 9-week holiday, assuming you would have to do some regular laundering where possible.

"We both have got 55 litre rucksacks. You get by with a few shirts and stuff, but loads of underwear."

This really got my mind buzzing. What exactly constituted 'loads of underwear'? Bearing in mind they were total strangers, albeit friendly strangers, I just couldn't bring myself to go into the details of exactly how many knickers and bras to pack. Naturally I wanted to know if she had packed any make up and such like, but they were here to see the scenery, not to answer stupid questions fired to them by a total stranger about clothing etc. The last thing I wanted was for them to tell the folks back home about this pervy English woman they had countered, who wanted to talk about their underwear. In the end, we listened to the stories they told us about some of the countries they had visited to date. I had to take my hat off to them. They were totally without transport, and the only possessions they had were those they could carry on their backs. With this, they had taken off on a 7-month adventure, not really knowing where they were going to be from one day to the next. This is how Steve likes to live, but I prefer just a little more structure. This is all borne out of insecurity I know, but unexpected mishaps tend to really affect me. Eventually we had to bid farewell to both our new found Aussie friends, and the island which had been our home for the last hour.

However, I was kicking myself as we reached the bridge for the return journey – there had been one unasked important question. Just how good were these Tim Tams??

The queue to get back onto the mainland was quite long, but it did allow us some amazing views of the waters and rocks below. The only time I had ever seen water this clear had been in Cornwall, around the area of Tintagel Castle.

Eventually the reason for the holdup became clear. An elderly Irish guy was making his way along the bridge towards, totally on his own. He was muttering away to himself, whilst holding onto the rope for dear life. His knuckles were whiter than the rope itself, which gave the impression his grip was so strong, some DNA must have been exchanged between the rope and himself. I was expecting people to be frustrated by the delay, (the guy was obviously nervous and had dug deep to make the journey) but instead he was greeted with huge cheers when he eventually made it. This then led to the biggest grin I have ever seen on anyone, with a few hands being shaken as he made his way past us onto the rock itself. This guy certainly had some courage to do this. I'm not sure that he realised the rope bridge was more likely to sway with just himself on it, but he conquered it never the less.

It was with regret we had to leave the Antrim coastline, as we headed towards Belfast. We had another clear day before we had to be in Banbridge for my cousin's wedding. It had been some time since we had been shopping in Cork, and I was getting to the stage whereby I needed a nice easy day whereby I wouldn't have to put my poor old legs through yet more exertion.

However, the more pressing need was to find a bed for the night. Although we hadn't seen that many in the far north, we were hoping we would come across a few more as we approached the heart of the North.

However, it was this leg of the journey that made us feel the most uncomfortable. We were aware that great attempts were being made to unify communities in the north, as part of the ongoing peace process. To help with this, it is now illegal to fly paramilitary flags or similar. However, we still found ourselves driving through very obvious loyalist areas. Even Steve was amazed at the intensity of emotion. The kerbstones were painted in red white and blue stripes, with flags and union jacks flying from most houses, or forming bunting across the streets. I was very aware of the fact that we had Dublin index plates on our car, and that we were in the minority of one in each area we visited. We were going to have to be very careful where we decided to spend the night. Although we were English, it would be obvious to one and all that we were tourists. However, an empty car parked at night may tell a different story. We had signed a contract offering to pay quite a bit towards any damage caused to the car. I had no intention of inviting such damage by parking it in public, in the wrong area. Although Steve had started off quite confidently, even he began to have the same concerns. We had been greeted very warmly at a local Pizza Hut, whereby the food and service had surpassed any we had received back in England at similar establishments. The waitresses had all clubbed together in order to help us find a suitable hotel, and we couldn't thank them enough for their support. However the hotels were on the main road in this particular town (and I am kicking myself for not making a note of it), which meant the car would be parked on the main road. The risk was not worth taking, so with heavy hearts we decided to travel further afield. Eventually, by pure chance, I saw a tiny battered tin sign by the roadside, indicating the presence of a Bed & Breakfast somewhere across the fields. This was going to be well off the main road, and hopefully away from any potential tension. We followed the signs for what seemed like miles, but in fact was no more than about two miles before we pulled into a driveway leading to a large house. The fields around us were awesome, the nearest ones housing some horses grazing lazily on the lush grass. Somehow, by default we had found ourselves in a town called Carrikfergus.

The first thing we were greeted by was a dopey eyed, long eared cocker spaniel. It wombled up to us from the direction of the house, it's tiny stumpy tail going mad at the rear end of its body. I was a little wary though for two reasons. This breed of dog can be a bit temperamental, so I wasn't about to start stroking it, just in case it took a dislike to the colour of my nail varnish or something. They are also incredibly excitable, and prone to urinating uncontrollably wherever they happen to be. We still had a few days of travelling ahead of us, which meant I was not keen to let it too near the car in case the upholstery took a hammering. Believe me, when they start they can't stop. (Typical guy then really). Apparently, according to Steve, when men start to urinate they have to continue until the very lost drop. He has a great admiration for the female species, whereby he assumes we can stop and start at will. This is very true, but does not apply when you are a passenger in a car, whereby within five miles of leaving the house there is an urgent requirement to find a ladies loo.

As things progressed, we soon learned that the wee fellow was actually very friendly, and often welcomed visitors to the Bed & Breakfast, long before we were seen by the owners.

Within a few minutes the owner, an amiable gentleman who welcomed us with a smile and a twinkle, welcomed us. He had gotten used to the fact his dog was always going to be there first to welcome his guests. His accent was somehow familiar, but at the same time I couldn't quite place it. We had only just arrived, so it would have been rude to ask him such a blunt question of 'where are you from then mate' but a mental note was made to ask him over breakfast. We were pleased to see that we were not the only visitors to the establishment. I was amazed that anyone would ever find it to be honest. Unless you knew the area, it was more than likely that the sign on the main road indicating its presence would be missed. However, it had been spotted by a couple of Swiss guys, who ironically were driving a car with Dublin registration plates. Rather alarmingly, their car was sporting a very impressive dent on the rear fender area. No doubt there was a story behind it, but once again it is not the sort of thing to open a conversation with. However, a conversation had to be on the cards. I was very curious to know how and why two men from Switzerland were in this part of Ireland. We had only stumbled upon it by chance, choosing this particular road to take us to Belfast.

As the owner showed us to our room, we realised how lucky we had been to stumble across him when we did.

"Did you have a good journey here then?" he asked.

"We sure did. Had loads of problems finding a B & B though. You don't seem to have that many in Northern Ireland."

"Oh that we don't, no. In fact we have got around 6 in this part of Ireland you know."

This totally astounded me. We had gone from finding 6 to every square inch, to 6 in the whole of Antrim. A slight exaggeration I know, but that is how we felt. I was now realising we had come very close to actually having to spend a night in the car after all. This part of Ireland is seriously going to have to get its finger out if it wants to encourage tourism. As it stands at the moment, if it hadn't been for the fact we had a wedding to attend, we may never have ventured over the border. Certainly if the Causeway and rope bridge had been in the South, I reckon the tourism to the area would drop significantly.

"Yes, and you were lucky to come by when you did. I'm fully booked from next week, right the way through to the end of August."

Heck this guy had been very shrewd with his advertising. Not only was he fully booked, indicating that he had advertised somewhere, most of the visitors in that time were coming over from Spain and Portugal. The mind really does boggle, but he was certainly making the most of the invention of the Internet, and who could blame him?

Naturally we struck up a conversation as to where we had been, and where we were going. The Irish love to give advice and recommendations of where to visit, and this guy was no exception. The Folk museum in Belfast featured highly on his recommendation list. I did glance over at Steve at this point, knowing full well he would not go near the place, but he was nodding in the right places, and making the right noises to show his interest.

"And of course you have to go to Belleek in Fermanagh."

"Well, we weren't planning on venturing that far in land," I explained.

"Oh well that's a shame. You can find a place there where you can actually be in the north and the south at the same time."

What followed was a story of how they locals had never actually decided where the border should run. This apparently had led to a petrol station having one pump displaying the prices in Euros, with the other displaying prices in English Stirling. This really did sound too intriguing and would have made for one of the best photographs of the holiday. However, there was no way I was prepared to travel half way across the country, just to witness something that may have had its origin in folklore as opposed to fact. I have checked the maps since then, and it does appear that this tiny town is in fact situated on the border itself. I just had to wonder at the prices of the petrol though. If he had followed the lead of the south, and had charged their prices, he would have people coming from miles around. It had been a real shock to find that we were back to paying the same as we had in England.

The night in the Bed & Breakfast turned out to be a sombre affair, as I learned that an Aunt of mine had died a couple of days earlier. We knew she had a terminal illness, but the news still hit me hard. This was the lowest I had felt all holiday, and was at a loss as to what to do. Steve did the right thing though, and just held me all night. We didn't need to say anything between us, as the hug had said it all.

The atmosphere the following morning at breakfast was still sombre, but I knew there was nothing I could do to bring her back. I managed to put my woes behind me as we chatted to the Swiss tourists over a hearty breakfast. (Once again it was made up of their tiny sausages, copious slices of toast and beans). They too had felt uncomfortable driving around the area with Dublin registration plates, and had been happy to chance upon the same Bed & Breakfast. They appeared to be quite knowledgeable of the troubles in Ireland, a point that impressed me immensely. I could not name one thing of interest about Switzerland, other than the fact it produces the second best chocolate in the world and has a lot of snow. However, they knew a lot of the history of the area, and had quite a depth of knowledge relating to the 'troubles'. They had the same outlook as us though: we can never ever appreciate or understand the intricacies as we have not been born and bred in this country. Their experience had been a little more uncomfortable than ours though. On one occasion they had stopped an elderly gentleman with the intention of asking for directions, but they were totally ignored. The guy they stopped refused to speak to them. This is very out of character for the Irish, so they could only assume it had been because of the car they were driving at the time.

It was over breakfast I was at last able to place the accent of our host. Whilst the lady of the house was Irish through and through, the host originated from Manchester. This had led to a very interesting mixed accent indeed, and one which no doubt had very visitor a little puzzled before they summoned up the courage to ask where he came from.

