Day Five: Killarney

I don’t remember much about the next morning, because I was hungover. I remember wanting a Perrier and settling for the Ireland equivalent. Our first stop of the day was a quick stroll round the quaint village of Adare, chalk full of thatched roof cottages. Most of our time in Adare, however, was spent trying to find dental floss. There was none to be had, at least in the sense there was nothing like the spools of thin waxed string that we crazy Americans are used to. We did manage to buy a sack of individual thick threads that the lady at the apothecary claimed would be exactly like our dental floss, only it wasn’t at all, and I could barely get it in between my teeth.

For the first time ever, I managed to doze on the bus. It was that or get even more nauseous from the constant twisting, winding coastal roads. At last we stopped for lunch, in the most whimsically named town ever: Dingle. Needless to say, Dingle was a real delight.

If you’ve ever heard of the town of Dingle, you may know that it the city has a mascot. That mascot is Fungi the dolphin. Fungi is actually a real dolphin who likes to hang around the bay in Dingle. He first showed up in 1984. In case you hadn’t checked a calendar in awhile, it will soon be 2012, which makes Fungi a few years past the typical twenty-five year dolphin lifespan. Our tour guide pondered the question of what Dingle will do when Fungi is no more. Along the wharf was a charming statue of Fungi. Somehow I managed to bamboozle my mother and Evelyn into taking comical pictures with the Fungi statue. Joy is had by all.

I have to say the only downside to Dingle was the dog poo that seemed to be all over the city, in spite of the numerous signs posted telling people to clean up after their dogs. Did the people of Dingle just not care? Maybe they didn’t have as strict of fines as they do in Los Angeles. Or maybe the dogs are all jealous of the attention Fungi gets, and aims to ruin Dingle tourism. All I know is that it took fifteen minutes, several puddles of rainwater, and a very thin twig to clean off my mother’s shoe.

After saying goodbye to Fungi and the good people of Dingle, we continued down the coast, expecting to wind our way up to some famous rock or something up on a hill. Perhaps if we’d actually made it up to said rock, I’d remember the name, but we didn’t so therefore I didn’t. After the previous day’s downpour, a coastal bridge had washed out, denying us access to this mysterious rock and the picturesque landscape leading up to it. You could literally look across the enormous hills and see the long strips of brown where the rain swept the dirt from the mountain top down to the sea. What was most impressive though, was the skillful way our bus driver Mickey managed to turn the bus around on a narrow coastal road without falling off the edge, or running down one of the various sheep or cows meandering around the place.

All in all, it wasn’t the most exciting day, but it was a nice break. We arrived in Killarney that evening and had a bit of time to just relax, take a hot shower before we dined at the hotel on horribly salty mackerel. If you can imagine the texture of cooked fish, only instead of a meat or fishy taste, it’s like you dumped an entire container of Morton’s onto your tongue. I believe it was that evening that I vowed to stop trying to eat in Ireland and just stick to the Guinness.