The mountains are growing higher on either side of us. Cows and sheep litter the side of the mountains and the valley. We are on the bus on the way to Dingle and I couldn’t be more excited. We know very little about it and crossing our fingers that the hostel we found on the internet still has vacancies, if we can find it. But right now, as I see in the distance a big poofy white cloud hovering over water through a crack in the mountains, I don’t care.
The road is tiny and as I look out the front window I’m surprised the bus can even fit in the lane. I see a sign for Dingle aquarium; we must be getting closer.
We stand outside our hostel, a yellow modest looking house down a small street next to the shore. A young girl answers the door. Confused, we ask if this is the hostel. “Yes,” she says. The owner comes up from behind us and greats us kindly in her Irish accent. She shows us our room and around the house. We already have one bunkmate, a mid-30s man from Australia who is here to surf. He says he just got finished working in London for four years as an engineer and plans to travel for six months or so. Jealousy runs through me. Our room has three bunks and a sink, fairly simple.
We go for a walk outside to explore. Dingle is basically one main road, the majority of which is filled with pubs. Like most Ireland towns the buildings are colorful and historic looking. Murphy’s and O’Donnells are common names on storefronts. Murals line a wall depicting men fishing and views of the harbor. The sky is beautifully blue with big white clouds and the ocean is a dark blue.
We decide to find a small bite to eat and are excited as we see signs for live music at almost every pub. The restaurant is full, but we find a small table at the back next to the kitchen next to old posters of fishermen with piles of caught fish reading, “Now I deserve that Guinness.” Kelly and I split a plate of mussels while Heidi and Jessica split a seafood bake. The steaming plate of mussels was covered in a white garlicky smelling sauce and tasted like salty fish heaven.
After dinner we went next door to listen to traditional Irish music accompanied by a frothy Guinness. Two men were playing a guitar and an accordion. The guitarist later revealed a traditional Celtic drum called a bodhran drum. It looked like a large tambourine but was played with a stick. His hand moved up and down the back to create different pitches. I sat there staring at him, amazed by the sound he was producing.
The next morning we woke up early, and, at the suggestion of our host, went to rent bikes to bike the Sleigh Head loop around the peninsula. “It’s about 22 miles, so it should take two or three hours depending on how many stops you take.” Not thinking about how long 22 miles for the average biker was we all nodded and said it would be fine.
We set off, confused as to where we were going but enjoying the country air and the green fields ahead of us. A couple of hours in we started to become curious as to where we were headed and how much longer it would take. We stopped in a shop where we were pleasantly surprised to be greeted by ancient Celtic artifacts, some for sale. I bought a “handloomed woolen sweater” and a clay pipe found in Amsterdam from the 1680s, well worth the stop. The shop was owned by an archeologist who had his personal collection on display. The lady working told us it was only a few more miles to the head, so we continued.
We began to climb higher and higher and the water became further beneath us until we were eventually riding on a one-lane road on a cliff. Too excited to be scared we continued to the head of the peninsula. Hungry and thirsty we pushed ourselves through the cold and wind. Ahead of us we could see the massive hill, upon which stood an upright stone, that was Sleigh Head.
When we reached the head Heidi and I quickly ran to the top of the hill after taking pictures of the view. Grazing sheep were around us on the grassy hillside and rocks emerged from the ground. The rolling hill quickly dropped off into a cliff at the edge and a few islands lay out in front of us. Looking back toward the mainland large waves crashed against a sandy beach at the bottom of a cliff. Above the cliff lay a mountain covered with pastures fenced off with stonewalls in which sheep and cows grazed on a constant slope. A cloud skimmed the top of the treeless mountain and small houses, cafes, and old stone ruins lay on the mountainside.
We left and finally made our way to a café. My seafood chowder and biscuit was mouth-wateringly delicious after biking the distance we just had. We had to catch the bus back to Cork at four and it was already one, so we asked the women working for a shortcut. She told us a way that led us over the mountain, a two mile road that was way to steep to bike up, so we walked it. On the top was an amazing view of the ocean on either side and the bike ride down was much easier.
We made it back to Dingle with 45 minutes to spare, just enough time to reward ourselves with a Guinness as the posters had suggested to us the night before. Exhausted and feeling dirty, we felt satisfied with our adventure and agreed it was well worth it.