We had decided to visit the infamous Belfast zoo that morning, so with GPS satellite navigation system at the ready we set off. This gadget of Steve's had got us out of many a pickle, and today was no exception. The roads were not obviously signposted, although we did pass one or two of the infamous roads seen on many a news report back in the early 1980's. The zoo was highlighted on the GPS system, but the Irish had decided it didn't warrant its own signpost until you were virtually outside the front gates. I have been to Belfast before, and enjoyed the visit to the city centre. However, the outskirts were very drab, highlighting the difference in economy to that of the South. We had driven hundreds of miles between Dublin and Donegal, and yet we had never seen any estate or run down area. This was a contrast to what we had been seeing over the last two days or so. I have to wonder how much of this has been down to the fact the South has a thriving tourist industry for many years now. I just hoped the north followed in the same way some time soon; there are so many areas of beauty to be witnessed.

The zoo wasn't exactly an area of designated beauty, but it was well worth the visit. In fairness it couldn't really be classed as being of an international standard, due to the fact it was rather tiny. However, some of the animals we saw more than made up for the fact. It was also obvious that the Irish have a soft spot for those quirky characters in their care.

The elephants have their own regular pedicure. I kid you not. Their feet are soaked, stones removed, and the nails filed. I just had visions of them asking for a French finish occasionally, or comparing shades of nail varnish.

Then there was the case of Tommy the colobus monkey. Looking at his face you wouldn't appreciate the fact he is a bit of a love stud. Most of the females have borne his offspring, putting to rest the concerns of the keepers that he had no interest in the ladies around him.

Basically he had been provided with his own harem, and had well and truly risen to the challenge so to speak. Most of the blokes reading the scenario didn't know whether to be envious or whether to sympathise with him. Those who had sex on their birthday and twice at Christmas were definitely looking daggers at him. Those who were with young women were just sadly shaking their heads, mentally offering their sympathies for the fact he was expected to perform on demand. Either way Tommy was taking all of this in his stride. His genes were not in danger of being phased out, a fact he seemed to take pride in.

My favourite story though, related to one of the Chimps. As we all know, they are the nearest in DNA and appearance to us humans. Not only do they have similar characteristics, but they also share some of our emotions and attitudes. These wee fur balls undoubtedly ran rings around their keepers, but each day would bring about a new and fun filled challenge for all involved. If I had the chance of swapping my desk job for this, I would not give it more than a nanosecond's thought before telling my boss to take a hike.

Angela the elderly chimpanzee had found a way to totally bypass the established system. As with other animals at the zoo she required intravenous medication. Being diabetic this was vital for her existence, but every time a needle was produced she legged it. Others had been conditioned that if they accepted the prick of the needle, they would be rewarded with some nice food. Angela's attitude was to say 'shove it, not interested," which did prove a problem for the keepers.

Eventually, by chance they realised she would take the medication if it was incorporated into a sweet drink. The end result? A lifetime supply of Pepsi Max and vetinary care, free of charge. Sugary drinks were not the answer due to the danger they posed to her teeth. Luckily for everyone concerned she was more than a little partial to Pepsi Max, which meant her tablet could be broken down and mixed with the drink. The company now sponsor her care, with the story being displayed for all visitors to see. This was one smart chimp indeed: I had to wonder if her playmates were now plotting similar schemes themselves. Surely they had seen that Angela now avoided her regular injections, and at the same time was being spoiled rotten.

If not, I had to doubt if they really were as intelligent as the experts have been claiming all these years.

The highlight of the trip was our visit to the Gorilla enclosure. For those of you who have read about my exploits in Canada, and a subsequent visit to Toronto Zoo, you will know I have a real soft spot for these gentle giants of the animal kingdom. I am a real sucker for any animal that is misunderstood and mistreated, which in effect stretches to an awful lot of them. (The human species really does have a lot to answer for). This area was fairly quiet, which meant we could actually get close up to the glass separating the enclosure from the visitors area. However, as soon as I looked through, my breath caught in my throat. On the other side of the grass, no more than 6 feet away from where I was standing, was a silverback. He was totally at ease with the fact he had two pairs of eyes gawping at him, and was unphased by the camera activity that dutifully followed. This creature was truly magnificent. His body rippled with hidden strength and power, his arms as wide as small tree trunks. This animal could kill either of us with one blow if necessary, but there was a sense that he wanted to just live an unthreatened existence. By now the sun was blazing down over us all, which indicated it was a good time for a siesta. Without as much as a word of apology the gorilla stretched out across the rock in front of us, it's legs spread out at an angle of approximately 120 degrees. If there had been any doubt that this creature was a male, this position confirmed it. Why is it that men feel the need to display their genitalia in such a fashion, every time they feel the need to relax? What is wrong with a gentle crossing of the legs?

This was compounded even more when he moved one hand down to between his legs, and proceeded to have a good scratch. This was just one thing too much for me to bear, so I stopped photographing. Steve however was in his element and continued snapping away with the camera. I was just grateful he had a digital camera, with no need to make a trip to Boots to have the photos developed. One look at this, and he would have been accused of being a pervert of the worst proportions.

The gorilla was in his element the whole time. His eyes were closed, with a total look of contentment on his face.

Eventually we left him in peace so that he could have a good scratch in private. The next enclosure was to produce yet more gasps from us both.

My out and out favourite animal is the Siberian tiger. It doesn't matter how many times I see one, I still feel totally overawed and insignificant in comparison. The fact these beautiful creatures are all but extinct in the wild is a travesty. Believe me, at times I am so ashamed to be human, when I see how we are stuffing the world up around us.

This particular enclosure did not have a Siberian tiger but had one of its rare cousins, and one I had never seen before – the white tiger. Rather frustratingly it was lounging at the rear of its enclosure, oblivious to the fact that there were a couple of mad English people who wanted to take photographs of it, and see it at close quarters. This is common in most zoos. The animals know what is asked of them and do the total opposite, spending most of their time as far away as possible from the tourists. In fairness I could sympathise with them. We had found ourselves caught up behind a school of young children aged around 9 years or so. There were hundreds of them. Well, this was a slight exaggeration but that is how it felt. To be really honest they were a total pain in the neck. Wherever a sign was displayed begging people not to bang the glass around the enclosures, they did the opposite. I was so close on more than one occasion to lifting one of the brats up and chucking them over the walls or cages. In fact I was half hoping the zoo had a suggestion box nearby. I was going to strongly recommend they form another enclosure for those kids who made everyone's visit a nightmare as these were doing. Now I know I am being a party pooper here. I can almost see you, the reader tutting at me and asking if I had forgotten what it was it was like to be an excited schoolboy or girl out on a trip. Well the honest truth is no I haven't. The difference was I was still controllable at that age, whereas these kids had obviously had too many 'e' numbers in their diets. Each of them wore a yellow cap, which did help with identification. We did hop over them and made our way to another exhibit in order to avoid them. Whenever we saw a yellow cap heading towards us we would hot foot it to the next, and so on. This did work quite well as a strategy but it did confirm my sound judgement in deciding not to have any children of my own. I would no doubt be hauled up for cruelty for not letting them have sweets or food with additives in.

With their behaviour in mind, I could not blame any animal for staying as far away as possible from the viewing areas.

Although the zoo was quite small in comparison to other city zoos, it was well laid out with some easily identified trails to follow. Most zoos give the visitors a map of sorts, which usually bears no resemblance to the lay out or scale of the zoo itself. This one in fairness was quite good, and even the worst map reader would have no trouble in navigating around the various display areas. My main gripe (other than the fact kids were running riot in the area) was the fact that some of the enclosures did look a little small. I appreciate we are not able to provide an area the size of the Masai Mara region for each species, but nevertheless, one or two of the cages looked small. Some of these animals can roam for miles across their home territory. Here, they would have no choice but to pace around in a circle, with little or no opportunity to break out into a run. I do find my emotions going in two directions when it comes to visiting a zoo. On one hand I feel that the animals are not given the space and dignity they deserve, whereas on the other hand I appreciate they may be the only places left in the long term whereby they have not been hunted into extinction.

The zoo had definitely been worth the visit but in fairness it was not an attraction that warranted a whole day of dedication. We therefore found ourselves with plenty of time in which to visit the town centre. Although it is the capital city of this part of Ireland the town centre itself was probably not much bigger than Peterborough. Once again we headed for the outward-bound type shops, in the vain search for the perfect rucksack. In fairness Steve did come across one he was incredibly tempted to get, but was content to look it up on the Internet first to see what the reviews were like. Once again we were met with the hard sell technique (what is it about these shops whereby the assistants will sell their own grandmothers in order to make a profit) but settled for a poncho and rucksack holder. This woman had probably never worked this hard before, in order to just sell £10 worth of goods. Steve absolutely hates the hard sell techniques, having been forced into doing the same back in his student days, and would have not bought the rucksack even if it had been the last one left within Great Britain.

Rather surprisingly one or two of the shops did not allow general access. Instead potential customers had to ring a bell in order to be allowed access. We had a hard job understanding the reason behind this. I doubt if it was because they can't cope with a mad rush. Each time this happened, we were the only people inside the shop browsing around. Having said that I did feel somewhat vulnerable. It was as if every camera and security system was following us around, right up until the time we left. The good thing though was the fact we were not hassled the second we stepped over the threshold. We were allowed to look around without any interruption, which again did feel somewhat strange.

Heading out of Belfast proved to be a lottery. Thankfully we had the GPS system so we had an idea which way south was supposed to be. Other than that, the roads and towns were not particularly well signposted. I had to feel sorry for any poor sod that found themselves driving around Belfast for three days in a vain attempt to find a way out of it. In the main we felt comfortable and safe bearing in mind the fact we were driving a car with Dublin number plates. We were still in a very small minority, but not totally alone: I had seen two other cars like ours in the zoo car park as we left. However, without warning we would find ourselves in a loyalist area, the roadsides being marked with the red white and blue stripes. Our emotions would change just as quickly, and I knew without having to look at him, that Steve was keen to get out as soon as possible. I had to wonder how long it would be before true peace was apparent throughout this land, whereby the insignia around us would be just a memory for the old folks to talk about across a pint in their locals.

It was with some relief we found ourselves outside of Belfast, and once again on the quieter roads. Mosquitoes had bitten me over the last few days, something that both surprised and annoyed me. Whereas the mosquitoes in Canada had left welts the size of footballs on my legs, their Irish cousins had decided to be a bit kinder. The bites did not come up as big, but the still itched like hell. The only problem was the location of the bites. Whereas the previous ones had decided to go for the leg area, these insects had decided to feast on areas of my body, which didn't display as much flesh. Therefore my forehead, neck and face area was dotted with tiny mounds, all of them being a fetching shade of red. At the least I looked as though I had an outbreak of spots (which never ever happens) or at the worst, I had contracted measles. Either way I was far from being a happy teddy. The wedding was only a day away, and I knew my make up was not heavy-duty enough to cope with the marks that had been left behind. To be very honest, I hadn't even been aware of mosquitoes flying around my head since we had left Donegal. And I certainly couldn't recall any sensations of actually being bitten. Of course it goes without saying that Steve hadn't had a single bite. However, this didn't stop him coming up with his own theory, which on this occasion out did any previous suggestions.

"You know why you've been bitten around that are don't you?"

"Er, no I can't say I do," I replied. I had already gone through my toiletries to see if any contained a particular perfume they homed in on. One had in fact contained honey but I kept that quiet. The last thing I wanted was Steve declaring the "I told you so" routine. Besides which this product had been used as a shower gel, which meant my whole body had been smothered in the stuff. This therefore would not have explained why it was only the neck and head area that had been affected.

"Well, to be honest it's dead obvious," he said, in that annoying way men have of making us women feel totally.......thick really.

"Go on, enlighten me then."

"Well, it's because of the necklace you're wearing. It's got amber in it, and they midgies are all trying to make contact with the long lost relative they may have lost to the stuff years ago. The memory is still in the DNA and they are stressed, thus the fact they are biting you."

With this, I was left speechless. I wanted to come back with a quick retort, but words just failed me. The moment then passed where it would have appeared to be quick and cutting. I glanced over to see if he had a smug grin, but he was still staring at the road ahead. If only I could read his mind. Either he was trying to think laterally, or he was trying to be funny.

To this day I don't know if he was serious or having a laugh at my expense.

Within a few miles though, we were both laughing, but this time it was with disbelief. The road markings as already described, are the same as ours. Therefore yellow lines were aplenty. However, as we approached Banbridge we came across a pelican type crossing. The lines ended at the perpendicular white line marking the actual crossing itself. Someone had taken advantage of this, and had actually parked on the crossing itself. Any pedestrian would have been forced into walking around the front of the car in order to get to the other side of the road. Either they had spotted a loophole in the legislation or they had broken down. Either way it was the worst case of parking I had ever seen. Whereas I would have been ranting and raving, the Irish just took it in their stride. Okay it meant having to walk a few extra paces, but this didn't really bother them. I just hoped a blind person didn't chance upon the crossing – it would have made for a potentially nasty accident.

Before long we found ourselves in the small town of Banbridge. This town was so familiar to me, having visited the area a few years previously. All the shops felt comfortingly familiar, the road layout immediately re-igniting my memories. It was a delight to point out Fred Elliott's butchers to Steve. He had been around for donkey's years, but had been overshadowed by his namesake on Coronation Street. My aunt had worked there for many years before deciding it was time to move on. However, he still was the victim of tourist visits, who often went away with a souvenir photograph of the time they had visited Fred Elliott the butcher.

Our Bed & Breakfast had been booked for two nights, thus taking the pressure off us. The village of Lawrencetown was on the outskirts of Banbridge, within easy driving distance. At the time of booking I was interested in just finding something close by. Steve wanted to have a drink at the wedding, but I was more than happy to drive. Therefore the fact it was out of town didn't really matter too much to us. Having seen how infrequent B & B's appear in this part of Ireland I had fast realised that beggars cannot be choosers. The landlady Esther was on hand to greet us, and within minutes we were comfortably set up for the night. She had been told the whole story of the impending wedding at the time of booking and was genuinely interested in hearing where it was to be held, and my relationship to the groom. I have always been amazed at how many people actually know my Aunt, who has lived in Banbridge most of her life. As soon as I said her name, and the fact that she used to work at the butchers, Esther made the connection. My cousin and his bride to be paid us a visit later that evening. Even though they were getting married the next day, they appeared totally calm and relaxed. It was as if it were just another day in their lives together. Honestly, I have put more effort into a planned shopping trip than they were putting into last minute arrangements. I know most brides of her age would have been running around in a blind panic, wondering if their nail varnish was likely to chip before they made it to the ceremony. However, Katie was totally unfazed by the events she was to face in less than 24 hours. We spent two hours chatting about the holiday in general, my cousin keenly pointing out a few other attractions we might want to visit before heading back to the airport.

We weren't expecting their visit, and had just got out of the shower, ready to partake in some bedroom Olympics. The knock at the door took us completely by surprise. I yelled out that I was in the shower whilst Steve threw on some clothes. A couple of minutes later we greeted them, a towel wrapped around my hair by way of proof that I had in fact been in the shower. I reckon I had underestimated my cousin though: he knew exactly what had been going on and make a huge joke of it, much to my embarrassment. He is 9 years younger than I am, and it wasn't that long ago he was running around in nappies. To hear him joke about us being caught in mid shag sounded really strange. I couldn't have been more embarrassed if he had actually walked in whilst we were at it.

We really had a great two hours chatting and laughing about what had happened, but I was very conscious of the time, and the fact that other guests were in neighbouring rooms. Steve followed them out to apologise to the landlady for the inconvenience. We had read a sign discouraging visitors, and there we were on our very first night having a mini party in our room. She soon forgave us for the intrusion, but I still felt bad about it for the remainder of the night. We had another night yet to spend at the Bed & Breakfast. The last thing I wanted to do was upset the very person who was looking after us for the duration.

Top Tips:

1. If you wish to tour areas of Belfast invest in a decent map of the area. The street signs and road warnings are not adequate for anyone who has lived for less than 15 years in the capital.

2. If you have time, consider a visit to the zoo. Some of the quirky stories linked to some of the animals are very endearing.

3. Leave a good whole day for Belfast if you want to do it justice. We had only taken in the shopping areas. The town is full of history and offers a lot to those who wish to learn about its past, including the building of the Titanic.

## Chapter 8 – An Irish Wedding

The day of the wedding dawned sunny and clear. We had left our clothes hanging overnight in the vain hope that most of the creases would drop out. They had been dragged in and out of a suitcase so often, the creases had multiplied beyond belief. I knew Esther would lend us an iron if the need arose, but I didn't want to inconvenience her any more than necessary.

This wedding was going to be a great opportunity to meet up with some family members I hadn't seen since my mum's funeral in May. A lot of the family from England had been invited over, but only three of us had decided to make the trip. An Uncle from Swindon was making his first ever visit to the area, whilst my 92 year old grandmother was intending to stay on for a few weeks, turning the trip into a holiday. What a game old girl she is. I am so proud to have her as my gran. She has the energy levels of a teenager, and puts most of us to shame with her mental agility. I had taken her shopping whereby she hadn't visited the town for a number of years. However, within minutes of leaving the car park she made a beeline for the clothes shop she had visited years earlier, remembering exactly where it was, who ran it, and the name of her children. Her sense of humour has steadily improved over the years, to the extent she is not adverse to hearing or telling a dirty joke or two. Although she is slightly wobbly on her legs these days, that will not be enough to stop her from walking as often as she can. As long as she has an elbow to hold onto, she will rocket off at a great rate of knots, leaving lesser mortals in her wake. Although she used to be a right royal battle axe (bringing up 7 kids to know the difference between right and wrong, or else!) she has mellowed a lot over the years. Occasionally she will still bark at one of her boys, even though they range from 50 – 75 years old now, but for some reason I can get away with quite a lot. This I do use to my advantage. If she has been slightly naughty, and been too independent, I can get away with pointing this out to her. If one of her own children had done the same, they would have had their ears chewed off for days afterwards. I know I am one of her favourite grandchildren, and use it to my advantage if I feel she needs to have something pointed out to her. Basically she is terrific, and I love her to bits. She had even had them crying in the aisles at the post office when she had applied for the passport in order to make the trip. They are only available in the 10-year format these days, a fact she thought highly amusing. She would be in the minority of 90 year olds applying for a 10-year passport. Having said that, I would have money on her seeing it expire.

Steve had met a few times, and had also become very fond of her. He had never really had a relationship with his own grandparents, but was able to experience some of the warmth through my Nan.

We had quite a few hours to kill before the ceremony, so decided to stop by the bungalow where everyone was staying. This was to be the first time Steve had met my two Uncles, and I was a little apprehensive as to what he was going to think of them. I love them both to bits, but one in particular was a bit of a handful. He loves to be the centre of attention and will come out with some comments that can be inappropriate, supported by the odd 'fuck'. To those who don't know him, he is uncouth and rude. To those who do know him, he has a huge heart, gets on great with any children, and will move heaven and earth for those close to him.

My concerns were unfounded though: Steve saw him for what he was and threw back the banter with a smile. The groom was as relaxed as he had been the previous evening. It was less than two hours to the ceremony, yet here was Andy, in the living room with us all, having a fag and a cup of tea. It was only Steve and myself who had dressed up ready for the wedding. To say I felt a bit naff would be an understatement. The dress I had chosen had been a good idea at the time, and had fitted quite nicely. 10 days and 10 Irish breakfasts later, my waist had expanded somewhat. I now looked as though I was desperately trying to hide the early stages of a pregnancy, and failing somewhat in the process.

The only person really missing from the get-together was the owner of the house. Mavis is my uncle's mother-in-law and is the head of the household. However she was nowhere to be seen. I just assumed having met Uncle Paul the previous evening, she was in a state of recovery somewhere, possibly having brandy fed intravenously to quell the twitches that would have set in soon after the introductions.

With an hour or so to go, we made or goodbyes to our hosts and headed into town. We had some time left to have a look in the shops before making our way to the Civic Hall. Andy had recommended a few outdoor shops, these being put on our mental list of ones to visit.

Banbridge town centre is situated in one main street, so it was just a case of walking up one side then down the other. The wedding was to take place at 1.00pm with the meal being served at 5.30pm. With this in mind we decided to find somewhere to eat, but struggled for somewhere we could actually sit down to a full meal. In the end we settled for a round of sandwiches each, hoping it would at least stop our stomachs grumbling in stereo whilst they took the vows. The Civic Hall was quite a majestic building, lending itself to the ceremonies that took place.

Most of the guests arrived in good time, all dressed to the nines as is befitting such an occasion. Even the odd hat was in evidence. It was great seeing my old Nan again, having last seen her at my Mum's funeral. That had really knocked the stuffing out of her, whereby she lost most of her spark and drive. However, she had returned to her usual fighting form and looked an absolute picture. We helped her up to the second floor where the ceremony was to take place. It was the strangest set up I have ever encountered for a wedding ceremony, whereby I had a sneaky suspicion the room also doubled as a courtroom.

Even more worrying was the fact it was now 2 minutes to kick off with no sign of the main players. Yes, it is customary for the bride to be late, but for the groom and best man? I know things are a bit more laid back in Ireland, but surely they know when to get their finger out though? Traffic was not an issue, and we know they were up for it. Heck, it was only a couple of hours since we saw them chatting over a cuppa.

Were we going to be witness to a double no show? If that were to be the case, we would have a family story to live off for years to come. Everyone would be playing their part of being shocked and saddened but be honest – inside they would be dying to ring all and sundry to tell them the whole sordid story, with a few embellishments thrown in for good measure. And don't tut at this, you know it's true. It's the horror stories that are passed round the most. Who cares what the bride was wearing if there was juicy gossip to overshadow her big day. It is human nature to enjoy a catastrophe involving people they know, as long as nobody actually gets hurt.

"And would you believe it Catherine, they didn't show. I just knew from the start it was doomed, but would anyone listen to me?"

"Hey guess what Jack – she didn't turn up. Rumour has it she ran off with the stable boy after her hen night. Nobody has seen her since, but there was a lot of straw by her bed if you know what I mean."

Weddings in general are fairly boring and predictable, so we all love it when something happens to break the norm. Incredibly this had actually happened at my sister's wedding a few years ago. The groom and his two brothers ended up scrapping during the reception before one of them was chased all round Leighton Buzzard by the other two. An amazing floor show which did take everyone a little by surprise, but would have made a welcome change from seeing the kids trying to do Agadoo. I missed the whole thing alas, and was really pissed off with my brother who had the video camera and failed to tape it. He was blubbering away bemoaning the fact his sister's wedding had been ruined, whilst we all screamed at him to grow up – besides which he had lost the chance to earn £250 he could have got by sending it in to a well known TV show. Honestly, some people have no sense of priority. His excuse that the battery had run out did not fool any of us. He had screwed up a golden opportunity to immortalise a key moment which would never present itself again. He would have more chance of filming the Queen body popping than catching this sort of event again. Apparently it was quite a sight, and totally alcohol fuelled, with a crying bridesmaid thrown into the mix. (Apparently one of the brothers had chatted to her and it all went from there. The whole story got lost in the telling, but funnily enough the fight was remembered in fine detail).

Anyways, back to the wedding here in Banbridge. Nothing against Leighton Buzzard, but there is no story there trust me – as a town it is only vaguely more interesting than a verruca. Having given this a nanosecond of thought, I think I would take the verruca if offered the choice. You might think this is a bit harsh, and that residents will complain but trust me they won't. They won't have the energy or will to live needed to make such a complaint. I lived there for many years and know what I am talking about.....

Just as we were starting to panic, there was a clatter of noise coming up the stairs, closely followed by the sight of my Uncle and Andy dashing into the room. There was just 3 minutes left on the clock, but they had made it, albeit looking a little dishevelled. They spent a few seconds straightening ties, smoothing hair etc, before they took their places behind the main counter looking like frightened rabbits caught in headlights. Andy looked the slightly calmer of the two, but this was a big day for my uncle. He has no girls he has to give away, so being best man at his own son's wedding was an important issue. He is a shy man by nature and I could imagine he was already in shock mode at the idea of having to give a speech at the resulting reception. The tension was broke at that moment by my other Uncle who was standing behind us with the video camera at the ready. In a voice louder than he probably realised came the pearler:

"Well, he might as well say cheerio to sex now. Once he is married that is it – he ain't going to get it any more."

We have all heard the terms " if looks could kill" and "looking daggers" but they were nothing compared to the look he was given by his wife. I was smiling to myself, knowing that this was just how Paul was in all aspects of his life. The Queen Mum could have been sitting there next to him, it would have made no difference at all. He would have still said what he said, possibly louder just so that she could hear it properly. Remember I said he has a heart of gold. He would be sensitive to the fact she would be hard of hearing and would do all he could to compensate for that fact. His only concession to being in the presence of royalty would be the fact any 'fuck' would be replaced by 'bloody'.

Anyway, if we could have actually seen what was coming out of his wife's eyes, we would have been witnessing a psychic murder involving electrified barbed wire. What made it even more entertaining was he was totally oblivious to her anger, he was so intent on capturing the event on his camera. It must be such a common occurrence in their house, he just ignores it or lets it wash over him. I also wondered if he ever played the tape back and heard himself utter those words? I would guess not, as that would be another £250 in the bank. What is it with my family and missed financial incentives?

The quiet mutterings continued right up until the time the bride arrived shortly after the allotted time.

And then it was over.

Hang on a minute – I think I can read your minds here. What about the ceremony? What about everything that was said, the loving glances between the groom and bride?

Well to be honest, I think I blinked because I missed all that. It was the quickest ceremony I have ever witnessed. Advert breaks on ITV last slightly longer at times. (Or at least they feel they are going on forever).

The whole ceremony lasted less than 4 minutes start to finish. No niceties, no drawing the issue out. It was a case of "Do you?" and "Yes I do." I did wonder if the registrar was in a rush to leave, or was just not in the mood. We all get those moments where we can't be arsed, but this was a wedding right? It is her moment to be in the spotlight too for a while, and with a captive audience thrown in. Didn't bother her though – she rushed through the proceedings and that was it. Andy and his bride were now husband and wife.

But it was not quite over yet. They had not accounted for Uncle Paul and his video camera. Just as they were declared husband and wife, all of us on that side of the room heard the words.

"That's it mate, no sex now."

For once it was a few decibels lower than his normal speaking voice, so only 8 of us would have heard it said. However, it did get me thinking that he lives with a permanent death wish. Either his wife is biding her time, or has the patience of a saint. Either way, it caused a chuckle. I was just glad though that the groom's Nan was sitting on the other side of the room. Whereas my Nan loves a laugh and a joke (naughty ones too, most of which I think have originated from her) this lady is the total opposite. I think the next ceremony would have been the ritual burning at the stake of my Uncle Paul on suspicion of Witchcraft or something.

So there you have it – a ceremony that lasted less than 4 minutes interspersed with the musings of sex following marriage by my Uncle. Although said in jest, his views seem to be backed up by evidence. It is apparently true that once you get married you don't have sex as often as you did before you were married. Why that is I have no idea, and how scientific these studies are, again I can't comment. Makes me think of the Jim Davidson joke though:

"Scientists have just discovered the most amazing anti-aphrodisiac – it's called wedding cake."

So we then all pile outside for the mandatory photographs. Not a lot to say really about this part. Everyone who has been to a wedding knows you all do sheep impressions as you are herded about in various group sizes before trying to appear natural as you freeze a grin on your face. I took Nan down so we were a little late, but she still managed to find herself in the background of the bridal shots. Bless her. Looking through the album I would wager a bet she appeared more than any of the main players, always a little out of the eye line, but hovering nevertheless. Steve also did his David Bailey impression and went to work with is camera. I just stayed chatting with Nan the whole time, shuffling forward when directed to by the official photographer. This aspect of a wedding always seems to take forever, and it doesn't take long before the forced smiles start to hurt. This episode was no exception so I took the chance to just lounge around chatting with Steve whenever he decided to take a break.

However it did give us all the chance to actually look at the bride and her daughter who had done a sterling job as bridesmaid. Both looked radiant and beautiful but I had to remind myself that Trina was still a child, and that even though she was angelic and beautiful she was still potentially a yellow hatter. (If you are scratching your head at that comment, just read back to the zoo, where all will be apparent). All children have the inert instinct to be little gits when the mood takes them. I have never yet seen Trina be anything other than cute, but she had time on her side, as well as having an uncle wrapped round her little finger. She could yet change and make her mum wish she had crossed her legs a little tighter a few years earlier. However, for now she was a model child and was enchanting everyone with her level of maturity and good nature.

The reception was as typical as any English events, with the only difference being twice as much cigarette smoke. I remain astounded at how much the Irish smoke, bearing in mind south of the border you are all but shot on sight if seen lighting up in public. In a way I was glad I took the chance to really look at the bride and her dress during the photograph ceremony – due to the haze of smoke I couldn't see anything unless it was within a range of 5 feet. Occasionally I snuck a glance at Steve to see how he was coping with this smoke. We both hate anything to do with cigarettes, but other than watery eyes he looked as though he was hanging on in there. We just didn't talk as much, due to the fact it was an extreme effort to suck air in before putting more than two words together before we heaved our guts up. The thought of raspberry pavlova being pebble dashed over the nearest guest did not bear thinking about. I don't recall anyone else struggling in the same way, but being a non-smoker had put us in the minority.

The highlight of the evening was watching Uncle Paul with Trina. Remember I said he had a heart of gold and got on great with kids? This was evident to everyone in our party. I don't know if it is because he has a welcoming aura about him, or whether it is because mentally he has never really progressed past being 10 years old. Either way, they love him, and he loves being around them. Trina sat chatting with him for ages. Although his language at times does leave people cringing, when around kids he tones it right down and behaves impeccably. Old fashioned values in evidence, which sadly are not witnessed as much in modern society. He has had 3 kids of his own, and the two I have met are lovely balanced adults with families of their own. For all his rough edges, he did a good job at being a dad. Even though they are grown up, he would move heaven and earth for any of his kids, and would half kill anyone who ever hurt them in any way.

Trina was enchanted by him, and soon caught on to the fact he was potentially going to be worth a lot of money. Paul, naively did a party trick that went on, and on and on. In fact it was the main form of entertainment for the next hour or so. His loss with Trina's gain. To this day I still don't know if she knew she was onto a good thing, or whether she was just caught up in the magic of the actual trick. Either way, good on her. He started by telling her he could 'magic' 50p out of his hair.

"No, you can't" was her response.

"Yep, I can, and can prove it," replied Paul.

We were all ears by this stage and stopped to watch the show as it unfolded.

He already had 50p he had given to the lady sitting next to him, who was slightly out of Trina's eye line.

He showed her that both hands were empty before putting one hand behind his ear. He then ruffled his hair, during which time the 50p was discreetly passed to him. Voila! Money magiked from Paul's hair.

Her face was an absolute picture. I would love to be able to turn the clock back to the age where I still believed in Santa, Tooth Fairies and magic. This wee lass was still at that age, and made all of us feel gooey inside as we watched her eyes widen in wonder and awe. She had totally believed that Paul had 'magiked' the money out from the top of his head. It did not even occur to her to look for the catch, or how it was done. In her eyes it was magic, nothing else. What a great way to be, where you only see things with such innocence instead of cynically trying to find the mechanics behind such 'magic'. I suppose if I were a cynic I would say Trina was playing him along, but she genuinely was agog at trick she was party to.

Well, this was the scenario for the next hour. In that time, along with the help of his accomplice he managed to magic in the region of £20. Of course, Trina had a go at finding some of the money and in all that time she never cottoned on to the fact it was a trick. She got to keep all the money, but Mick did have to resort to asking for some donations as he had run out of coins. Suffice to say there was a steady stream of money which resulted in a little girl going away from the reception very happy and a heck of a lot richer in the process. The funny part was watching her approach all the guys at the reception asking them to magic money out of their head. They had no idea what she was talking about, which did frustrate her a little. Her assumption was if Paul could do it, why couldn't everyone else?

All those people who had shied away from him because of his brash coarseness then found themselves actually warming to his charm and personality. He had shown a side we all knew he had, but as a stranger your first impression might not be that favourable. He still came out with comments that made you want to throttle him, but I knew deep down he was not intending to offend anyone. Any offence was just a by-product of him not knowing when to shut up really. There were no subsequent reports of him being beaten up, so we could assume that he had not quite overstepped the line at any time, but I would bet he came damn close at times.

Due to the fact we had been on the go for quite a few days, and our lungs were closing up due to the smoky atmosphere, both Steve and myself left fairly early at around 10.30pm. The party had not really even got started at this stage, but we knew we had another early start ahead of us, so with some reluctance we said our goodbyes. Nan embarrassingly was outdoing us both at the age of 90+. Where she gets her stamina from I have no idea, but if it could be bottled and sold she would be as rich as Trina that night. We did offer to take her back to her lodgings, but she was having none of it. Rather sheepishly we said our goodbyes and left, wondering if we were then to be the topic of some tutting at the fact we were the first to leave.

Our landlady was somewhat surprised to see us, pointing out that most Irish parties don't really finish until around 2.00am. Our actions of leaving early really did surprise her but she accepted our explanations without further comment, although we discreetly left out the part about the cigarette smoke being a major issue.

We hit the sack pretty much straight away, happy, content and sleepy. We both wanted to shower off the cigarettes but were too knackered. As I fell asleep I couldn't help but think back to Paul's comments about sex after marriage. Heck, we were still courting but couldn't be bothered that particular night. Who say's romance is dead eh?

Top tips:

1. If you ever get the chance to go to an Irish wedding take the opportunity – it is quirkier than any I have been to in England.

2. If you are a non-smoker in Northern Ireland, be prepared for the fact you may become a temporary passive smoker.

3. Irish celebrations go on well into the night. Best not to plan too much for the following day, as the first half is likely to be spent either in bed or in recovery.

4. Don't arrive late at any civic marriage ceremony, even by just a couple of minutes. There is a chance it has already been held and the party has started without you.

## Chapter 9 – The Journey South

The morning after the wedding was quiet, with the traditional Irish breakfast. We had both gotten past the point where we were mentally counting up the calories and fat content, and tucked in as if it were our last meal for the week. It was great to see white pudding on the menu, but even that looked unappetising next to the blood-laden cousin of black pudding. It is one of those dishes you might enjoy if you didn't actually know what had been included in the recipe. Another couple had booked in overnight, and to our amazement we heard an English accent drift by us – only the 3rd of the holiday so far. It is so amazing to think you can travel to the outer reaches of the world, yet still find a McDonalds and a dozen English footie fans crowded round wondering where the ketchup is. We had travelled a few hundred miles, and were hard pushed to hear another English accent for the entire holiday. Funny old world for sure. I had to wonder what it would take for people to consider a trip across the sea instead of heading to Europe or further afield for their main holiday.

The conversation at the breakfast table was muted, but our voices had changed. No, we had not been singing through the night, but our voices had taken on the husky tones of Bonnie Tyler on 50 cigarettes a day. And there lies the reason – we were smoke damaged. Now I know why pub singers have that distinct sound. It's from inhaling that much smoke, their lungs and vocal cords are kippered. Although Bonnie Tyler has put her croaky voice down to an incident involving strawberries. A long story, also strange but true one, which I recommend you research because it is too long to document here.

Once we had said our goodbyes, and wished the English couple all the best for their holiday we headed off back onto the open road down to Newcastle beach.

I had visited once before and my memory was of a lovely expanse of sea and sand as it met the base of the Mourne Mountains. The previous visit had not been entirely untainted. My Uncle was perhaps still too aware of the previous tension in the area, but that was not a memory I had. I could only go by my impressions during the visit, and it was one of awe.

For some reason, things had changed, and looking back it was all caused by a basic change in weather conditions. It is so surprising how we can fall in love with something that looks spectacular with the sun shining down, with a canopy of pure blue skies and white fluffy clouds. Take away this wash of colour, replace it with the dullest grey you can imagine, and then see the difference. This could have been Skegness in October to be honest – the whole area looked bland, bleak and lethargic. My vain attempts to convince Steve this was an area of beauty went totally unheeded. We did the statutory walk up and down the beach, took a couple of photographs and then buggered off as quickly as we could. I was gutted. The emotions and memories I had of Newcastle had been well and truly shattered. The only comparison is when you get told for the first time that Santa Claus is not real. The whole world feels like it has been turned on its head and dumped right on top of you. Even the mountains in the distance just looked drab and cold. Mother Nature had definitely proved that on hand she can provide the most amazing scenery, but can also take it away with just a blink of her eye. This then makes you think of how our expectations are unfairly based on what we perceive to be beautiful. The beach, sea and mountains in Newcastle do not change. How come then, we are so judgemental just based on whether the sun is out or not? In reflection, this makes me realise I can be pretty shallow at times, and dismissive of Nature just because it does not happen to fit in my 'box' of what is pretty and what isn't. If it revolves around the fact blue sky should always be present, I am setting myself up for a lot of disappointment, particularly in Ireland where rain is the norm. The only thing that really did bring a smile to my face was a poster advertising the imminent arrival of Daniel O'Donnell for a show. I had to think back to my mum when I saw this. There are two guys she would have left Dad for and he was one of them. The other was David Essex. I suppose in a way they were both hunks to the over 50's but the lengths she went to in order to see David Essex were astounding. He once came to do a show in Dunstable, a few miles from where she lived in Leighton Buzzard. A bit of a come down to the days where he probably headlined places like the Hammersmith Odeon, but it was good to see he was still touring. She could not get a ticket, so had an ingenious brain wave, which I have to say I wish I had thought of myself. She rang the council and offered to be a steward for the concert, and would waiver any payment for the role. My mum at the time was approximately 5'2" tall and would have weighed about 6 stone if wringing wet. She would not have been able to tear a newspaper, let alone tackle anyone who was hell bent on causing trouble at the gig. Amazingly she was given the role, and from what I understand spent the whole concert at the front of the stage where he role was to stop people throwing things (in the form of underwear) or trying to clamber up to where David was standing. For the duration of the concert I reckon she must have felt as though she had died and gone to heaven. From that moment on, Dad would have played second fiddle. She even managed to find a David Essex calendar for that year, so Dad had to look at him posing every time he used the front door. Yes, I am proud to say my mum was a 50+-year-old groupie. If Daniel O'Donnell had also played the Queensway Hall, she would have actually paid the council to let her steward the event. I think I was still grinning at this thought when Steve came out of the toilet. He didn't say anything, but he must have wondered why I had a soppy grin on my face whilst looking at a cheesy posed picture of Daniel O'Donnell. Luckily he never asked though. I just re-lived the memory of my Mum almost being orgasmic every time she listened to Winters Tale on the radio.

Our next stop was Silent Valley. Steve had been told to visit this area by my cousin, and by chance we were in the area. He had told us there was an incline or hill or something where if you parked your car and took the handbrake off, it would actually go uphill. I had forgotten about this and so had Steve. This is one experiment Steve would have been up for trying, but thinking about it now, I do wonder if it was a bit of a leg-pull. Yes, I know glaciers can flow upwards but don't ask me how. I was taught in Geography in school, but it might as well have been in Swahili – I understood none of the theory behind the phenomenon. Suffice to say I opted for History instead in the last two years as being a better option.

I have looked on the Internet to find reference to this phenomenon and have not found any yet, therefore I am assuming my wee cousin (who I remember running around starkers as a wee baby) was spinning me a yarn. The Irish banter in evidence, but revenge will be mine, as and when I can think of something of equal plausibility. As I write though Steve is trying to convince me that it is in fact true, but as he didn't take the opportunity while we were there, I will silently live with my doubt.

We arrived at the Silent Valley at 12.30pm and saw there was a huge car park, but only a handful of cars present. Either they were extremely hopeful of this being a tourist site when it was built, or it didn't get busy until much later. Either way it was nice to see that it was not going to be overrun with yellow hatters.

This area is one of beauty (even with grey skies I hasten to add) and has the main focus of a huge dam. Taking water for granted is something we all do, but that would not have been the case if you had been a resident in Belfast at the turn of the 20th Century. Now, as a result of the engineering feat in front of us, Belfast and County Down can receive 30 million gallons of water a day.

Background information which may be of use

**At the turn of the 19** th **century water supplies in Belfast were low, this was due to Belfast's growing population and sudden industrialisation. To relieve this growing problem two upland water catchments were developed, however these catchments were unable to sustain water supplies for the area. So with commendable foresight, the commissioners decided to carry out investigations with the aim of discovering, "a new sustainable area from which a plentiful supply of pure water might be obtained", to take them into the 20** th **century.**

To find this source of water a distinguished local civil engineer, Mr Luke Livingstone McCassey was appointed. Five likely sites were surveyed in Down and Antrim. Following his investigations McCassey favoured the Mournes. The Mournes were chosen primarily for their natural supply of pure water, which was a result of rainfall in the area. The area was also free from pollution and industry, which is of paramount importance when looking for a water source.

When the water commissioners identified the high Mournes as a suitable source for providing clean water, to an ever-expanding Belfast. Their plans included a wall to surround the 9000 acre, catchment area. The wall is now known as the Mourne Wall and it is said to be, "a monument to the skill of the men who built it".

The Mourne wall stands up to 8 feet high on average and it is 3 feet wide. The wall stretches for 22 miles and runs over the highest peaks in the Mournes. Work began in 1904 and finished in 1922 taking a total of 18 years to build.

The proposed area was capable of supplying 30 million gallons of water per day, as there wasn't a need for so much water the scheme was divided into 3 stages.

The first stage was to divert the water from the Kilkeel and Annalong rivers through pipes to a new reservoir near carryduff. These two rivers would be able to supply 10 million gallons of water per day. The second stage was to build a storage reservoir across the Kilkeel River. Then pipes were to be laid to supply another 10 million gallons of water per day. The third stage was to build a second storage reservoir in Annalong to impound the Annalong River.

www.newryandmourne.gov.uk/tourism/activities/forest/silent_valley.asp

accessed April 2007. Author: unknown.

The whole area was one of beauty and incredible silence. Not a bird to be heard. The only sound that was audible was that of the wind as it whistled through the trees. It would have been impossible to visit this area and remain feeling stressed. Even the mind, which can chatter away, would shut up for a while. If there was ever a time and place to feel in the 'Zen' moment this was it. Time had almost stood still, and we felt no pressure to do anything, see anything, or leave the area any time soon. I was so caught up in the atmosphere of stillness, even taking photographs did not seem that important. The water line was highly visible on the sides of the rock that had been carved out. Although there was a huge expanse of water it was interesting to see that the reservoir area was probably only about a quarter full. Was this due to the drought type conditions we have had, or was this the norm?

The only downside was the fact I was left feeling incredibly itchy afterwards. We couldn't see or hear any midges, but they must have perfected the art of stealth flying and bombing. Trying not to openly scratch 5 layers of skin off we made our way back to the car park and were amazed to see it was virtually full with coaches being the main occupants. Obviously this area is on the tour guide for a lot of coach operators, but we had still not seen a soul in all the time we had been there.

With a little bit of a pang in our heart we left Silent Valley and the Mourne mountains, ready for the journey south where we would head back over the border into the familiar territory of mad drivers and funny money again. Although the north had provided some spectacular scenery, I had missed the south and all its quaint quirkiness.

Steve had a definite agenda here – Newgrange. Another of the sites recommended by my cousin, but this time not linked to any funny story or quirk of nature, although as you will discover it had its own natural phenomenon which would only be witnessed by a lucky few, once every year.

As we headed south I set myself a little challenge – to notice the exact moment where we went from Northern Ireland to Eire. I had done this once before and had not even noticed the fact I had in effect entered another country. Years previously there would have been border patrols, checkpoints at the roadside, and a few other obvious signs that you were about to go into a totally different country and culture. However, on my previous visit it was my Aunt who had pointed out we had in fact gone over the border. I was totally oblivious to anything different until she pointed out something quite fundamental – the road markings had changed colour. This was the main clue I was looking out for on this trip. In the north, the side painted lines are in white, whereas in the south they are in yellow. This challenge was then set, with Steve also on the lookout for the evidence of the difference we were to experience.

The first indication we had that things were about to change was the fact fuel prices started to go up as we neared the border. Some advertising boards were showing unleaded as being 86p per litre, which was astounding. How can they get away with charging so much, and how can they actually have a flourishing business bearing in mind fuel was so much cheaper in the south? Were they really going out with the intention of ripping people off in some way? It was pretty astounding to see. People coming over the border from the south with empty fuel tanks would have had to mortgage their house just to fill up with unleaded.

Within a few minutes we jumped with joy – we had crossed the border. We had both seen, at the same time as each other, the white line turn yellow. No fanfare, no "Welcome to Ireland" signs or anything. Just a change in colour of the paint. Amazing eh? The welcome was so low key as to be non-existent, and would have been such a contrast had we done the journey 20 years earlier. With Dublin index plates on the car, my guess is that we would have been well and truly checked over. We had enjoyed our visit to the north, and had some great experiences, but it was the fact we knew we could get overnight accommodation in the south which was what made us feel a little more relaxed. Although I see both parts as being Ireland, the culture, the people and the architecture are quite different. Both have their good points, but the honest truth is I did have a soft spot for the south and was glad to be back. The next indication we had that we were still close to the border was the presence of numerous cash converter type shops. I must admit, I still find it hard to get my head round the fact that Ireland is more part of Europe than we are in England. Using Euros should become second nature, but even after all this time and numerous visits abroad, it still feels like a foreign currency to me. Makes me wonder if England ever will sign up for it in my lifetime.

Within a short while we found ourselves at our final tourist destination for this trip – Newgrange.

This amazing feat of civil engineering is a Megalithic Passage Tomb and was built about 3200 BC. The kidney shaped mound covers an area of over one acre and is surrounded by 97 kerbstones, some of which are richly decorated with megalithic art. The 19 metre long inner passage leads to a cruciform chamber with a corbelled roof. It is estimated that the construction of the Passage Tomb at Newgrange would have taken a work force of 300 at least 20 years. In that case just a couple of years longer than it has taken to re-build Wembley Stadium then, and probably with half the workforce.

Having previously visited Stonehenge, it was astounding to realise that Newgrange was probably older. Stonehenge is very well known by residents of the UK as well as visitors, and yet this tomb was older and yet as equally, if not more impressive. Ashamedly I had not even heard of it, and only knew of its existence because it was marked on the maps I had bought for the trip. The style and architecture of the two erections could not be more different. Try comparing a tree house built by a five year old with a state of the art Swiss cabin, and you might get an idea of how the two are so very different. I am not saying one is better than the other – heck I would not be as arrogant, bearing in mind I can't build a house of cards let alone anything out of rock. What I am trying to say is one appears to be some rocks placed up right in a circular formation whilst the other is actually a stone built enclosure.

Although this was something Steve had wanted to visit, I could not help but get caught up in the excitement - it really did look impressive.

This excitement soon turned to dismay when we were advised all tours for the day were sold out. Booking for the next day was an option we thought would be sensible, but alas not the case. Instead we were told to turn up at 9.00am and hope for the best. This information alone proved this tiny site of beauty and historical importance was actually more popular than we had first realised. I might not have heard of Newgrange but it was apparent plenty of people had, and they had also journeyed many miles to experience it first hand.

With hearts a little bit heavy (but not too heavy, after all we were back in the Country we had fallen in love with) we decided to find a nearby B & B. In the north this would have probably resulted in us driving around in vain for an hour but not in the South. As we headed to the main road leading to Slane the most beautifully gardened B & B appeared on the horizon, with a very un-Irish sounding name of El Dorado. Now, I have to confess this is not the real name of this establishment. I would be more than happy to give its true title, but due to the fact there are issues here which will become apparent later, I have decided to not show its true identity. The landlord I believe, does take actions which could cause it to be at risk from those who would abuse his trust. I promise, the reasons will be revealed later. The front garden area was massive and incredibly well maintained. The house itself was equally as grand, and I began to wonder if this was a hotel as opposed to a B & B. Either way, it looked an ideal place to spend the night as it was within a couple of minutes of drive of Newgrange itself.

Knocking the door of a stranger's house was not easy but due to the fact every welcome we had to date had been wonderfully warm and open, I felt no nerves doing it on this occasion.

A round-faced middle-aged guy who was talking at a 300 words a minute on his mobile phone opened the door. I was just preparing myself for a wait whilst he finished the call, but was taken completely by surprise by his reaction to my presence. The polite thing to do would be to apologise to the caller and ask if they could either wait one moment or could they be called back. Not this guy. He cut them off mid word and then dropped the phone onto the concrete step. Totally unphased he ushered us into the hallway, not a backward glance to the phone or even acknowledgement of concern at the fact he had cut the other person off with no explanation. I was expecting the phone to ring again, with a confused person asking if they had been mistakenly cut off. Nothing – not a sausage. Mmm, maybe this is a common occurrence. Maybe he was in the process of arranging a bank robbery and had to cut the call quickly in lieu of potential witnesses turning up. Either way, this was only one of this gentleman's quirks. Believe me, loads more followed. The entertainment he unwittingly provided could only be beaten by Basil Fawlty.

He initially wasn't sure if there was a room available, and cited his wife might know. This resulted in the phone being rescued whilst he tried to ascertain if there was anything free. Again, half way through the call to his wife, he cut her off! And gave us a room! At this stage I began to wonder if there was an outside chance he was double booking but that wasn't going to be my problem to sort out should somebody turn up expecting to be booked in from an advanced booking. I was really warming to this guy, but was also dying to read Steve's mind. Steve likes things to be straight forward and clearly laid out. This guy was definitely throwing us off a little with his manner but I was loving every minute of it. It was just as well I was going to be the mains spokesperson – Steve would have floundered in the presence of such an extrovert. I have worked with a similar guy for a few years who has the attention span of a goldfish. In a way, all of us in the office have wondered if he had ADHD but never had it diagnosed. He has been the only other person I have seen who can cut somebody off mid word before wombling off to speak to another person, only to do the same to them a few seconds later. However, I do hold the proud record of having held his attention the longest. He was timed by one of my colleagues as sitting at my desk for 12 minutes on one occasion, without interrupting or moving his attention elsewhere. I believe the record still stands to this day. This guy was displaying all the signs of having a similar character trait.

We explained that we had tried to get into Newgrange but had lost out due to the fact all tours were booked. Our landlord then lifted our spirits again by promising to ring them at 8.55am the next day to book us on a tour. Bit of a contradiction as we had been told you couldn't pre-book but if he was in the know with a useful contact I wasn't about to argue. However, having witnessed the fact his attention span was somewhat short, I did make a mental note to gently remind him the following morning over breakfast, which was dutifully booked for 8.30am.

As he bustled around the hall he then proceeded to gobsmack us again by knocking his glasses off, which clattered amongst the literature and ornaments on the phone table. Once again, he was totally unperturbed by this and ignored them as he chattered away whilst showing us up to our room. Steve kept sneaking backward glances to where they lay at an angle straddling his business card holder. I could almost read his mind but was trying not to laugh – there was absolutely no chance he was going to remember where he put them when he realised he wasn't actually wearing them. Hs poor suffering wife must spend her whole life following in his wake picking up the pieces behind him.

The room itself was wonderfully decorated and incredibly spacious. Although we had come to expect this as the normal standard for each B & B we had visited, this even exceeded what we could have hoped for. Even more heartening for Steve was the fact he had a TV screen in the main lounge the size of a small house. The picture quality was not brilliant, as technology had not yet caught up with the demand for larger screens yet, but it did mean we could watch the grand prix on Sunday in some semblance of style for a change. We knew there was a party of Germans arriving, so cheering for Michael Schumacher in order to preserve European harmony might be expected of us. Sod that – McClaren are an English team with the better drivers so international relations would have to be put on hold for approximately 2 hours. Steve would be the model of discretion and would stay quiet and neutral. If either of the McLaren boys were in the position to put one over the reigning world champion or Ferrari, I would find it difficult not to shout it from the rooftop. Therefore the scene was already being set in my imagination, with of course a win whereby we would be able to listen to the English National Anthem for a change. I hate to sound cynical here or racist, but I have really got brassed off at the fact I have heard the German and Italian National Anthems more than the English for the past 5 years. It must have got to the stage that the race organisers wouldn't be in too much of a panic if they left all the others behind – there is always a better than evens chance these are the only two they will actually need to dig out of the archives.

Once we had settled in, we had another opportunity to have an entertaining chat with our landlord. This guy, although a little eccentric was pretty shrewd and knowing what was going to be profitable in years to come. He had actually had the house built himself 21 years earlier. Initially it had housed his family, but as years had passed they had grown up, married and moved away. This then led him to converting it into a thriving B & B business. Not only was he able to achieve a regular income through renting out the rooms, the house and land itself had rocketed in value and was now close in value to 1,000,000 euros. Not bad seeing as it had initially cost 40,000 to build. Show me a bank or building society that can offer the same growth potential, and I would be a very happy bunny indeed.

The house itself was beautiful, and the lounge / other open areas were filled with family heirlooms and possessions. Not only was he very trusting in allowing his visitors to access these areas, he was almost inviting a burglary. At no stage had he asked us to sign a book or leave details of car index numbers etc. (A good policy just in case something happens whereby guests need to be subsequently traced). However, this was not the worst of it.

He did confess to us that he does have a bad memory and is a little forgetful. We had experienced this in just a few short minutes, so I dread to think what he is like to actually live with. He then went on to tell us where we could find the front door key!

He had a specific hiding place where he placed HIS OWN KEY which we were to use whenever we returned, but we had to make sure we always put it back where we found it. I have no intention of going into detail as to where the hiding place is, but suffice to say if I was a burglar, it would be the first place I would look every time. How bloody frightening is that. As a guest we could be model people, but then return a month later and clear his house out – he would be none the wiser. This really bought it home to me the difference in attitude and honesty between England and Ireland, or how it is perceived by the people who live in the respective countries. Absolutely no way would you ever consider hiding a key in such a way where I live, and as for actually telling visitors where it is...... it just does not bear thinking about. As we chatted it became apparent the thought of being burgled had not ever entered his head. He had been there 21 years without a problem, so why should it be a concern to him now? I would love to think this is the way we should all go about our lives, but for some reason I felt I was not living in the real world at that precise moment. A world I would love to be in without a doubt, but alas not one that would ever be a reality back in Peterborough.

The only thing that was a puzzle to us about our room was the fact the top of the toilet cistern was missing. Either the landlord had taken it off and had forgotten to put it back (which is highly likely), or it had been stolen (possible but unlikely), or it overflowed regularly and needed to be kept an eye on.

Not a major issue, and certainly nothing that would stop us from enjoying our stay at Ireland's equivalent of Fawlty Towers. The funniest aspect of this room was the fact the door to the toilet had been hung incorrectly to start with. If there was ever evidence our landlord had a hand in the build of the house, it was staring right at us. This area was cramped space wise, and there could only really be one way the door would open. However, great care had originally been given to fitting the hinges and handle mechanism – only for them to be the wrong way round. I reckon he would have had every intention of getting a new door fitted the next time he went into town, but that would have not passed from his short term memory to his long term memory banks. Every guest since then would have probably had a similar chuckle, but I did wonder what our European cousins would have made of him and his quirks. They are sometimes a little too straight-laced, particularly when in strange company. This guy would have had them totally flummoxed. I also had to wonder how many times this door was the subject of a photograph, to 'show the folks back home'.

The following morning we made our way to breakfast, having had a great night's sleep. I reckon it is not possible to visit Ireland and feel totally relaxed, whereby you hit the land of Nod as soon as your head hits the pillow. We were both feeling as refreshed as we could be, and were ready to enjoy the remainder of the holiday. I still had a few weeks before returning to College, but for Steve it was a different matter. These were genuinely his last few days of freedom before returning to the drudgery of day-to-day toil. We sat down we were met with a cheery 'hello' by the landlord who immediately got our saliva buds working with the production of some hot toast.

30 seconds later he came back with a teapot, and a puzzled look.

"Wow, will you look there at that toast. Did I put that there for you?"

With this comment, I had to readjust my initial judgement of him. In fact his memory was not even up to that of a goldfish. Steve could have got an Oscar nomination for the way he kept a straight face and replied accordingly. Just as well he came up with something before I had a chance to open my mouth and no doubt put my foot in it. This was without a doubt inviting any retort you could want to come up with. Instead I silenced my overactive brain with a mouthful of hot toast and butter, and just nodded and grinned at him. This guy was a genuine legend, and it was difficult to find anything yet not to like about him.

The question then hung in the air – had he remembered to book us in for Newgrange. We sort of had an invisible bet going between us on this point, with my imaginary millions going on the nay. There was another couple with us at the breakfast table, who were also looking to visit Newgrange that day. Surprisingly the landlord had remembered to book them in. Steve was starting to look smug as he realised he might actually win on this one. However, he underestimated (or rather over estimated) our landlord, who had totally forgot to book us in. This caused some bustling around on his part for a few minutes before he came back with a triumphant look on his face.

"You are both booked in for 10.00am" he declared before heading back into the kitchen to see what he had left on the cooker, which should have been turned off.

This meant we could now relax and eat at our leisure instead of having to bolt the food as we headed out the door. Whilst he was in the kitchen I took a look round, and realised that the place settings were out of kilter. Some had knives missing, some had forks missing, and some had spoons missing. No bets will be taken as to who possibly had a hand in laying the table for that morning. We knew we had some German guests, but they had not yet risen, so we did what any other British visitor would have done – we 'borrowed' what cutlery we needed, leaving them with just the odd spoon or fork. This did pose a question though –where were they?

Why is it when you are on holiday at a beach or poolside resort, they get up with the sun, but whilst in Ireland they get up in time for dinner? Is it due to the fact there are no sun-loungers in need of reserving? Either way, we had a pact to act with total innocence if they did emerge whilst we were still eating breakfast. They must have known themselves by now what the landlord was like, so we could easily carry it off.

Anyway, they were bound to get their own back later during the Grand Prix. There was no doubt Michael flamin' Schumacher was going to win, so they would have time to gloat over us. We would no doubt be simpering at the fact Williams were quite a good team, but alas no match for the red of the Ferraris. It would be akin to being a Manchester City fan at a local derby at Old Trafford. Eventually, once the drumming is a dead cert, you have no choice but to shut up and crawl away in a humbled fashion.

Although it had been raining when we were at the breakfast table, it didn't take long for the sun to break through. No doubt it was still raining in Donegal though. With some excitement we headed back to Newgrange, where we were about to experience something rarely experienced, but more on that later. When the area was first discovered, amazingly there was still some burnt ash inside on what looks like a hollowed out stone altar. The theory was that the bodies had been stripped of flesh outside before the bones were taking down into the darkness before being burned. There were three tiny chambers in the heart of the mound, and theories abound as to what had happened all those years ago. I guess a popular theory will always be that of religious sacrifice, as with any ancient discovery which does not fit in with our way of living or thinking. Steve is always horrified to hear about the Mayans throwing people down the steps of the pyramid at Chichen Itza, as part of a solar celebration/sacrifice. It was normal life for these people, and to be one of those chosen for the sacrifice as a great honour. Yes, it is somewhat different to modern day life where the only sacrifice people are inclined to make may be an annual donation to Comic Relief charities. However, I do think none of us have the right to prejudge or criticise what we see as being abhorrent when it was a matter of life and death to those who lived in those times. As a matter of interest if you ever get the chance to visit Mexico, don't leave without considering a visit to this Mayan area. Some amazing architecture every few yards. The pyramid itself has interesting acoustics. It is possible to stand at the bottom of the pyramid and clap your hands, only to hear the sound rattle its way up the steps before ending in a high-pitched ping. Also, it is possible to stand at the top, speak in a normal voice, only to have that heard some distance away from the pyramid. We had loads of fun with that phenomenon, albeit it did mean we risked life and limb getting to the top of the pyramid. Not for the faint hearted, backed up by the fact ambulances are always on standby within the area.

Getting back to Newgrange (which is considerably older) we realised over the years, we have somewhat grown in stature and height as a species. I reckon to navigate the tunnel taking you down to the chambers in comfort, you would have to be no larger than a size 8, and no taller than 5'2". All of us had stiff necks by the time we reached our destination, as evidenced by the neck rubbing we evidenced around us. I hadn't seen anything prior to our entry, but had to wonder how some of our larger visitors faired. I hate to point fingers, and had to be stereotypical, but there are quite a few Americans who are on the larger side. How would they feel if they had paid to come half the way round the world with their sole aim of being the Newgrange experience, only to find they couldn't get in? Just how gutting would that be? There is one day that is very special for Newgrange, and that is the Winter Solstice. A shaft of sunlight shines through the roof box over the entrance and penetrates the passage to light up the chamber. The dramatic event lasts for 17 minutes at dawn on a few days before and after the Winter Solstice. This is the only time the sun is able to shine through the upper segment of the entrance whereby the whole tomb is lit up by its rays. This does not last very long, but when it does happen it is an incredible sight to behold. Otherwise the tomb is encased with complete darkness. Now, there may be times we have all said we were in the 'pitch black' but I doubt if that has ever really happened. Usually there is a sliver of light somewhere that tones the darkness down somewhat. Our guide actually demonstrated what total darkness was like, and yep, it is just black. She turned the lights out for a few seconds, and in that time I experienced my first ever feeling of total vulnerability. Although we knew the lights would come back on, not being able to see or sense anything was quite intimidating. There was no shadow, no indication of light somewhere in the distance – just a nothingness if that makes sense. A few people around me also felt similar emotions, and the sigh of relief was actually audible when the lights came back on. I have no idea what a totally blind person would experience, but if that is what they live with every day, they have earned my total respect for being able to function in that black world. I had only experienced it for a matter of seconds and that started to feel a little too long. Well, this is the day to obviously visit the site but demand is so high, tickets are allocated once a lottery draw is held to decide the lucky winners. The 2006 Winter Solstice Draw took place on the 29th of September, where there were 27,485 applications. Already it is possible to have your name put in the draw for the 2007 solstice. With the year 2012 looming (an important year according to the Mayans) I wonder how popular that one will turn out to be.

If my hunch is anything to go by, there would be more chance of possibly winning a ticket to the moon than being drawn for that experience.

However, there is one thing to bear in mind here, and something that can be easily overlooked. In Ireland there is always a high risk of rain or cloud on any given day. The chance of that actually being the case in December has got to be incredibly high, and it is not guaranteed that the sun will actually shine on the Winter Solstice, which was the case apparently in 2005. Only a select few are chosen to go into the chamber on this magical day. It would only be right not to higher expectations, as they could easily be shattered, ironically by the sun deciding to have a no show on that particular occasion.

The artwork in and around the chamber has continued to flummox both visitors and experts alike. Nobody really knows what they are representing, or why they were carved into the rock faces. Some do resemble doodlings some of us are guilty of when taking a particularly boring phone call, but otherwise they are still a mystery to this day. No doubt they also have religious or ritualistic implications, but I kind of like the fact nobody will ever really know. I personally think it is important that we don't find all the answers to these riddles – we should never be all knowing in my opinion. Once we attain a level of having too much knowledge I believe it would cause us as a species to become arrogant and even more judgemental than we already are. Having these mysteries I believe reminds us that we are not all knowing, and that just maybe, some of our predecessors had wiser heads on their shoulders than we have been giving them credit for.

There was one aspect of the chamber which was a disappointment to me, and that was the issue of vandalism in the form of graffiti. Surprisingly this is not a modern day phenomenon. Some of the "I was here" comments dated back to the 1700's showing that we had just cause to introduce ASBO's at least 250 years ago. What is it with humanity, the minute they see a blank wall where there are numerous visitors, they feel the need to leave their mark in such an ugly way? Yes, lions and cats do leave their mark in the form of spraying, but that is a battle for territory. It is not on the same level as scraping your initials and date into a tree or a rock, and in my mind is totally pointless. Steve did not see it the same way at all which did surprise me, and this must be only one of a handful of occasions we have had strong opposing views on a subject. I saw this as a sacred place to be treated with respect. He saw the graffiti as its own mark of history in a way, which I really could not take on board as a valid viewpoint.

Although this site predated Stonehenge and the pyramids, there were still similar theories regarding how the stone was bought to the site. Log rolling was one possibility, showing the engineering feats of the time were admirable. Even more so when you consider the whole site is waterproof, as channels were strategically included for drainage. I wonder how many houses remain waterproof after 500 years, let alone 5,000 years?

Another strange fact is the chamber area remains at a constant 10 degrees, regardless of outside temperatures. No need for air conditioning or central heating really.

We only had the briefest of opportunities to walk around the perimeter of the monument, much to Steve's dismay. The whole operation is regimented with coach travel to and from the car park. If we had missed going back on our original coach, we may not have found space on the next one, so it was my nagging that caused us to miss seeing the rear of the monument. Steve is too nice a guy to argue with me, but I could see he was a little upset at this, but I didn't want to throw everything out of synch with the transport arrangements.

The timing of the whole event was good, and we made it back to the B & B ready for the start of the grand prix. Not a lot to say really except the Germans were not there, Michael Schumacher won, and we heard the Italian and German National Anthems – again.

We did eventually learn that the Germans were actually working at a nearby quarry in shifts to get a scheduled job completed. Between them they were working around the clock in order to complete the job in a gruelling 72 hours. No wonder we hadn't seen them at breakfast then really. They were either working, sleeping or coming back from work. I had to guiltily take back that thought I had earlier regarding the sun-loungers. These guys were not here for a holiday at all.

Talking of breakfast, it might be worth noting that we may have just had a rare glimpse of the landlord's wife at breakfast on our final day. A lady did occasionally emerge from the kitchen area, with a face like a smacked arse. Whereas the landlord was cheerful, chatty and eccentric, she looked like she wanted to eat nails. A total contrast, which might explain why she chose to spend her time backstage as it were where she would have no need for real contact with any of the guests. I also had to wonder if she had just lost the will to live in fairness, as most of her waking day must be spent walking behind her husband putting right any damage or loss in his wake.

Oh and forgot to add – when we got back that evening from having had a corking Chinese meal in town, the front door key was actually in the lock.

Any guesses as to who could have been responsible for that minor lapse of concentration? 

Top tips:

1. Be prepared for weather conditions at Newgrange. You may find you have to stand around outside waiting for a tour party to emerge from the chambers. Have waterproofs with you for that eventuality.

2. If you can, try and book a tour time. Otherwise you may have to just turn up and wait to join a party. This is a popular tourist site, so the wait could be some time, with a risk you might not even get on one.

3. If you want to experience the wonder of the Winter Solstice, ask to be put into the draw (which is drawn in September).

## Chapter 10 – Going Home

With heavier hearts than we started with, we had to say our goodbyes to our landlord and head back to Dublin ready for the journey home. We had possibly a couple of hours of freedom before we had to return the car, but his advise was to avoid Dublin – we would not have enough time to get into the centre, or get parked before we would have to leave again if we were to make it in time to the airport. This was a bit of a shame, as Dublin is quite a vibrant city in its own way. I had experienced it before, but Steve hadn't. If anything though, it did give us the excuse to consider returning one day, and with this in mind the landlord gave us details of his friend who had a B & B who would put us up if needed. This guy was a real star, and I was going to miss him, although I did notice as we loaded the car up he had left his glasses on the telephone table again. His enchanting mannerisms had really helped in making this holiday a special experience.

I just hoped this part of Ireland would be able to retain its sense of space, beauty and harmony. With the tourist industry booming, it is always going to be a risk that demand will overtake supply, leading to a growth in building work. Our landlord had already told us that 69,000 new homes were given the green light for that 12-month period, as opposed to 6,000 new homes in the space of 10 years in Northern Ireland. This would mean the house prices would eventually go through the roof north of the border, as supply would not be able to keep up with demand. In the south, I just hoped they could maintain a sense of proportion in order to preserve the beauty and serenity of the area. It is the feeling of space that really does have a pull on my heart. The contrast with the north could not have been more apparent.

As we drove away back towards the city area of Dublin, I read up a little on the Irish open golf tournament, which we had somehow missed seeing the signs of.

One of the local vagrants in Peterborough had not long previously conned a local newspaper into believing he had been a golf professional in his former life. He is quite a famous character in the town area, and even has his own bus shelter as his 'house' by way of donation from the local council. Many times I have driven past to see Nobby sitting there watching the world go by, his worldly possessions collated around him in various plastic bags. He has never caused any problems to anyone, and if anything, the local residents have sorted of adopted him to the extent he is never short of Christmas dinner offerings each year. I have no idea how it came about, but he managed to do such a convincing job regarding his golf exploits, one of the local newspapers kitted him out with some clubs, clothing and Euros and were in the process of registering him for the Irish open. The story ran for some time and we were all amazed at the photos in that particular edition, showing our Nobby posing in his new clobber, golf club raised accordingly. He had the biggest grin on his face I have ever seen. Alas the story did come crashing down when he was exposed by the local paper's rival. He gallantly gave everything back (including the Euros) but had a twinkle in his eye for weeks afterwards. I don't think he went out with the intention of conning anyone, but the joke just grew and grew, whereby he went along with it. There is no way he could have maintained it, and certainly there would have been no chance of him actually appearing at the Irish open, but nobody could blame him for going along with it for as long as he did. This would have been such a relief from the day-to-day existence he had, and caused a merry chuckle with the residents of Peterborough for some time afterwards. The only real losers were the local newspaper who broke the story. They got in a right royal huff with their rivals who have probably lived of that faux pas ever since. Just goes to show, that any story has to be checked out and not taken at face value.

As Dublin was now out of the equation, we decided to follow the coast road as far as we could en route to the airport. I don't know if it was just the fact we were depressed at the thought of going home, but the area itself was dreary and lifeless. The quiet colourful rows of cottages had long since diminished. There had been a fair bit of building work in the form of housing estates on the road down to Dublin. These estates were very similar to those we see sprouting up in England, with very little space between the dwellings, and no distinguishing features. The only hint of green that could be glimpsed was where we could see evidence of a garden. It seems there is not any likelihood of finding your brightly coloured cottages in this area. Instead I felt as if I had been propelled back to England with what I was seeing around us, and it did actually make me feel somewhat depressed. I was hoping most of the building was taking place in this small area. If that was the case, it should leave the remainder of Ireland untouched and unspoiled. If this were to be the norm with future building programmes, it wouldn't take much to totally spoil Ireland. This really does need looking into, as it would be a shame to change this part of the world from what it is.

From this point the holiday, and the Ireland experience did wind down somewhat. The airport is like every other airport. Whilst Steve wombled off to have a look around the electrical shops, I amused myself with the Sun newspaper – Irish style.

Although I had not looked forward to this moment with the realisation I was going to be back in England in less than two hours, Ireland did provide one last little chuckle for me.

Apparently there was a wee town in Galway, which had opened a sex shop. This had totally maddened the residents who were actively campaigning to get the establishment closed down as a matter of urgency. They had taken to blockading and campaigning outside, which had alerted the journalists of the national newspaper. Heck news stories in Ireland must be in short supply if they feel the need to cover such a story, but it does put a different spin on the type of sleaze they usually go for. The story was quite an entertaining read, although I was not disrespecting the views of this community. They obviously felt very strongly about the issue, and I totally understood the reasons they had for taking their stance. However, it did not escape my notice that they had in fact given the shop the best publicity it could have hoped for. By appearing in the national newspaper, they had in effect notified every Irish resident of its location. Ironically it had probably attracted a bigger audience than it would have otherwise. Not only would men in raincoats be visiting from Galway, but probably from every other county as well. Probably with a story to the wife along the lines of "Just popping out to get some milk".

Is this shop still open and thriving? I have no idea, but I had to chuckle at how naïve the residents were in attracting the notice of such a prominent newspaper.

I guess that sums up why I just love Ireland and its people. It has a sense of innocence, and a sense of fun which is so endearing to see and experience. Everyone is naturally friendly and welcoming, to the extent you feel part of the family for the duration of your stay. Would I recommend this type of trip to anyone?

Absolutely – but take an umbrella – it rains all the bloody time!

